Purgatory

Today I will have two shows, but the first isn’t until 2 so I still have a morning to myself.  I avail myself of the delicious French Roast coffee from the Keurig pod, and spend some time in bed writing.

At about 8.30 I go down to breakfast, stopping by the front desk on the way.  I had dropped a couple of shirts off yesterday to be laundered and they have not re-appeared in my room.  The girl behind the desk searches for them, only to discover that the laundry was never collected yesterday and so my shirts are still sitting, scrunched up in their bag, beneath the counter.  Oh dear: first black mark for The Beechwood.

A cooked breakfast soon drives any negative thoughts away and half an hour later I am in the best of moods with the hotel again.

I spend the rest of the morning going over the lines for the two act version, which needs to be ready in three days.

The day is bright and clear and I decide to get into my car early and explore a little.  I iron a couple of shirts for the shows and get into my car.

Before setting off I try to connect my phone to the car’s ‘entertainment system’ (cars don’t just have a radio these days), but all of my best efforts fail:  the USB socket gives power, but the only thing it seems to want to play through the speakers is my voiceover introduction to Great Expectations, which repeats on a never ending loop.

When I try to put music on….nothing.

There is no little audio jack socket in the unit, only those big red, yellow and white sockets that TVs have.  No good.

I even manage to sync my phone to the car, but still it won’t play music.  Very frustrating indeed.

I drive through the outskirts of Worcester in silence.

As I drive along the freeway I look across at the old mill buildings of the city, which nestle in with modern convention centres and glass-sided teaching hospitals.  In the centre of town is the old railway station, which, with its white twin domed towers, is reminiscent of the much missed Wembley football stadium.

I have a particular destination in mind for my exploration this morning.  It is a place that I have seen signs to during my six years driving to and from the Vaillancourts.  It is a place that I have never been brave enough to seek out. Today, however, in the bright sun, under the blue skies, I am at last going to visit Purgatory Chasm.

I leave the relative safety of the freeway and take Purgatory Road.

Purgatory Chasm is a State Reserve, with walking trails winding through the woodland.  Through the centre of the reserve, the chasm slices through the earth, reaching a depth of seventy feet in places.

Today the whole scene is like a Christmas Card – fir trees covered with white snow surround the car park.  I still have plenty of time in hand, so decide to walk through the woods for a while.

You think?

I lock the car up, take my camera with me and head towards the chasm.  Which is closed.  ‘Purgatory is Closed’:  well, I suppose that’s a good thing!

I pick up a map of the walking trails and marvel at some of the names of the view points along the chasm: ‘Fat Man’s Misery’, ‘Devil’s Coffin’, ‘Devil’s Pulpit’ and ‘Lover’s Leap’ are some of the more lurid sounding ones.

In honour of my ancestor I take ‘Charley’s Loop Trail’ and spend a beautiful hour breathing in the clear, fresh air and just enjoying the peace and solitude of the woods.

A slight thaw is in progress and I can hear dripping throughout the forest.  It is like being in Narnia as the White Witch’s power wanes, and Aslan is once more on the move.

I wouldn’t be surprised to meet Mr Tumnus on my walk.

Through the Wardrobe

I have to return to reality, however and make my way back through the woods and to the car.

It is only ten minutes to the Manchaug Mill buildings, where the Vaillancourts are based and soon I am in the familiar surroundings of my dressing room and the theatre itself.

Randy is there and we do another sound check.  It is interesting to talk with him, as he was watching the show for the first time last night.  He sees it from a technical point of view and suggests that in the future the chandelier above the stage (which doubles as the Ghost of Christmas Present’s torch), should be wired into a dimmer switch, as it is just slightly too bright at present.  He stops generously short of saying that there is a glare from the top of my head.

His suggestion puts an idea into my head:  If we had the dimmer switch on stage, maybe disguised on the mantel shelf, then I could control the brightness during the show itself – bright for Present and then dim it right down for Future, before bringing it back for the end.  It could work.

For now however there is a show to worry about.  I go back to my dressing room and relax until I can hear the audience being seated, at which time I get into costume and get ready to perform.

The usual routine is followed: musicians, trivia, introduction and I am on stage.  It is a full house this afternoon and oh, my word, what an audience!  They are certainly here to be entertained, and they give me as much as I give them.

It is an amazing show, the type of which only happens a few times during a tour. A very good test as to how involved an audience is with the story, is when the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge back to the Cratchit household: ‘It was quiet.  Very quiet.’  If anyone in the audience had a pin, which they accidentally dropped, I could have heard it.

The ovation, when it comes, is for all of us today.  As a group we have created an incredible atmosphere and told a great story.

I towel down and change as quickly as I can, before joining Gary in the store where a long signing line winds through the many Santas, who all look on approvingly.

A show like that is incredibly energising when it is actually happening, and the buzz afterwards is amazing, but there will be inevitably be a downside and I am all too aware that I must be up again for the evening crowd.

I go back to the dressing room and try to calm down gently.  I hang my costumes up, re-set the stage with my hat, scarf and cane and then sit quietly with my thoughts.

I have made some changes to the show over the last few weeks, and I am very pleased with the way they are working.

Most of the tweaks are just a way of re-phrasing some dialogue.  For instance, when Scrooge dismisses the charity collector on Christmas Eve, I used to have him being almost violent, as he ranted: ‘If they would rather die, then they had better DO IT, AND DECREASE THE SURPLUS POPULATION. GOOD AFTERNOON SIR!’

In the 2014 version, I have Scrooge sit back at his desk while he delivers the line.  He is wrapped up in his business and the tone is dismissive, rather than angry.  Somehow it feels much more powerful to see his complete indifference to the problems of the poor.

There is one other change, this time a movement, about which I am so happy, I can hardly tell you.

For years I have struggled with the final moments of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  He has always been in the wrong place on the stage.  I need Scrooge to wake up looking at his bed, but the Spirit has always been behind him, necessitating a very clumsy swivel to get back to the ‘bedroom’

I’ve tried so many ways of getting the two characters in the correct juxtaposition with a complete lack of success.  Until a few days ago it suddenly came to me.  Instead of having the Spirit pointing the way to the Churchyard, he now beckons, moving backwards.  By doing that, he is magically next to the bed as he ‘shrinks, collapses and dwindles down’.

An audience probably never notices these things, but it is solving problems like that which keeps me focused and engaged with the performance, twenty one years after I first brought it to the stage.

I am awoken from my thoughts by Gary announcing that dinner is once again served and I have a delicious soup, accompanied by some salad, followed by a plate of fruit.  Delicious, as ever.

With two hours to go before the evening show I go back to my dressing room, take off my shoes and stretch out on the sofa.  I open the music player of my phone and listen to Liz playing four Joplin rags, and my favourite performance of hers, Rhapsody in Blue. As my eyes close, it is as if I am back in North Avenue: I feel very, very close to her.  Music is a wonderful thing.

Relaxing

I nap for a while, but the growing murmur from the shop floor tells me that the second audience is gathering, and I need to get myself ready.

After the excitement of the afternoon’s show, the evening one seems harder work.  The audience are not as responsive tonight, and I feel slightly strained in my performance.  I try not to over-compensate, but everything feels a bit tense and tight.

I am not sure about the show but when I deliver the final line, the ovation is unbelievable!  The audience are on their feet before I’ve even left the stage, and there are ‘WHHOOOPs’ and ‘YEAHHHHs’ and other strange noises more akin to a football field.  It is an extraordinary reception.  I can’t quite believe it and feel a little stunned as I take my bows.  It just goes to show: what do I know?

The audience’s enthusiasm continues through the signing line and people shake me warmly by the hand and pose for pictures.  Alarmingly, one lady asks me to say Topper’s line ‘Helllooooooo’ as we pose for a photograph together.

And so my time with the Vaillancourts is over once more.  I pack up all of my belongings and load them into the car, before saying my goodbyes to everyone in the store.

Gary, Judi and Luke are joining me at the hotel again, for our wind-down late supper  session.

We sit in a booth and the conversation roams around the day’s events, but Gary, ever the entrepreneur, is busy trying to think of things to do next year: how to have different shows, how to market them.

I suggest a special exclusive event for audience members who have signed up to a package of shows, in which I can talk about the background of creating the show and share some of the tricks of the trade.

Somehow, and I have no idea how, that idea turns into a coach tour of Dickens sites in England, which I would host.

That is all in the future, however but now, in the present I am feeling past it.  It is definitely time for bed.

As always with the Vaillancourts it has been a fun-packed, exciting time.  I give them all hugs, we say ‘goodbye’ and I make my way back to the room, where the adrenaline finally gives up the ghost.

NB:  Liz’s CD: ‘Gershwin: New York Connections’ is available to download via iTunes and Play Store.

Black Friday

Back to work today, the day after Thanksgiving.  Friday.  Black Friday.

Black Friday is traditionally the day when the Christmas shopping spree begins in earnest in America.  After a day of reflection and giving thanks, a spending lust descends on the nation and people get to the stores as early as they can to snap up amazing deals offered by the large chains.

Waiting in line throughout the night (in snow and ice here in Worcester), people tend to get fractious and the morning news shows are always filled with stories of fights, sometimes riots.  Injury and death is not uncommon.

On reading an email from Liz at home, I am horrified to discover that Britain has decided to ‘create’ Black Friday at home.  Why?  We have no Thanksgiving Day; the stores have been preparing us for Christmas since August. Why create a random day to feed the greed of the consumer, not to mention the retailer?

Inevitably there are the same stories of panic and violence emerging from the shopping malls of England.  I think it is a sad day.

One thing to reflect on:  Black Friday is spreading in America.  The third Thursday in November used to be sacrosanct, but now many of the stores are opening during the afternoon, and people are beginning to refer to Thanksgiving Day as ‘Grey Thursday.’

The strange thing is, in this modern cyber world, that almost all of the amazing deals can be found online, with free shipping.  There is no need to shiver through the night and fight with your neighbour: you can do it all from the comfort of your own home, or hotel.

Which brings the story right back to the elegant and delightful Beechwood Hotel, in Worcester.  The Beechwood is the best hotel I’ve stayed in so far on this trip.  I can tell that because it has a top of the line Keurig Coffee maker, which creates delicious rich morning coffee, as opposed to the watery substance offered up by most hotel coffee makers; and it has bath robes.

