Goodbye America.

And so I am at Liberty International Airport, Newark; waiting at terminal B, gate 53, for Virgin Atlantic flight VS2 to take me home.

Bethlehem

I sleep through to a decent time this morning and am able to write the blog before going to the lobby for my breakfast.  No buffet here and I chose a lovely traditional plate of eggs and bacon, followed by toast and marmalade.  No pancakes or waffles this morning: I must be ready to go home.

When I have eaten I ask at the front desk to see if there is a possibility of a late check out.  My flight doesn’t leave until eight pm, so strictly speaking I don’t need to be on the road until three.  Brittney is on duty and after much peering at computer screens she announces that I can stay in the room until one thirty, which is helpful.

This morning I want to get out and have a walk so I take to the streets as soon as I am ready.  The immediate neighbourhood is familiar to me, but I have decided to walk over the bridge which crosses the river and railway, and make my way to the abandoned Steel Stacks in the south side of the city.

It is a brisk morning and the chilled air is lovely.  I take large lungfulls and I wish I were doing my last show right now as my throat feels tip top again.

Steel used to be the main industry in Bethlehem and there have been works here since 1857.  The company finally went bankrupt and closed its operations in 1995.  Now, standing as a monument to a lost age, are a series of towering rusting, disintegrating and  macabre buildings.

Although there is a visitor centre here, no attempt has been made to pretty the site up and quite rightly so.  You can almost imagine the hellish heat and deafening noise as the steel molten helped to shape an era of heavy engineering.

Ironically right opposite the steelworks is an ice rink.

The new industry in town is the Sands Casino, which has taken over part of the steelworks, but it was not visible from the direction I approached.

Having had a brief look around and taken a few photographs, I walk back to the historic downtown area of Bethlehem, which is definitely suffering at the hands of the casino.

My walk has taken up two hours and I now spend two more in the hotel room.  I take the opportunity to actually commit my script of A Christmas Carol to paper, ready for the theatre shows I will be performing in England in a few days time.

At one thirty I take my bags and say goodbye to hotel life for a short while.  I bid a particularly wistful farewell to my last Keurig coffee maker, and my half finished packets of biscuits.

As I am still a little early I have decided to drive to Newark via Staten Island, which isn’t too far from the airport.

Many years ago I used to perform at a cultural centre on the island and one year I was shown a view which at the time I find profoundly moving.  I have decided to return to the same spot

My journey takes two and a half hours, and the traffic is heavy as I near New York City.  My route actually takes me passed the airport, and I consider just driving straight there, but it is still so early and I will get bored stiff.

I have rather vaguely set my Satnav for ‘Staten island, but I don’t really know where I am going.  I am guided by nothing more than the Freedom Tower on Manhattan:  Which is most appropriate.

I eventually arrive at the north end of the Island, close to the ferry terminal and in front of me Manhattan is spread out, lit by a golden setting sun.

The last time that I stood on this spot was in November 2001.  I had looked across the water and for the first time the enormity of what had occurred just two months earlier really struck me.  The New York Skyline was incomplete.

Today, in the golden glow, the City stands proudly there, the skyline is complete once more and I am very glad I that I have come back to this spot to see it.

The sun is setting and it is time to drive back to Newark, where I go through the whole rigmarole of returning the car, getting to the terminal, checking in, removing shoes, watch, belt and coat, clearing security and putting them all back on again.

My gate is not busy yet, as there is still almost two hours before boarding starts, so I get my laptop out and begin to write.

The Tour

I have been on the road for almost six weeks and performed in twenty cities.  During that time I have delivered five different shows and stood in front of an audience fifty times.

It has on the whole been extremely successful.  I believe that the show is as good as it has ever been (although I know some audience members will miss my coat flying into the audience).  Of course I have added a few bits in, which mainly have been culled from my two act version.

The audiences responses have been quite amazing throughout and it has been very moving when people have shaken me by the hand afterwards and said: ‘your great great grandfather would be so proud of you’.  That means a great deal

Health wise I have had a very trouble free time.  My voice started to give out slightly during the last couple of days, but I blame that on solely on my choice of cheese-filled ravioli in Burlington.

