I’m sat in front of the silent laptop, fingers hovering expectantly over the keys, willing the phrases I use so freely on a daily basis to transport themselves from body to technology. I promised myself I’d write a witty account of our relocation but unfortunately, my aging grey matter has other ideas.
I close my eyes, trying to recall how it felt as we took our first steps into our New life in the Sun all those months ago. I rub my forehead and look out towards the mountains through the window, seeking divine inspiration from my elasticated smalls which are currently wafting themselves dry on a hastily erected rotary line, but they offer no words of wisdom, not even an opening pun. I sigh and get up of my seat. I may as well bring the washing in while awaiting the cascade of witty one liner’s to take up residence in my currently uninhabited brain.
Letting myself out onto the balcony I kick an unidentifiable chewed dog toy along the tiles for ‘Brian the brave’ who hurls himself along the slippery surface, performing a skater’s turn before his head makes contact with the back wall. I pick up a couple of dead leaves from a potted plant and then saunter back indoors to the welcoming glare of the empty computer screen. A clap of thunder echoes overhead. I catch a glimpse of several T shirts still waving at me on the line and let out an audible sigh. How the hell I am going to recreate our adventures onto Spanish soil from over four months ago if I can’t even remember to bring in my clean cottons when I’m standing right in front of them!
Slamming the laptop lid resolutely shut I get up and mumble profanities all the way to the biscuit tin and consume several sponge fingers before I’ve even made it to the comfort of the sofa. Brian does his best Paul McKenna death stare, willing the sugary treats to fall in his direction while shadowing me from room to room.
“If I give you a digestive will you go and write my Blog for me?” I enquire to the salivating hound but the canine one is too busy drowning in his own expectant dribble to adhere to my pleas.
My husband ambles into the lounge, scratching his early morning shadow while simultaneously breaking wind, takes one look at my thunderous expression and crumb laden torso and promptly leaves the room again. “Don’t forget you have that audition today for KES at the theatre at 3pm” he yells from the safety of the kitchen “You’ll be good in that role, the mother in that is a right misery, you can do some method acting!”
Within two hours I am transformed from Ena Sharples into Ivy Tilsley with makeup and hairspray applied and kitten heels adorned. Standing outside the theatre bar I feel a nervous flutter of excitement, armed only with the prospect of standing on an unfamiliar stage with just a script and my ego to hand.
People of all ages are milling around tables, comparing characters and perfecting Yorkshire accents. I sit on the outskirts watching the women my own age chat good naturedly to each other before their name is called and they head towards the stage, the heavy doors closing behind them, their rendition of this Northern classic to be heard only by the directors in charge.
I toy with the idea of having a swift vodka beforehand to calm my nerves but then decide ‘Karaoke Kes’ may not be what they are looking for. I see a few familiar faces sat on the table opposite and smile uncertainly in their direction, but I am not invited into the inner sanctum, I have as yet to earn my stripes, I look down at the script before me and mumble random lines into my diet coke.
“Paula Lesk….lesch…lasch….skovitz?” I lift my hand uncertainly and rise from my seat and head towards the Theatre doors. An elderly lady places a number on my blouse and I look down. Number 13, just my sodding luck.
Straightening my shoulders and fluffing up my hair I place a nervous hand onto the velvet clad door and enter the unknown.
Two men are sat waiting by the stage, hands outstretched and smiles adorning their confident faces.
“Ah, I take it you are lighting guys wife, we’ve heard all about you” they laugh conspiratorially.
Taking a deep breath I look them directly in the eye and in my best Yorkshire accent reply
“Yeh, I bet you bloody ave!”
To be continued
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