Morning luxury

I sit in bed for a while writing the blog, before going to the restaurant where I have a very nice continental breakfast.

The day is bright and the snow sparkles beautifully against the blue sky.

I have a quiet day today, as my show is not until 7.30 this evening, which means I have plenty of time to relax and to catch up with some more admin.

Liz and I have a long exchange of emails, as we try and work out a way to see Garrison Keillor host one of his shows next year.  We are both fans of the Lake Wobegon monologues and to be at one of the recordings is most definitely on the bucket list.

I will be working in Minneapolis from February next year, so hopefully we can make it happen.

Apart from answering a few emails, I also have more sewing to do and I sit down at a wooden table, head bowed and re-attach the button that flew off in Missouri, and make some running repairs to my #2 frock coat.  I have to say that I am rather proud of the results.

Next up is to do some work on the two-act script of A Christmas Carol, which I am to perform in a few days’ time.  There are four main additions to my normal script, which are: much more from Jacob Marley; an extra scene with the Ghost of Christmas Past on the road towards Scrooge’s school; an extra scene in the school itself, and a more detailed introduction to the Ghost of Christmas Present.

I spend an hour or two pacing and repeating the extra lines.  I may try and insert one of the new sections into the show tonight, just to make sure that they are sticking.

My morning’s work done, I go to the restaurant where I have a salad for my lunch and then come back and rest for a while, watching TV.

As four o’clock nears I have a shower to re-awaken myself, and get all of the costumes and props ready for the show.  My hotel is about twenty minutes away from the venue, so I must make sure that I have everything with me, no popping back to pick up some forgotten piece of clothing.

With everything loaded into the car, I start to drive towards Sutton and the headquarters of Vaillancourt Folk Art.

Regular readers must forgive me for repetition here, but it is important to describe the Vaillancourts and their business.

Judi and Gary Vaillancourt are, in every sense of the word, an enterprising couple:  Judi is the artist and Gary the businessman. Thirty years ago Gary bought Judi some antique chocolate moulds and she soon had the idea of using them to create plaster figures.

With a true artist’s touch, Judi then brought the figures to life by painting each and every one.

Those original moulds were in the shape of Santa Clause and so a business was born.

Chalkware Santas

Now the Vaillancourts have their headquarters in an old mill building where a staff of twenty or so still create all of the figures by hand.

I have been performing here for five years now and the Vaillancourt family have become dear friends.

As I arrive at the mill I am warmly greeted by Gary and the rest of the staff in the beautifully decorated store.

Almost as soon as I am through the door Gary says: ‘Gerald, come with me, I must take you to your dressing room’.  It seems a bit soon to be changing, but I follow.

Actually it is with a sense of pride that Gary shows me the room where I am to change.  Last year the area at the back of the mill was little more than a store room and I had very little room to hang my clothes in.  Judi had felt so guilty that this year she made sure to create a much more relaxing area.

There is a sofa, a table, some chairs a clothes rail and a full-length mirror.  No clutter, just a perfect green room space.  It is wonderful!  I make sure that all of my belongings are neatly hung up, as I don’t want to spoil the neatness.

Having settled into my dressing room, I go into the theatre itself.  Once again Judi’s hand has been at work and the stage is lavishly decorated with a fireplace, a clock, pictures on the wall, and furniture perfectly suited to the show.

It is a very intimate room, and the front row of the audience will almost have their knees touching the stage.  It is a superb room to perform in and always creates an amazing atmosphere.

Randy, the sound guy, is very thorough in his preparations and we do a comprehensive sound check with two separate lapel mics, and he has a third, hand held unit, as an extra back up. I have no fears about the sound – that is for sure.

With all of the preparations complete it is time for supper: soups, salads and sandwiches, which we eat in one of the offices.   Luke (Judy and Gary’s son) joins us, as does his wife Anna.  Luke looks after all of the marketing and online presence of the company and has had a record day today with internet sales.

Within the last year Luke and Anna have moved into their own house (designed and built to their own design) and are expecting their first child next January.

Dinner: l-r Anna, Gary, Judi, Luke

We all sit chatting for a while until the first, very keen, members of the audience start to arrive.  It is show time.

I go back to my dressing room and change into my costume, making sure to hang all of my modern clothes on the rail, rather than spreading them all over the place as I usually do.  I feel a great sense of responsibility to the tidy green room.

Uncharacteristic order

I can hear the first audience members being admitted and go to stand near the door to watch the room filling up.  Randy hands me the microphone and we do yet another quiet test to check all is working well.

Guests shake my hands and many welcome me back: ‘great to see you again’; ‘wouldn’t miss it’; ‘you start my holiday season’.

A wonderful musical duo, playing violin and harmonica, entertain the audience as they get seated and the atmosphere in the room is suitably festive.

Gary has decided to try something new in his introduction this year, and poses three trivia questions to the audience:

1. How many ghosts does Ebenezer Scrooge see on Christmas Eve?
2. What are the ‘names’ of the children revealed by The Ghost of Christmas Present
3. Who is the flirtatious bachelor at nephew Fred’s party

Answers are called out and prizes awarded to the first correct ones.  It puts everyone in a good spirit.

Gary then makes some very generous remarks, before welcoming me to the stage.  I open up by pointing out that I’ve realised that for all these years performing in Massachusetts I have been getting the show wrong: I should not of been saying ‘Bah Humbug’ but ‘BAAA Humbug’, as is the sound of the New England dialect.  It is a silly remark, but one that gets a good laugh.

They are always a good crowd here and the show is always well received.  Perhaps this audience is a little quieter than some, but they are hanging onto every word.

Inhabiting Judi’s magnificent set

Because the room is  small and the stage is powerfully lit by four theatre lights, I get very hot as I get more dramatic, so I decide not to fling my coat into the audience at the end: it won’t be very nice for someone to have that landing on their head!

At the end of the show the standing ovation is instant and the applause lasts for a long time. When I leave the stage Gary gets back up and leads the audience in a chorus of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’.

Luke is waiting for me outside the door with some paper towels and a bottle of ice-cold water, which I gulp as I head to my dressing room.

A quick towel down and change into my second costume, and I walk through the racks of half-painted Santas, past the life-sized figures of Mr and Mrs Fezziwig, through the brightly decorated store and meet Judy at the signing table.

Mr & Mrs F

The line is long and the comments generous.  I sign and pose and chat and reflect how fortunate I am.

Towards the end of the line is Robin McFee, a keen Dickensian and good friend of many years.  She always brings me a goody bag to take with me on the road and this year it contains good old English McVities chocolate biscuits.  They may not get as far as joining me on the road: they may be devoured before I even check out from the Beechwood.

The queue dwindles and I can go back to my room and change.  Back in the store Gary says that they will join me at the hotel for a wind-down drink, which has become a tradition.

I drive back and wait in the bar, where I am soon joined by Gary, Judi and Luke.  We order some drinks and a bite to eat before dissecting the day, which has been successful for all of us:  I have had a good show, the store has been busy and Luke has had his record day online.

Not such a Black Friday, after all.

Thanksgiving Day

Today is Thanksgiving Day and I have no performances at all.  Originally the plan was to play a little golf this morning at Porters Neck but nobody mentioned anything last night and actually it will be rather nice to have a quiet morning.

After writing the blog I go to breakfast.  As I mentioned yesterday I am staying at another Hampton Inn but on a grander scale than the one on Kansas City.  However my assertion that the Missouri Branch has the best waffles in the country proves to be accurate.

They have the same waffle machine and the same batter dispenser but somehow they are not as crisp or as fluffy.  Liberty: you may still wear your crown with pride!

I spend a little time pacing in my suite, going over the extra lines for the two-act version of A Christmas Carol, which is coming up in a few days time, before putting on the TV to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I Love it: America does parades so well: the whole spectacle is exciting.  The scale of the parade is amazing and everyone looks like they are having so much fun. I am delighted to see that my childhood literary hero, Paddington Bear, has a balloon for the first time this year.  His Aunt Lucy, who lives in a home for retired bears in Lima, (darkest Peru), would be very proud of him.

At eleven o’clock I leave my suite and haul my cases to the lobby ready to check out.  My flight isn’t actually until 2.20, but they are being very strict with the check out times today, so that the housekeeping staff can get away and join their families: quite right too and I have no quibble with that.

As I’m at the front desk, the lady who checked me in last night says that another of the guests had been at the show last night and was raving about it to anyone who would listen.  The staff had wanted to say that I was staying at the same hotel, but respectfully and professionally, had maintained my privacy.

It’s so nice to hear, though, that someone would want to talk about the show just for the sake of it, without knowing that the hotel had any connection to me.  The thought sends me on my way in a happy mood.

I now have an hour or so to kill before driving to the airport, so I decide to explore a little.  I drive to nearby Wrightsville Beach, which is beautiful: a long expanse of soft sand, Atlantic breakers rolling in and a bracing wind.

I walk along the sand for a while and take some pictures of the waves.  The beach is busy with families, dogs, runners and lovers strolling hand in hand.  There is something just so wonderful about being at the seaside.  Of course, being an Admiral in The Nebraskan Navy, it is my natural element.

Back in the car I set the SatNav to take me to downtown Wilmington to discover what is there.  It looks to be a lovely historic city, although completely deserted on this holiday.

I have noticed some signs for the Battleship North Carolina and after so admiring the Wisconsin in Norfolk, I decide to go and have a look.

I find her berthed across the river from the city and standing proudly.  I don’t have time to do the full tour but I do take the picture that I resisted taking in Norfolk: the car park is laid out with original shells from the ship’s great guns – the ship is near the sea.  The picture is less for the image and more for the caption:

Shells on the Beach

OK, cheap I know, but it is a holiday!

By now it is time to take my lovely Ford Fusion back to the airport.  I have to refuel before I turn the car in.  With the amount of ground I’ve covered in the space of twenty four hours I could probably have got away with not topping the tank up, were it not for the fact that I have had it in ‘sports mode’ all morning and have been zapping up and down the gearbox: taking it up to 5,000rpm before each gear change and accelerating hard up to the speed limit of 55.  You can never take the racer out of a boy racer.

At the airport it is deserted.  Check in and security I have to myself, although there are a few people milling around the gate, area.  I check the monitors to see which gate my flight will be departing from and discover that it is the only departing flight today, so it will be a question of following the crowd.

