We had a day of absolute mayhem today. There was far too much to do and both of us had ridiculous expectations regarding what was achievable. I plough on through Em, continuously underestimating how much work remains to be done on each number. I drove down to Bexleyheath last night to see director Hannah and we had a lovely meal sitting at her kitchen table whilst reading the entire show out loud. Just the two of us. There was an unwritten understanding that she would try to read the girls' parts and I would read the boys' parts, but it's a fairly girl-heavy show, so I ended up reading my fair share of the fairer sex. There was one scene which has so many characters in it that we basically ended up reading anything we fancied. The first person to open their mouth got first dibs! It was a lot of fun. I adore Hannah and can't wait to get back in a rehearsal room with her again.
So anyway, after a day of panicking, which culminated in me having an hysterical laughing fit as Nathan and I tried to wind a shed load of wool into a manageable-sized cake, we jumped on a tube to Sloane Square and headed to the Pheasantry on the King's Road. At one stage it felt like the Pheasantry was a second home, I was there so often to watch cabarets being performed by friends, but I haven't been there for absolutely ages. I don't really think I go out that much any more!
Tonight's entertainment was really very lovely. It was essentially a night of songs from the golden age of film, interspersed with music by my very talented mate, Michelle. I can personally take or leave covers of songs written by Rogers and Hammerstein, and if I never hear "So Long, Fairwell" from the Sound of Music again I will die a happy man, but I'd travel a long way to hear songs by Michelle. She's been writing now for a sickeningly short period of time, but seems to have a musical theatre sonic landscape fully formed in the recesses of her mind. Her songs all bring out the best in their vocalists. They're very British with a hint of Hollywood glamour and always very still in an impressionist sort of way. Fleeting is perhaps a good word. Misty. Dreamlike. Timeless. I was very proud.
A man got on the tube as I was travelling home tonight. He had quite an impressive moustache, and, instinctively, I gave him the look that I've come to realise all moustachioed men give to one another. It's a look which says, "I approve, and I'm with you, brother." The look is, of course, fairly meaningless if you're no longer wearing a moustache! The bloke must have thought I was insane!