Most of the shops are closed but one bar is open. I order a basket of chicken tenders with a honey mustard dipping sauce, accompanied by fries and a bottle of Sierra Mist.  I sit at a counter and begin my Thanksgiving Day lunch.

A Thanksgiving Day Feast

The flight is called and it is quite full.  The flight attendant’s are still in ‘non-frequent-traveller’ mode and are going through the rules very strictly:

‘Make sure those bags and purses are fully under the seat in front of you.  Don’t let them be around your feet.  If they ARE around your feet I am going to have to come and yell at you, and I don’t like yelling!’

Once we are airborne I settle in to watch ‘Skyfall’ on my phone (thinking about it now, it is not a good title to watch on an airplane).

The flight to Charlotte airport is a short one and soon I am finding my way to gate C12 for my connecting flight.  The main hub of Charlotte is much busier and there are a lot of people on the move now.

The layover is extended a little as there is no crew on hand to take us to Boston but that minor problem is soon sorted and I settle into seat 31F to continue the adventures of Bond, James Bond.

We land at Boston at around 6.15 and having got my bags I go through the well-drilled routine of getting the shuttle bus to the car rental centre.  As on my last visit to Boston, I am picking up my car from Thrifty, who have the final desk, as far from the main door as you can go.  I walk all the whole length of the huge building to find a sign on Thrifty’s desk: ‘For all Thrifty rentals, please go to the Dollar counter.’

I wonder where the Dollar desk could be?  You’ve guessed it.

Having walked all the way back I start the process of getting the car that will be with me almost until the end of the trip.  I am aware that there has been some heavy snow and high winds in the Boston area over the last few days, so not taking anything to chance I ask if they have an SUV available.  I’d rather have the benefit of 4 wheel drive if the conditions worsen over the next two weeks.

The manager thinks he can get one, but he needs to go and sort it out.  I wait for a while and he comes back to announce that he has been successful.  In person he takes me to a black Ford Escape, which looks very smart indeed.

What shall I christen this car?  It is certainly a great Escape, so maybe McQueen – the King of Cool.  It is definitely very cool here: McQueen it is!

I load my bags in, set the SatNav and head into the subterranean Boston road system.

My destination is the city of Worcester and on the way I pass many reminders of previous trips to the area:  I drive beneath the Crowne Plaza hotel, which straddles the freeway and where I stayed during my recent trip to The Perkins School for the Blind.  I pass signs for Lowell and Marlboro, both venues for performances in previous years.

As the journey progresses I congratulate myself on insisting on an SUV: there sides of the road are piled with freshly cleared snow and there is more falling, getting heavier as I head further west and inland.

I reach my hotel at 8.15 and am soon checked in.  I haven’t eaten since my feast at Wilmington airport and the bar is still open, albeit with a very limited menu.

The staff all look exhausted and I’m sure that a day-long Thanksgiving service in a hotel restaurant must be very very difficult for them. There are a few people sat around including one very loud (and rather annoying) woman.  At first I think she’s British, and I’m rather ashamed of my fellow country-woman, trying to hard to ‘be American’ but I soon realise that she is an Aussie.

My burger is served. I can see that the staff really want to close up and go home, so I eat quickly and go back to my room.

The Australian Golf open is being shown on TV, and I chose to watch that, rather than the dog-lovers telethon: ‘Cause for Paws’ that was showing in the bar.

Before long I am drifting in and out of sleep, so I get up and get properly ready for bed.  Once there I drift back into to sleep and this time I stay there.

Dedicated to Mr Bob Watford

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO EVERYONE IN AMERICA WHO MAKE MY TRIPS HERE SO ENJOYABLE. I GIVE THANKS TO YOU ALL

Up with the lark! Damned lark.

Although my alarm is set for 5.45, I am up and packing by 5.15, meaning that I can get on the road good and early.

Today is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and everybody in the entire country is on the move.  It is known as the worst travel day of the year, so the more time I can build into my journey the better.

In the lobby it is already busy and I think about having a brief bite of breakfast but content myself with grabbing a coffee and a couple of muffins for the car journey.

I am heading to Kansas City International Airport which is a journey of around thirty minutes.  The car is covered with a light dusting of snow but there is no evidence of it on the ground, so my journey shouldn’t be delayed by the weather, at least.

I set the satnav system, that I had so much trouble getting in the first place, but it takes twenty minutes to find a satellite to navigate from.  Hertz use their own brand of GPS and it always seems to struggle to get going.  Maybe I should have got a coffee and a muffin for it too.

Fortunately I know to head North, and signs for KCI soon appear.  I am half way to the airport before the thing decides to help me.

The roads are clear and I reach the airport exit in good time.  I follow the signs to the Hertz drop-off zone, where an agent waves me into the correct lane.

And now begins one of the happiest ten minutes or so I can remember on tour:

The agent comes up to the car:

‘Good morning,’ I say.  ‘How are you doing?’

‘Oh, good, good.  Still standing, that’s good right?  Where are you headed today?’

‘Wilmington, North Carolina.’

‘Oh boy, sir, through Atlanta?  Pretty bad storms in the east, pretty bad.  Hey, man where you from, not here?  Australia p’rhaps?’

‘England.’

‘Oh Man, England?’

His face cracks into a huge smile which lights the entire morning up.

‘Guess my name, sir!  Guess my name.  It’s Bob Watford, you know, sir, like the Watford Gap in England!  Yes, sir Watford.’  He pronounces it with two distinct syllables: ‘What Ford’

And now, what has been friendly banter moves on to generosity way above anything that a Hertz corporate training course could create.

‘Sir, don’t get the shuttle bus, hop back into the car, I’ll drive you to the terminal.  You don’t want to be getting that bus.  I’ll drive you.’

With that we are back into ‘my’ Chevy Impala and he drives me through the airport access roads towards the main terminal building.

‘You are a good man’ I say.

‘Oh, I try to be, sir, I try to be.  It isn’t always easy though, when people just like to act mean and treat you bad.’

As we drive he keeps up a constant flow of conversation:  he came from New York originally, now lives in Lee’s Summit (where I was performing last night).  He has two schnauzer dogs; one called Sir MacGreggor and the other Sir MacVicar.  ‘I just love England, sir, so I made them Sirs, like royalty.’

All too soon we are pulling up at the curb side and he helps me unload my cases from the trunk of the car.

I give him a healthy tip and we pose for an early morning selfie before I walk into the terminal building with a smile on my face.

Thank You Bob Watford.  You are a kind man and a generous man:  it was my pleasure to have come into your circle of influence for a few short minutes.

With Bob Watford at Kansas City Airport

The expected crush of Thanksgiving passengers does not materialise and the airport is no busier than on any previous time that I have used it.

I sit at the gate and start to write up my blog but the flight is called before I can finish it.  My loyal readers are going to have to wait for a little while this morning.

There is definitely a Holiday feel in the air: everyone is happy, friendly and polite.  The gate agent says ‘have a good flight Gerald’.  Not Mr Dickens, not Sir, but Gerald.  Another happy moment.

The flight is fairly full but we are boarded quickly and leave on time, which is a relief.  I am flying to Atlanta, one of the main hubs in the southern half of America, and the traffic there is likely to be extremely heavy.

I am on a 757, which is a large aircraft for a domestic flight.  To make sure that everyone is served with a drink in the time allowed, two trolleys work from opposite ends of the plane, converging somewhere over the wings.

I have an image of the huge Hadron Collider in Geneva, as I watch the two ‘particles’ moving inevitably towards their fusion.

I ask for a coffee and the attendant decides that Delta Airline’s cups are not enough for my needs, so gives me two cups, two milks, two sugars and two packets of biscuits (cookies).  It really is my lucky day today.

Double rations

We arrive in Atlanta on time and a quick check of the monitors tells me that I have to change terminal.  This is not difficult, as an underground train system links the whole airport.  Soon I am at gate B26, finishing off my blog.

The next flight is to Wilmington, North Carolina and as we board I see that it is full.  It is interesting to look at the other passengers and to see how different the group is to a normal travelling day.

Many are nervous, and searching the seat pockets for the magazine and safety card.  There is lots of going back to overhead bins to re-stow this bag or that gift.

When the flight attendant makes her safety briefing it is with a much greater attention to detail than usual, allowing for the inexperience of most of her flock.

The flight to Wilmington is a bit bumpy but we land on time.  The airport is one of those lovely little ones and the car rental desk is right next to the baggage reclaim area, meaning that I can get all of the paperwork done before my cases arrive.

It is a short walk to the parking lot, where I seat myself into a Ford Fusion and get everything set for my short drive to today’s hotel.

I have never been to Wilmington before, so everything is new to me.  It seems to be an affluent city, next to the ocean, with lots of gated communities and country clubs along the way.

I am headed for another Hampton Inn, but even that is a cut above the one I left this morning, situated in a wooded area, with a lavish lobby.

I check in and go to my room.  No, not a room: a suite.  it has a large living room, a kitchen area, with a full sized fridge, a microwave, sink, worktop and dining table.  There is a separate bedroom and bathroom area.  Very spacious and rather a waste for just one night!

I go back to the lobby and buy a microwavable chicken stir-fry, which I cook in my kitchen, and eat whilst uploading photographs for the day’s blog.

After lunch I have a quiet time before getting into costume and driving to my venue for this evening’s show: The Porters Neck Country Club.

When I arrive at the elegant clubhouse, I am greeted by a veritable welcoming committee.  The manager of the club is there to shake my hand, as is Nicki Mclaughlin, the food and beverage manager, who has been working with Pam at Byers Choice to put the event together.

I am also greeted by Gerry and Kelsey (father and daughter), who are directly responsible for my being here tonight.

Gerry and Kelsey

Gerry and his family have seen perform on six occasions at The Williamsburg Inn and decided that it would be a good show to bring to Wilmington.  With much badgering, cajoling and determination Gerry managed to set the wheels in motion, which ultimately have carried me to the lobby outside the ballroom.

The club has erected a large stage for me, following the exact measurements determined in their contract with Byers Choice.  Even the legs of wooden stool have been cut down so that it stands at exactly the right height for me to put my leg on as The Ghost of Christmas Present.

The stage, with suitably shortened stool

When I have completed all of the sound checks I stand chatting with Gerry and Kelsey until the guests start to arrive, at which point I hide myself away in the restaurant downstairs.

The guests are to spend an hour dining before the show, so I have a long time to myself.  There is a TV in the deserted restaurant and I watch a few old episodes of Seinfeld before the time comes around to get ready for the performance itself.

Keeping myself to myself

Back in the ballroom Nicki welcomes the guests to the club and then introduces Kelsey who speaks confidently about A Christmas Carol and specifically watching my shows for so many years.  I actually feel a huge sense of responsibility to her and to Gerry: I want to do a really good job for them.

I begin the show and, as is always the case when an audience is seeing it for the first time, the initial reaction is reserved.  Nobody knows how the show is going to work: will it be a simple reading?  Will there be costume changes? Is it going to be serious and scholarly?

The early skirmishes are actually slightly awkward.  There is an elderly gentleman in the audience who is listening intently to every line – and then comments on it.  I don’t think he realises quite how loudly he is speaking, but in every pause the silence is broken by his voice.

‘Scrooge and Marley were partners for, Oh, I don’t know how many years…..’  ‘FORTY!’ he says.  And, for all I know, he is probably correct.

I soon get into my stride and start to get very intense.  I have to be a bit careful, as the room is very wide and it is easy to fall into the trap of only performing to the centre, especially in those dramatic moments in the final third.

The audience soon begin to respond, and join in enthusiastically with the ‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhhhs’ for Mrs Cratchit’s pudding.

When the show is finished and the bows taken I station myself outside the ballroom to meet and greet.  There is not much signing, with the exception of a lovely copy of A Christmas Carol previously signed by my ‘uncle’ Cedric.

I chat to everyone as they leave and the repeated comment tonight is how hard I worked.  It certainly was a physical show tonight and I am glad of the glass of iced water that Nicky provides for me.  My heart is pounding rather and it takes a while to calm back down.

I say good bye to Gerry, Kelsey and the rest of their family, before collecting my things from the restaurant and driving back to the hotel.

I have fun on the journey back, as I’ve discovered that the Ford Fusion has a ‘sports’ mode to the transmission.  There are little paddles on the back of the steering wheel like a grand prix car, and I spend the fifteen journey making constant (and completely unnecessary) gear changes just because I can.

I get back to the hotel at 9.45 and having changed out of my costume return to the little bar in the lobby, where I sit with one other gentleman, and have a glass of wine to welcome in the Holidays (I am becoming so American).

We are joined by a third man and within minutes a seemingly harmless conversation about basketball has turned into a full blown political debate about President Obama’s immigration policy.

I am out of my depth and let the two bar-room philosophers slug it out between them.

When the bar closes, I suddenly realise that I am very hungry, so get another microwaveable meal from the pantry and return to my room to eat.

Supper finished, I turn off all of the lights throughout my suite and retire to the bedroom, where I slip between the sheets and fall asleep thinking of the day and reflecting on the genuine goodness within people.

‘This is What I Dream Of’

This morning will be dedicated to administration.  I have no performances until 2, so the first part of the day is mine.  As regular followers of my adventures will know, that means one thing: laundry.

The hotel has a coin operated laundry, and I have two loads ready to go into the machines.  The cost of this operation is $6, compared with the $43.40 that the hotel in Omaha charged me for a similar amount of washing.

At breakfast this morning everyone seats themselves around the televisions, watching the unfolding horrors in Ferguson, Missouri.  Whatever the rights and wrongs of the particular case, violent demonstration and destruction can never be the correct way to act.  It seems, in the case of Ferguson, as if the issue has been taken up by professional demonstrators, who have no interest in the real story, but just want to incite violence.  The parties at the centre of the case, on both sides, are acting with dignity and calm.  It is a sad day.

Back in my room I start a morning of office work.  I have emails to write concerning events in the UK next year; I have to update my website and I have to order a new pair of tuxedo trousers to replace the ones that shuffled off this mortal coil yesterday.

Trousers/pants: the journalist who interviewed me yesterday morning asked about words that have different meanings in our two countries.  The example I gave him was ‘pavement and sidewalk’.  In America ‘pavement’ refers to the surface of the road, whereas in England it means the safe walking area alongside (or the sidewalk).  If an American travelling in Britain took the advice to ‘walk on the pavement’, he would go for a stroll into the path of traffic.  If he did it in his pants, he would be arrested!

Anyway, back to my morning:  It is time for another trip to Wal-Mart to restock some of the basics: toothpaste, mouthwash, Fisherman’s Friends throat lozenges and a sewing kit. I also buy a salad for my lunch.

When I return from my retail adventures, I thread the needle and re-sew a button that is coming loose on one of my waistcoats, as well as replacing one that fell off my black frock coat.  It is not only the performer that gets worn out on the road.

Running repairs

The morning is rushing on and I realise that Kimberley will be arriving soon to pick me up for the first show.  I get into costume and sure enough, punctual to our noon-day agreement, she is there.

Seeing that I have no other bags with me, she points out that we probably won’t have time to return to the hotel between shows today, so I will need to bring my normal clothes to change into.  I run back to the room and throw together a second costume, two extra formal shirts and my casual stuff before rejoining her in the car.

My first venue today is a new one for me: The Midwest Genealogy Center.  We are a little early and Kimberley wants to fetch some marketing materials from the headquarters of the library system, so we stop off there and I am able to have a brief chat with the CEO, Steve Potter, who I have known for many years, dating back to when he was a branch manager.

During our conversation he says: ‘I heard great things yesterday about the Woodneath performance yesterday.’  Now, you may think that would fill my heart with joy, but actors are by nature an insecure breed and all I can think of is: ‘so, what was wrong with the Blue Springs performance?’  We really are a hopeless bunch.

From HQ we drive to the MGC, which is an impressive building, with a sweeping staircase that leads to the room in which I am to perform.

The same stage as I used yesterday has been set up at one end of the room, and there is a decorated panel behind it, but the room itself is a bit sparse and harshly lit with overhead fluorescent lights.  Sara has been busy all morning making sure that the microphone system is fully functioning, and a brief sound check proves that her labours have not been in vain.

MGC

There is still an hour before the show starts so Kimberley takes me down to the staff lunch room, where I munch my salad, eat some crisps (chips) and peel a banana.

Upstairs the room it is filling up rapidly.  I stand at the back with Kimberley, Sara and some of the branch librarians.  Along each wall  are those crowd control tapes that pull out of posts and hook into each other.

Years ago the centre had hosted a collection of priceless George Washington memorabilia and a security system had to be installed to protect it.  Even now, if you approach the wall, a shrieking alarm will sound throughout the building and the staff are very worried that the afternoon may be interrupted if someone breaches the tape.

Soon the room is full and it is time to start.  It is very warm and the audience are tightly packed in.  There are quite a few ‘nodders’ (those who are trying not to doze: their heads fall forward and then snap up again as they try to concentrate.), from very early on in the show.

I am also aware of one mother trying to keep her young son occupied.  He is growing restless, so she stands up and takes him to the side of the room, where she lets him crawl on the floor.  The mother is watching  me, but I am watching her son as he crawls ever closer to the security barriers, and the alarmed wall.  Fortunately he doesn’t trigger the sensors and the show continues uninterrupted.

I am slightly fighting against the room, but try to keep calm and not overdo things.  At one point when I bend down I feel another button ‘ping’ from my waistcoat.  I ascertain that a) it wasn’t the one I sewed on; b) the button itself is not broken and c) it is lying right in the middle of the stage.

At moments like this the artistic performance looks after itself, as the practical thought process takes over.  I mustn’t tread on the button, and if possible I must get it to safety.  In one sweeping move across the stage I manage to side-foot it beneath the table, which is representing Bob Cratchitt’s desk.  Well done me.

So, what do I do next?  For some reason, and don’t ask me why (I’ve never done it before), I have the brilliant idea of picking up the table and moving it to another part of the stage.  The result being that the vulnerable button is once again laying in the open, prey to my size 9 feet.

I manage to get the button to safety once more, this time off the stage altogether, and continue with the show.  The second half engages the audience very well and by the end they are clapping, standing and cheering.  It has been a very thorough work out in the heat, and I am dripping under my costume.

As at all of the Mid Continent shows, lots of people line up even though there is nothing to purchase.  Some have brought their own well-thumbed copies of A Christmas Carol for me to sign; others just proffer the library’s advertising brochure.  Some just want to shake hands and talk about the show, whilst others want pictures.

One family huddle around me and as we are all grinning towards the camera I feel something on my head.  A babyis being held by her mother and is reaching out for whatever she can find.  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says the mother, ‘she is fascinated with your hair’.  The baby obviously has good eyesight, if she has found hair to play with!

When everyone has gone I return to the staff area to change before we load everything into Kimberley’s car and drive off towards Lee’s Summit, and my evening performance.

The traffic is not as bad as it can be and we arrive early, so we decide to stop to have a coffee and some cookies at a branch of Panera Bread.  I chose an apple and caramel pastry and a banana, not to mention a reviving coffee.

I feel very tired after this afternoon’s show; not drained and exhausted as I was on the last Omaha day, just tired.

We arrive at the John Knox Pavilion, where I am performing for the fourth time.  It is a huge space, inside a pyramid, but is a fine theatrical venue, with good acoustics.  I great Kent, the technician, and we get on with a sound check.  He gives me the kind of mic that slips over your ear, and I instantly dread the evening ahead.  As I discovered in California, these things never stay in place.  This one does feel firm, so maybe it will be different here.

John Knox Pavilion: empty

When the technical preparations are complete I go to my little dressing room behind the stage, arrange the chairs to create a makeshift bed and grab forty winks.

Napping

I wake with thirty minutes to go before the show and splash some cold water on my face to wake me up a little, before getting into my costume.

Once I am fully dressed I walk out to the edge of the hall, from where I can watch the audience coming in.  Kimberley had wanted an audience of three hundred, but as I watch they keep pouring in and soon more chairs are having to be laid out, meaning a late start.

John Knox Pavilion: filling up

I stand in the wings with Dylan, from the Lee’s Summit branch of the library, who will be making my introduction this evening.  He asks if seeing an audience this big is intimidating, or nerve-wracking; does it put me under more pressure?

I think for a moment: ‘No, because this is what I dream of.  There is nothing better’.

By the time I start the audience is close to four hundred and they are all hanging on my every word.  They laugh, they cry, they join in when they are supposed they all play along perfectly.

I have plenty of room on the stage to move and can give the full theatrical performance of the show with no restrictions.  The microphone earpiece does jump around a bit but never comes off; even my buttons all stay attached.  I would say that qualifies as a successful evening.

As I come off stage Kimberley is waiting: ‘We are really tight for time, the staff have to leave at 9!’  It is 8.40 now.  There is no way I can sit at a signing table in the costume I’ve just used, so I throw a dry shirt and waistcoat on, before running to where the queue is forming.

There is the same parade of old books, brochures and scraps of paper. I try to work through the line as quickly as I can, without being rude or dismissive to any of the people who have given up their Tuesday night to come and see me and who have decided to stand in line and wait to talk to me.  Without them I would have no job.

The final family pose for photographs and ask about changes that I have made to the show this year, before leaving the pyramid.

I get changed as quickly as I can, say thank you to everyone who has been part of this magnificent evening, and walk with Kimberley to her car.

We are both famished, so decide to have a steak at the nearby Longhorn Steakhouse.  The staff there don’t seem desperately keen to see us and are a pretty morose lot.  As we eat, they are cleaning the carpet, cashing up and generally suggesting that they would be happier if we left.  When the muzak is cut off mid-track, we take the hint and leave.

Kimberley drives me back to the Hampton Inn and we say our goodbyes for another year.  Once in my room I hang my costumes up, set an alarm for 5.45, to allow time to pack before making an early start for the airport and finally, after a very tiring and intense afternoon’s performing, get into my bed and fall asleep on the instant.

I

The Scarecrows Are Watching Me

Monday morning and it is back to work:  goodness it’s almost like having a proper job.

My room is on the ground floor, so breakfast is just a few paces away.  I was reading my previous blog entries relating to my time here and one subject surfaces again and again: waffles.

I think I can safely say, and I am in a very good position to judge, that of all the hotels I stay in, The Hampton Inn, Liberty produces the finest waffles in the land: there, the challenge has been set.

Having completed breakfast I come back to the room, where I am waiting for a telephone interview to come through from Pennsylvania.  I shower and am dressed just in Pyjama bottoms when the call comes in.

The journalist is slightly star struck and at one point says: ‘Mr Dickens, this is such an honour, like talking to Royalty!  I am imagining you sat in robes on a grand throne.’

I look at my morning self in the mirror, in my pj bottoms, and reply: ‘If only you knew!’

The interview done I have plenty of time to answer emails and get my costumes ready for the day ahead.

At 11.30 I go to the lobby, in costume, to meet Kimberly Howard.  Kimberly works with the programming department of the Mid Continent Library Service and is responsible for bringing me back to the Kansas City area each year.  She is a colleague but also a very good friend.

Our first venue this year is the Blue Springs North branch.  On the drive I tell Kimberly about my case of mistaken restaurant identify last night, which she thinks is very funny.

We arrive in Blue Springs with plenty of time to spare so decide to have a light lunch at Olive Garden: just a salad for me, as I’m not good at eating before a show.  We get seated in a booth and peruse the menus.

There is some sort of deal that if you have a salad, you can have a very small bowl of pasta and sauce, which sounds very good.  The waiter comes back and I ask for an antipasti salad (no cheese), and a mini bowl of spaghetti and meat sauce.  ‘What soup would you like?’  ‘I don’t want any soup.’  ‘The offer includes soup.’  ‘Just leave the soup in the kitchen.’  ‘I have to take an order for soup.’  ‘OK, I don’t want minestrone.’ ‘Great, I’ll have that all out for you in a minute!’

The soup duly arrives.

As I tackle my bowl of spaghetti bolognaise I am very glad that the my waistcoat is the same colour as the sauce, although I think I manage to complete the meal without any disasters.

After lunch is finished, soup and all, we drive a short distance to the library.

In one corner of the huge space (in the children’s corner, judging by the mural on the wall), the shelves have been cleared and a very small stage erected.

One of the lovely things about the Mid Continent shows is that each library’s staff is responsible for making the set look good and here they have not held back.

A back ‘wall’ has been constructed and decorated as if it were a Victorian parlour.  There is a window, with curtains; there are candles; there is even the WP Frith portrait of Charles Dickens overlooking the stage: that is going to be rather daunting.

The set

There is an hour to go and many of the audience are already in their places, waiting for the show.  They get the bonus entertainment of watching us trying to get the wireless microphone system to work.

Two years ago Kimberly brought a portable mic system which can be used for all of the programmes that she arranges, and it is a superb system.  Unfortunately today we cannot make the receiver recognise the microphone.

One of Kimberley’s assistants, Sarah, is on hand and between the three of us, we twiddle every dial, press every switch, change every battery, but without success.

The audience is continuing to build and they watch with interest as the process continues.  Eventually I suggest that we try that method of procedure beloved by millions of frustrated computer users: ‘Let’s unplug it and switch it on again’

It works.

‘Sound check’ finished, I make a quick trip to the rest room (where I am VERY careful about keeping the temperamental microphone unit in the ‘mute’ position) before getting ready for the show.

The seats are completely filled now, including a large group from a local school, and I start the show with Charles Dickens looking over my shoulder: ‘Now, my boy, I’m watching you…..’

CD looks on

It is good to be back at work and the show is a great deal of fun.  I am rather restricted in my movement by the small stage space but the energy is definitely there again.

There is a strange moment when Scrooge looks toward the Ghost of Christmas Present to ask ‘if Tiny Tim will live?’ and I find myself looking straight into the eyes of a giant scarecrow, who is part of the mural on the wall.

For the rest of the show I am aware not only of CD watching me but now also the scarecrow. I think I need to see a psychiatrist: ‘They’re all watching me! The faces are watching me!’

The Ghost of Christmas Past

After the show is finished I have a brief meet and greet session, before packing up my things, getting back into Kimberley’s car and returning to my hotel.

I have two hours downtime before the next show and hang my damp costume up to air.  In unpacking it all, I see that one pair of costume trousers has almost given up the ghost (an apt phrase for this show), the metal catch at the waist band has pulled out of the fabric.

I think it will, be OK, certainly as a ‘signing’ costume, but I need to look online to see if I can get a new pair shipped to me at one of the forthcoming venue, just to be on the safe side.

Six o clock comes around quickly and I am back in costume and in the lobby as Kimberley pulls up once more.

This evening’s show is at the Woodneath branch, which is only a matter of five minutes away.  It is a magnificent modern facility, and I performed there in September, as well as last Christmas.

The room is packed with seats and the pre registrations promise an absolute capacity audience.  The same stage has been erected at one end of the long room, but there is plenty of space to each side and in front, for me to move.

Sadly the Woodneath staff is not allowed to stick anything to the walls, so the background to the stage is a bit plain, but every shelf and table in the room has been adorned with toys and gift boxes whilst a magnificent Christmas Tree stands proudly next to the stage.

Woodneath decoration

The sound check is much more straightforward this evening, as the room has a built in system and in no time we are ready to greet the audience, who once again start to arrive incredibly early.

As the start time approaches the room is full, mainly with people who come to see my shows year after year.  Melissa, the branch librarian makes the introductory remarks and I take to the stage.

It is a very physical and energetic performance, during which I try a few new things out.  Nothing major but it is fun to ring a few changes every now and then.

One aspect of the show I’ve really been trying to concentrate on this season is not repeating lines for dramatic effect.  For instance, during the aforementioned moment when Scrooge asks the Ghost of Christmas Present if Tiny Tim will live, I have fallen into the habit of saying: ‘Spirit……’ long pause: ‘Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live?’

When Scrooge first sees the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come I say: ‘Spirit……’ pause: ‘Spirit, I fear you more than any spectre….’

It is an annoying verbal ‘tic’ and I want to stop it.  It is going to take time, but tonight I do pretty well.

The final line is greeted by loud applause and a gentleman crying out ‘Bravo!’ repeatedly, which is rather nice to hear.  The standing ovation goes on for a long time, and when Melissa calls me back to the stage it is repeated.

Unfortunately in the library setting I have no time to change out of my costume, so I sign and pose for photographs in the clothes that I have performed in, which is not perfect.  But the line passes quickly and the audience leaves, so that I am able to get into a spare set of normal clothes that I have brought along for that purpose.

I say good bye to all of the staff and Kimberly drives me to….Applebee’s, yes, really this time, for supper.

I have a delicious chicken dish and we chat about an idea Kimberley has had for a couple of years, of taking a tour group to retrace Dickens’s American tours.  I have promised to get some details down on paper for her, and have been terribly remiss in not doing so.  I must get to work on that for her.

When we have finished eating, Kimberley drops me back to the hotel, where I go through the usual routine of unpacking and hanging up my costume, before bed and sleep.

A Welcome Day Off and a History Lesson

After the rigours of the last few days, today is a rest day, which is going to be very very welcome.  The first thing to do is try and create some order out the unbelievable mess that I seem to have created in my room.

As I pack I follow the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, on my laptop.  Unfortunately the Hilton Hotel does not have NBC Sports in its TV package, so I can’t actually watch the coverage as Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg battle it out for this year’s World Championship.

The race finishes at about the same time as I am due to leave the hotel, so everything has worked out very well.  I’ve arranged to meet Lee back at the Field Club for a possible round of golf this morning, but the weather is foggy, wet and dank and the idea doesn’t really appeal to me.

Just in case, though, I have put on my European Ryder Cup shirt, just to try and gain a slight psychological advantage.

Gaining an advantage

Being a Sunday morning, the roads are quiet, but I very aware of all the car crashes I have seen over the last few days.  I check each junction very carefully, before proceeding as apparently more and more people are running red lights in Omaha.

I get to the Field Club and Lee is waiting for me; he is of the same opinion as me and we decide not to play after all.  I think that is a good decision, what I need today is rest and a three hour round of golf, followed by a three drive may not be the most sensible thing.

Instead Lee suggests we have breakfast at a nearby restaurant which is a favourite of his.  I get into his car and he drives me to Lou Ms, a small but immensely popular Italian venue.

As soon as we are inside and seated I am charmed by the place.  It has the patina of age (I could say the same of myself), and a wonderful collection of old posters and vintage kitchen equipment. It doesn’t feel designed though, and I get the feeling as if all of the collection started its life right there.

Lee recommends the Ham and Eggs, with Hash Browns.  Somehow the English never do Hash Browns properly: it always ends up as a solid sort of potato burger.  Here however the strands of fried potato look, and taste, delicious.

As we eat a lady comes up to the table and says: ‘are you Mr Gerald Dickens?’  It turns out she saw me performing at The Field Club two days ago.  Ah, the price of fame!

When we have finished breakfast we drive back to the Field Club, where I set my sat nav for Kansas City, say a final goodbye to Lee and head out into the fog.

The Field Club is near to the freeway and soon I have set the cruise control for seventy and am eating up the miles.

The road is very flat and very straight: after all, why put in curves when there is nothing to go round (with the notable exception of Mound City).

On the Road

In my weary state I am aware that this could be a very dangerous journey and already I can feel my eye lids heavy, and my blinks lasting longer than they should.

I drink water, open the window and turn the radio on.

So far on this trip I have spent almost every car journey going through lines for one of my other shows, but the performance of Doctor Marigold last night marked the final time that I am performing anything other than A Christmas Carol:  no more lines to learn! (actually, not quite true, as I am performing a longer two-act version of ACC in one venue, and will need to work on that.  But, not today!)

I find a station playing Christmas songs and settle into the season.

The road just seems never ending and there is little in the way of magnificent scenery in this part of the country.

The atmospheric conditions play some interesting tricks with ponds and lakes along the way.  The mist hangs low over the water creating a magical, mystical scene.  Next to one pond is a small cabin, which appears to be floating on the mist.

The road goes on.  Strange how many names along this stretch are borrowed: Sidney, Hamburg, Oregon, Savannah and the very exotic sounding Amazonia.

As I get closer to Kansas City the weather draws in more.  The fog gets thicker and the wind gets stronger.  The huge American flags that adorn every car dealership, are straining against the flagpoles.

Soon I am following signs towards Liberty and pulling up outside the Hampton Inn.  It seems so very familiar and there is a good reason for that:  I was staying in the same hotel just a few weeks ago. Even the weather was the same back then.

Once I am checked into the hotel, I just check out. On the bed, lights off, and sleep.

So, while I am sleeping, let me fill you in with a bit of history:

My very first trip to the USA was in 1995 and I had been booked to appear at the Galveston Dickens Festival, in Texas.  My father had attended the festival for three years, and before that his cousin had been the guest of honour.

Among the organising committee of the festival was a lady with relatives in Kansas City, who thought that it would be a wonderful idea to bring a similar festival to Missouri. In 1994 my father attended the first every Dickens Holiday Fair in the Kansas City Convention Center and when I made my first trip the following year, it was only natural that I should carry the family mantel.

The problem lay with timing.  Galveston wrapped up on Sunday night and Kansas City opened on the following Friday.  I had nothing to do for a week.  The Kansas City organisers approached a local library, The Mid Continent Library Service, and suggested that I toured a few of the branches to perform my readings.

The events became incredibly successful and even after the Holiday Fair was no longer staged, I continued to work with Mid Continent, so that they are now my longest continuous booking.

There: I’m awake again now.

I get up out of bed and run a hot bath in the tub (the first hotel on this trip that has had a tub), and have a luxurious soak.  Actually, it’s not that luxurious as the bath isn’t built for someone who is 5’10.  4’2 would be about the size, so my feet are stuck out over the edge.  However it is a lovely way to relax.

As I drove in earlier this afternoon, I had noticed an Applebee’s restaurant nearby and so I get into the car and make my way there.  It is dark now and the rain is still lashing as I get my head down and sprint through the puddles across the parking lot to the main entrance.

The layout of Applebee’s is reassuringly familiar: desk at the entrance, long ‘u’ shaped bar in the centre and tables around.  A few years ago Applebee’s had an image change and cleaned up their restaurants, but this one seems to be of the old school with the walls and the ceilings covered with sporting memorabilia and eclectic Americana.

The menu has changed too: it is branded 54^th Street and has a much more Southern feel to it.  I don’t know what 54^th Street means but make my choices.

As I wait for my food to arrive, I notice that all of the servers have 54^th Street emblazoned across their T-shirts and slowly, very slowly, a thought creeps into my head:  maybe, possibly, I have come to a different restaurant.

Sure enough my rapier-like mind slices through the problem and I conclude that I am sitting not in Applebee’s but a restaurant called 54^th Street.

Whatever, the steak and baked potato is very tasty.

When I have finished I go back to my car and see Applebee’s Restaurant sitting demurely on the far side of the car park.

I return to the hotel; it is early and I know that by going to sleep I will probably wake early but when the episode of Law and Order suddenly morphs into Modern Family, I realise that it is time to give into the inevitable.

It has been a good day with plenty of rest and, more importantly, very little speaking.

Tomorrow I will be ready to perform with all of the passion and energy that the audiences deserve.

A Tired Day

As soon as I wake, I can tell that today is going to be a struggle.  I could do with what I call at home ‘a floppy day’, when I just sit and do absolutely nothing.

I feel very tired and all of my limbs are aching.  The performances of the last few days are catching up with me a bit.

I have a coffee, and trim my beard, which has begun to get a bit bushy again,  before showering and giving housekeeping the nightmare job of trying to clean up all the little clippings.

Outside, the weather has changed: the clear bright icy conditions of the last two days have been replaced by a low, wet mist which obscures the view.  Overnight rain has melted the snow and ice.

After breakfast I come back to my room and start to get things together for the day.  My first commitment is a repeat of yesterday’s signing at The Regency Mall, followed almost immediately by A Christmas Carol at the Field Club.

I pack a spare costume to change into after the performance itself and then go to the lobby to meet Frank Aultz, Kathy’s husband.  No Lee?  Lee is a football fan and a keen follower of Nebraska, who are playing in Lincoln today.  This morning Lee will become part of the third most populated community in Nebraska, as he joins 89,999 other fans in the huge stadium that I saw just a few days ago.

Frank is waiting for me and we get into his truck and head out to the mall.  Our first stop is the Paradise Café, where the same guy who served me yesterday is on duty once more.  As soon as he sees me he says: ‘hey, I didn’t realise who you were yesterday.  I’m an actor too, and am playing young Scrooge in the Omaha Playhouse production of A Christmas Carol.  This is so cool!’  We chat for a while before I take my coffee and head for the signing table.

The mall is a little busier today and there is already a little girl, with her mother, waiting patiently.  She is clearly so excited and as I sign asks me what influenced Charles Dickens to write the story: clearly a very bright child.

There is a steadier flow of people, but it never gets furiously busy, which is a relief.  I chat with Kathy and Susie about this and that and when I mention the premier of ‘To Begin With’ in Minneapolis next February, they start planning a trip to see it.

The hour passes quickly and soon it is time to start packing up.  Susie manages to procure all of the posters advertising my presence in the mall and I sign them for various members of the Historical Society’s staff.

Back in Frank’s truck, we drive to the Field Club and start preparing for A Christmas Carol, which is due to start at one o’clock.

As soon as I arrive there is an issue about a fireplace.  In the past here the set has featured an electric fireplace, adding a little extra to the centre of the stage.  This year the fire that has been provided is: a) propane fuelled; b) needing to be  constructed; c) huge.

Issue ‘a’ causes great concern to the managers at the field club who are not too keen on having a propane burner in their ballroom.  Issue ‘b’ means calling for Barney (my hangman from yesterday and the Society’s resident handyman), to build the thing.  But it is issue ‘c’ that makes up my mind to ditch the fireplace altogether.  The stage is quite narrow and if the fireplace were on it I would only have a very thin corridor to perform on.

The fire is duly re-packed in its box, loaded onto a trolley and unceremoniously dumped in a store room.

Losing the fire

I complete a sound check, and then wait for the audience to arrive.  I try to keep moving, pacing, walking, to keep the energy up.  If I were to sit down I think I’d probably just sleep, which wouldn’t be good preparation for a theatrical performance.

I chat to lots of people as they arrive, including a quartet of Brits, who are from the British army and are currently stationed in Omaha.

With ten minutes to go, two interpreters arrive, once again from UNO, and we discuss where the best place for them to stand is.  They tell me how much Stephanie and the students had enjoyed yesterday’s show.

The audience settle down into their seats and Kathy makes her introductory remarks.

‘I have endeavoured in this ghostly little book, to raise the ghost of an idea…..’  The show has begun.

As is so often the way with A Christmas Carol, the story creates its own energy.  I start a little flat but soon I am right back into the zone and giving a very powerful and passionate performance.

I am aware of the interpreters at the edge of the stage, and an idea comes into my head.  When I get to Nephew Fred’s party, the wonderfully flirtatious Topper sidles up to the interpreter and seduces her.  It is a fun moment and everyone enjoys it

The audience’s response is wonderful and I am very pumped up by the time I get to the end.  The question session is fun and everyone is very happy as they leave.

I make my way to the golf club’s locker room, where I peel of the very damp costume and towel down.  A goodly shake of talcum powder to try and freshen up briefly and then start to get into my ‘signing’ costume.

As I‘m changing there is a voice from the bar, which adjoins the locker room: ‘Mr Dickens, there is a glass of wine waiting here for you when you’re ready!’  I take a breath ready to reply and manage to inhale the cloud of talc, which completely dries my throat out

Instantly I am spluttering, I can’t get any air, I can’t speak, my eyes are watering.  I manage to wheeze a request for water, but it doesn’t do a great deal of good.

When I go to the signing table I still can’t talk, which is rather embarrassing.  I ask Abby if she can get me some tea and honey, and gradually my throat comes back to me.

There is a definite end of term feel, as we all start to pack up.  Of course this is my final show at the Field Club this year and there are lots of pictures to be taken, which will keep us all going until next year.

l-r: Susie, Kathy, GD, Abby

I go to the bar where my glass of wine is waiting for me.  As I sip Lee arrives, back from the football match, which Nebraska lost.  The weather forecast is not bad for tomorrow so our golf game may yet happen.

Lee suggests that he resumes his transportation duties, so that Frank can get to the Crook House early to set up the bar, over which he has control.

Lee drives me back to the hotel, where I buy a salad from the lobby which I eat while laying on the bed.

When I’ve finished my lunch, I set the alarm for 5.15 and manage to get a short nap in, which is very welcome.

When I wake I have a ‘James Bond’ shower (hot first followed by an icy blast to really get the blood flowing), and then get changed into my Marigold costume.

Lee and Susie are waiting for me outside the hotel and we drive back to The General Crook House for the last time this year.  Doctor Marigold is a very simple show and doesn’t require any complicated nooses, or fireplaces, so I have nothing to prepare tonight.

The guests arrive and the cocktail/buffet hour begins.  In the room where the merchandise is sold Abby is surreptitiously making sure that I sign plenty of stock to be sold after I leave.  Kathy is chatting to guests and board members, Susie and Lee are circulating, the carol singers are on the stairs and there is a lovely atmosphere throughout the house.

Me?  I am really feeling as if this is one show too many!

At seven everyone is corralled into the parlour and Doctor Marigold is ready to tell his story once more.  The show isn’t as good as yesterday afternoon’s performance, but the intimacy of the room means that there is a very close connection with the audience who are hanging on every word.

The trials and tribulations of Marigold run their course and as he is reunited with his daughter, the handkerchiefs are in evidence.  After a few questions and another generous toast from Susie, the final wind-down begins.

Although my time with The Douglas County Historical Society is always very hectic and tiring, I love working with them.  I regard all of the main players as close friends and it is always sad to leave them.  There are lots of photographs and lots of hugs.

Abby, meanwhile, continues to keep me supplied with books and tree ornaments to sign.

Eventually it is time to leave, Lee has the car outside and after saying my final goodbyes I drive away from the General Crook House for the final time.

Back at the hotel I agree to meet Lee at the Field Club tomorrow morning and we will see what the weather is doing.  If it is rainy, then we will simply have breakfast together and I will head towards Kanas City.  If, however, it is dry I will step in the footsteps of Perry Como, Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra and play the Field Club.

Right now though, all I want to do is sleep.  Which I do.

The Noose and the Moose

I lay in bed in a world somewhere between sleep and reality, but am brought fully into the latter state by my phone bleeping at me.

I have a message from Liverpool asking me to urgently answer a series of questions for a newspaper article promoting my shows in the city before Christmas.  The deadline is in an hour.  Maybe even a day’s warning would have been good?

I make a coffee and work through the questions one by one in the hope that, even in my drowsy state, I come up with something approaching intelligent.

Now fully awake I start to think about the day ahead.  Firstly, it is another laundry day.  They seem to be coming around with alarming regularity on this trip.  As there is no guest laundry in this hotel I need to bag up all of my shirts and get them down to the front desk.

I have my breakfast in the restaurant, which is very nice and I am lucky to have a very cheerful and chatty server.

As I leave the restaurant there is a family (parents, one child), sat in a booth.  They seem to having a moment of reflection together, all sat at the table with the heads bowed, as though in prayer.  That is nice, I think, until I walk past the table and see that they are all intently using their smart phones.  Welcome to the new religion.

Back in my room I lay out my costumes and props for the day’s events and then get dressed ready to meet Lee in the lobby at 9.30.  As I prepare to leave, I give a thought to my friends in Norfolk, VA:  Dickens Christmas Towne is due to open today and I wish them all well.

Lee is waiting, and we set off for my first commitment of the day, which is an hour’s signing appearance in a shopping mall.

The day is bright and clear and the roads are quiet. But, as we drive, we pass a number of serious looking car wrecks.  Smashed up fronts; dented side panels; police officers talking earnestly into their radios.  There is obviously something in the air today.

The event is in The Regency Mall, which is small and seems to have nice, exclusive stores.  It is so exclusive that there is nobody here, although the stores themselves don’t open until 10am.  Kathy is setting up, as well as a few other folks: some from the mall itself, some from the Historical Society.

As there is no action at the signing table, Lee suggests that we get a coffee from the Paradise Café, which is bustling.  It is a remarkable place, serving all sorts of exciting sounding fare: Pancrepes and Quiche Muffins among them.

Lee’s motives for bringing me here are not purely caffeine related, as a man in Victorian costume attracts lots of attention and hopefully a few of the patrons will come by the signing later on.

At the moment however the table sits forlornly in the middle of the mall, next to Santa’s magnificent throne.

A couple arrive, and I recognise Nancy as a fan from previous years.  She is here with her brother Skip.  It turns out that Skip is married to one of the helpers, Judy and he has prepared a special surprise for her.

Yesterday he was in Iowa buying antiques and found an amazing bronze door knocker featuring Charles Dickens.  It is obviously old and features the bust of Dickens, surrounded by a garland of books, all of which have their titles engraved.  The patina of the knocker makes reading them difficult but a professional cleaning job would reveal them all, I am sure.

Beneath Dickens’ head is the actual knocker part, which features a trio of characters: Mr Pickwick, Mr Micawber and Little Nell.  When the knocker is raised it reveals the Dickens birthplace in Portsmouth.

I assume that it was a souvenir bought from the museum, sometime in the early 1900s.

The Dickens Knocker

Skip has also brought along a planed plank of maple wood, with a beautiful grain running through it.  Although Judy does not yet know it, his plan is to mount the knocker on the wood, have me sign the bottom of it and give it to her for a Christmas present.  When she realises what he is doing, she is beside herself with joy and gratitude.

It is a simple gesture by Skip, but an utterly charming one.

We all talk about the knocker and how best to clean it.  The conversation lasts for quite a while, as there is nobody else in the mall!

As a result of their time with us, Skip, Judy and Nancy buy tickets for this evening’s show at the Crook House.

A few people drift up to the table, but it by no means a busy session and the hour passes quickly.  Before we pack up and leave, we all have photographs taken in Santa’s chair: I’m sure there is some law about that.

Impersonating Santa

From the mall we drive to the Field Club, where my afternoon show is to be.  We have an appointment to meet with the sound man at 12, and get there in plenty of time.

The Field Club is a golf club, of which Lee is a member.  This year, for the very first time, I have a free day while I staying in Omaha (Sunday), and it has long been the plan to play golf with Lee.  I have had my golf shoes in my case for the whole trip.  As we look out over the snow covered fairways, it looks as if that may be unlikely sadly.

The main function room is laid out with round tables, ready for an afternoon tea service.  At one side of the room my stage is set.

Ready for tea

Today I will be performing Doctor Marigold, which doesn’t really require any set, although I do ask if it is possible to have a low table or stool to stand on.  The staff at the Field Club are very efficient, and procure a perfect little table in no time.

After the microphone has been tested, Lee takes me back to the hotel.  I have to collect the props for tonight’s performance of Nicholas Nickleby and pass them on to Barney, who has been charged with finding a way of rigging up a noose for me.  Yes, you did read that correctly.

While in my room I start to check emails but discover that my first day’s internet access has run out and I need to purchase another day’s worth.

Why is it that you stay in the cheapest, smallest little motels and they offer you complimentary Wifi, but as soon as you get to classier joints they charge you for it? Explanations gratefully received.

I change my waistcoat for a slightly plainer one, suitable for Marigold collect all of my Nickleby stuff, and make the long trek back to the lifts.

Lee is waiting in the car and before returning to the Field Club he drives me past the General Crook House.   I happened to mention last night that in my four years of performing in Omaha, I had never seen the house in daylight.

Back at the club the guests are starting to arrive, they are all smartly dressed, many with elegant hats.

The room is now fully laid up and each setting has a delicious looking plate of sandwiches and cakes, artistically presented.

Unfortunately a button on my waistcoat has worked loose, finally giving up the ghost and dropping off.  Once again the Field Club staff are up to the challenge and from somewhere a roll of gold thread and a pair of scissors is produced.

Lee says that he is the one who sews in the Phillips household and is happy to do the repair for me.  Life in the military has served him well.

As the guests pour into the main room to start their tea, Lee suggests that we get a bite of lunch in ‘The Men’s Cry Room’: this is where the golfers come to after they have finished their rounds, to share their tales of woe.

I have a delicious plate of crab cakes.

The tea is progressing well and various members of the team are gathered in a little anti-room, from where we can check on progress.

Abby, Kathy’s assistant, is there, with her boyfriend, as is Mona and her husband.  Mona takes extreme pride on serving tea correctly and this whole event is run to her strict rules.  Each year Mona ceremoniously presents me with my ‘official’ cup of tea.

Today the event has almost been too successful as supplies of tea run out.  There is a slight commotion back stage about brewing more, but Mona stands firm: there is no more, there will be no more.

With thirty minutes to go before the show itself Kathy appears and introduces me to Stephanie, who is going to interpret the show for any deaf guests.

It is a nice touch, as Doctor Marigold adopts a deaf daughter in the show, and together they develop their own sign language.

Stephanie works at the University of Nebraska Omaha, co coordinating the department which teaches young interpreters.  She has come with two of the students and together they will sign for the entire show, in fifteen minute shifts.

Stephanie has watched a recording of Marigold on YouTube and has read the script.  Quite frankly she is terrified at the prospect.

We chat about some of the language that Marigold uses, but there is not much time to prepare, so we just agree to see what happens.

Before the show starts Susie takes to the microphone to run through answers to a trivia quiz, based on the history of Omaha.  She is magnificent, controlling the room as if she were back in the classroom teaching a group of rowdy students.

One hundred and thirty adults are brought to silence simply by a withering look from Mrs Phillips.

At one point there is a query about an answer; one of the volunteers starts to suggest that maybe it should be……

‘Glenda, do you have something to say?  No? Well, let’s keep quiet then, while I continue with the answers’

As the quiz goes on Susie gets into her stride and has everyone in the palm of her hand, it is a masterful performance.

It is extraordinary how competitive people can be.  There is no prize for the quiz, it is merely a bit of fun, but to watch a room of, it must be said, mainly women, pumping the air with their clenched fists on hearing that they have nailed a particular question, is quite remarkable.

Quiz over, it is time for Marigold to take over.  Stephanie takes her place on the stage and I am off.

The character of Doctor Marigold captivates the whole audience and they hang on his every word.

At the end the tears are flowing and I get a long standing ovation.  Stephanie and the girls have made it through unscathed too.

There is a tight turnaround between shows today, so after a short signing session, we drive over to the Crook House once more, where I will be performing The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby tonight.

Nickleby is really designed to be performed in a larger space than we have available to us, so I am not sure how well it is going to work.  Barney has done a great job stringing up my noose, so that I don’t need a screen on stage – that buys me a little extra space.

The noose

I fuss around with the other furniture and arrive with a set which will work well.

The guests begin to arrive, it is a slightly smaller audience tonight, and there are many familiar faces from years past.  Skip, Judy and Nancy from this morning’s signing session are there.

A group of singers station themselves on the main staircase and sing beautiful carols, beautifully.

In the room which doubles as a bar, the stuffed head of a moose looks down upon the guests.

At 7 o’clock Kathy takes the stage to introduce me.  She talks about cell phones again and again, so as not to have a repetition of last night’s interruptions.  In fact, two went off during Marigold this afternoon.

Nickleby is a big, physical show but it shrinks perfectly into the house’s cramped parlour.  I think most of the audience are unsure what to expect from the show, but they are soon fully involved.

Barney’s noose solution works brilliantly and there is an audible gasp as it drops down from behind the wooden archway to signify the end of the evil Ralph Nickleby.

When the ovation has died away and a few questions have been answered, we all move into the next room, according to Crook custom, for another of Suzie’s creatively written toasts.  We clink glasses and sip champagne before I take my place at a signing table.

It has been a very successful but tiring day, and I am glad when it is time to leave for the hotel.

I say goodnight to Susie and Lee, go to my room, change out of my costume and go to the bar where I dine on a juicy pork chop.

Tomorrow we go through it all again.

The Signalman

Today I move on again, but not far.  As I start to pack I have a sudden, wonderful, realisation that I am going to be driving everywhere for the next week, so don’t need to squeeze everything into my cases.

I have a bit of time before John calls for me at 8.30, so I take the opportunity to load the first few things into the car.

Of course this is the replacement vehicle, which I haven’t driven yet and as I open the boot I notice that its license plate pronounces it to be from Colarado:  I wonder how it got to Lincoln?  Who drove it before; what business are they in?  Were they rushing for the airport to catch an important flight, or was it rented to a family on a vacation?  Has it been driven from Denver to here in one journey, or has it made the trip via a series of shorter hops? The life of a rental car would be interesting to chart.

Punctual to our 8.30 appointment John knocks at the door and we make our way over to the assisted living (aka – better breakfast), dining room.  Our friend Chan is waiting for us and greets us cheerily.

As we eat we have a very interesting conversation about how Chan experienced the show, without being able to see it.  He says that listening to the inflections of my voice he could picture the individual scenes in his mind’s eye.  He asks us lots of questions about my costume and the arrangement of props on the stage etc. so that his perception of the show can be completed.

John asks Chan an interesting question: how does he cope with the different value of the currency in his wallet?  In the UK each note (£5, £10, £20 and £50), is a different size, whereas in America they are all the same.  Chan makes sure that he always knows what he is receiving and then folds each one in a different way.

At the next table Dorothy (our one hundred year old new girl), is being fussed over by other residents and seems to be thoroughly happy and at home.

Breakfast finished we make our way back to the main block and our journey is interrupted often as people talk about the show and congratulate me.  They are a very friendly bunch here and I feel as if I’ve known them all for years.

I go back to my room, pack up the last of my bags and return to the lobby to say my goodbyes.  There a few extra book signings to be squeezed in before I finally hug John at the main door and get into my car.

I set the beloved SatNav unit and head out onto the icy roads on Lincoln, towards Omaha.

Once on the freeway I start to run through The Signalman again.  Because of Top Hole! a few days ago, I have left all of this too late and I am not going to be nearly as well prepared as I’d like.

The journey to Omaha is not long and I am soon pulling into the parking garage of the Hilton hotel.  I have not stayed here before and it looks very plush and elegant.

At the check in desk I am told I have a package waiting:  it is the replacement fountain pen that I ordered online, after I had lost my previous one in Norfolk. I feel complete again.

Even as I am checking in, my good friend Lee Phillips, who is always responsible for driving me when I am in Omaha, is waiting for me.  We make arrangements to meet up in about forty minutes and I go to my room to get ready.

Up on the third floor and out of the lift, I take the direction for room 3097. The corridor is very, very long and my room is right at the far end.

A long walk

I have just about enough time to have a quick shower and get my costume sorted out for this afternoon’s event, before I start the hike back along the corridor and to the lobby where Lee is waiting.

My first venue today is the Omaha Central High School and as we drive through the city Lee points out the building to me.  It is certainly impressive, situated on a prominent hill it is built in the Palladian style and looks not unlike Buckingham Palace.  I never went to a school like that!

We find a parking space and go into the main entrance to register our presence.  The first thing that I see is a banner hung across the entrance hall proclaiming: ‘Welcome class of 2018. Where Great Expectations are Met’.  I think Dickens is going to work just fine here.

We are shown to the theatre by one of the English staff who fills us in with a bit of the building’s history, and then hands us over to the head of theatre.  The auditorium is magnificent, with a huge stage and a lavish lighting in the main house.

The auditorium at Omaha Central High

As there is a class going on Lee and I are taken down into the basement and shown into the dressing rooms, where we are to wait.

Hmm, High School dressing rooms. I wonder how often this sign is ignored….

I hang my costume up and we chat for a while, until it is time to go back to the theatre and get the stage prepared for my show.

There is a bustle on stage now, the lighting is being prepared, mics are being checked, and lots of students are moving here and there on various errands.

Also in the theatre are Kathy Aultz, who is the director of the Douglas County Historical Society, who sponsor my events in Omaha, and Susan Phillips, who was responsible for first bringing me here, having seen me perform in Williamsburg a few years ago.

Susan is Lee’s wife and they have become great friends over the years.  Indeed this Summer they travelled in England and stayed with Liz and me in Abingdon.  We had a wonderful day exploring the sights of Oxford and taking a boat trip on the Thames.  It is lovely to see them both again now.

Once I have got the furniture arranged as I want it, a student approaches me and introduces herself.  She is the reporter for the school newspaper and she would like to interview me, if that is OK?

We spend about fifteen minutes chatting and I am sure she has an excellent career in journalism ahead of her.  She has a list of prepared questions, which she occasionally refers to, but listens intently to my answers and lets the conversation grow out of them.

When the interview is over, I do a quick sound check as the tech guy walks all through the auditorium making sure it sounds good from all quarters and then it is back down into the dungeons, to change.

The show itself is interesting and I can’t quite gauge how it is going.  The students are all honors students, studying English literature.  There is very little reaction or feedback from them, but equally it doesn’t feel as if they are bored or restless.  I just concentrate on the performance and hope that they are enjoying it.

At the end there is good applause and some nice questions, so I think it has been well received.

Having got changed and collected all of my belongings (it would be just like me to leave my new pen here), I meet up with Lee and we drive back to the hotel, where I have a couple of hours to try and drag the Signalman up to where I want it to be.

Firstly I order some lunch from room service: it will be forty minutes, which is excellent.  Time for a complete run through of the script.

Five minutes in and the phone rings: room service, would I like cream with my coffee.  Yes, thank you.

Resume the run.  The phone rings. It is Abby from the Historical Foundation, could I call a radio station in an hour to record an interview.  Of course, that is fine.

Resume the run.  The phone rings.  It is the front desk, I have a package to collect.  I have already collected my package.  No, this is another one.

I walk along the corridor (two city blocks I am informed by one of the housekeeping staff) and take the lift to the lobby.  Nobody can track down the new package until someone appears from the back office with a bag of goodies which was supposed to be in my room on my arrival.  I thank everyone very much and go back to 3097.

Resume the run. The phone rings.  Room service tried to deliver my lunch but I wasn’t there, am I ready for it now?

I give up!  Let’s just hope that there is enough in the memory banks to get me through this evening.

My lunch arrives and I watch the television as I eat. In my mind the Signalman lines are still rolling about.  I don’t want them to roll about; I want them to be in straight lines!

At 5.45 I get into the sombre all-black costume for the show tonight and meet Lee in the lobby.  We drive out to one of the Historical Society’s properties, and a favourite venue of mine: The General Crook House.

The General Crook House is a house built for General Cook (I love history), in 1879.  It has been lovingly restored by the Society  and is a perfect venue for Victorian performances.  It oozes atmosphere from every nook and cranny.

The General Crook House

In one of the downstairs rooms there is a small stage set up, which is well lit.  At the back of the stage are three further lights up-light the lace curtains in front of the bow window. One light is green and two are red.  As the story of the Signalman revolves around a single red danger light at the mouth of a tunnel, I ask for two of the lights to be disconnected, leaving me with a single red glow.

The Danger Light

The guests arrive and enjoy a convivial hour’s cocktails and chat, eating from a superb buffet.

I chat and pose and sign with many people who have been to my performances over the last three years and it is nice to be among friends.

At seven, Kathy makes the introductions, I take a deep breath, say a few silent prayers and step onto the stage.  I hate being this under-prepared, but it is what it is and I have to make the most of it.

I start by talking about Dickens’s involvement in the Staplehurst rail disaster of 1865.  Before I’m five minutes in, a buzzer sounds from somewhere and I am aware of people scrabbling about on the floor.

I stop the show and the situation is sorted out (this room was actually a dining room, and under the carpet is a switch, so that the lady of the house could surreptitiously call the servants to clear the table.  One of the audience chair legs is on the buzzer).

I restart.  A cell phone goes off.  The poor lady in question is mortified and tries to dig it out of her bag, but can’t find it.  It rings and rings and rings.  She finds it and takes it out.  Now it is ringing louder.  Fumble, try to turn it off, fumble.  And at last it is silent again.

I restart.  There is no magic about theatre: miracles just don’t happen and my performance of The Signalman is horribly approximate. However the atmosphere in this small, dark room; the proximity of the audience to me; the low voice I am able to maintain; the eerie glow of the red light, and the story itself all come together to create a suitably Victorian telling of a ghost story.

I have got away with it, but it is certainly not in the way I had wanted it.

After the performance I take a few questions, before we all move into the next room and gather round the lavish buffet table as Susan makes a toast.  She does this after every performance in the Crook House and writes them so carefully to reflect that particular performance.  Today she uses the opening phrase ‘Halloa! Below there!’ and talks about Omaha’s links to the great USA rail network.  It is a wonderful toast.

There follows a short period of signing, but people drift away into the icy night quickly, and I am soon dropped back at my hotel.

Back in my room I find a wonderful email from the English teacher at Omaha Central High, thanking me for my performance earlier and saying how rarely she has seen a group of students so attentive and captivated.  I am very relieved to know that it was a success and so touched that she should have taken the trouble to write.

Tomorrow is going to be a busy day, but I feel much more confident about the two shows I am to perform: Doctor Marigold and Nicholas Nickleby.

The last thing I do before I go to bed is to ceremoniously pack The Signalman script deep in the bottom of my case.