I am slightly concerned that I am sweating so much during the show and may take some advice to see if there is anything I can, or should do, to help that before I return next year.

I have had no travel troubles (apart from grumpy SatNav units) and my bags have always appeared on carousels, even after tight connections in major airports.

I have had no difficulties with the weather, despite my worries of heavy snow in Massachusetts.  In fact the whole tour has been rather un-seasonal from that point of view.

People

What makes a trip like this are the people I meet and sadly I can’t name everyone who has made sure that I have venues to perform in, people to perform to, and beds to sleep in. I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart.

Of course a very special mention must go to Bob and Pam Byers who are not only my professional colleagues but genuine and dear friends.  Working with Byers Choice has been such a turning point in my life and they represent me with a generosity that most actors can only dream of.

I was particularly delighted to see Gary Vaillancourt this year after he scared everyone by having a major heart attack in the spring.  To see him and Judi in California was a real treat.

Bob Watford.  Do you remember Bob: The Hertz car agent who befriended me on a cold morning at Kansas City airport and drove me to the terminal building, while telling me all about his life? That was a very special memory, which I will cherish.

But the most important person is Liz.  I abandon her for six weeks, and send her accounts of sleeping in the Queen’s suite at Williamsburg, while she has to work and run the house at home.  She is such a tower of strength and supports me so completely.  I could never do what I do if it wasn’t for her.

It has been lovely to relax before shows listening to her CD this year.  I am biased, but she makes a piano sing like few others can.

And on that note, it is time to close up the laptop and board my plane.

I am not signing off for good, for between the seventeenth and the twenty third of December I will be playing in some very exciting venues in the UK.  The tour continues, and I shall be keeping you up to date with my adventures in the old country.

Thank you to everyone who has attended my shows and followed this blog: quite literally, it could not happen without you.

 

The Ultimate Performance?

At 3.15 am the lyrics of Paul Simon’s 1972 hit ‘Duncan’, are running through my mind:

Couple in the next room bound to win a prize, They been goin’ at it all night long. Well I’m tryin’ to get some sleep, But these motel walls are cheap……..

Whilst I have to admire their stamina, this is not a good way to start my final performing day.

I get some coffee and write the blog, whilst I munch on my Rich Tea biscuits.

Eventually things fall silent next door, but I am now wide awake.  Thanks, guys.

At seven o’clock I get up, shower and go to the lobby for a very frugal breakfast.  There is a waffle machine, but little else.  The Quality Inn and Suites does not rank highly on my breakfast league table.

I go back to my room and pack my bags for the day ahead.  The chances are that I won’t be able to check in early to my hotel in Bethlehem, so I need all of my costumes ready to take to the theatre.

I am on the road by nine and the sky is once again blue and clear, making for a lovely drive.  As I push on into Pennsylvania once more I realise that I am going to pass through Gwynned, very close to the Joseph Ambler Inn and Byers’ Choice.

Ahead the sky is cloudy and heavy: it looks like a snow sky, which would be festive, even though I no longer have an SUV to cope with bad conditions.  As I drive on there is some snow laying at the edges of the road: not much, but enough to remind me that it is winter.

After ninety minutes of driving I leave the freeway and make my way into the centre of Bethlehem: ‘The Christmas City’.  I pull into the parking garage of The Hotel Bethlehem and go into the lobby and straight away know that I won’t be getting an early check-in.  The hotel is so busy: there are major functions in all of the main ballrooms, as well as in the restaurant.  Even parts of the lobby are being cordoned off for ‘private events’.

I go to the desk and suspicions are proved correct:  No room at the Inn, until later.

I have just under an hour to kill before my morning sound-check, so I buy a coffee and a pastry before finding a seat from where I can watch the world go by.

It is not just the hotel that is busy; the main street is filled with people bustling here and there, all wrapped up in scarves and hats.  There are horse-drawn carriages giving rides and a German-style Christmas market is just opening up.

At eleven I leave the hotel and walk to the Moravian College, where I will be performing in The Foy Auditorium.  As I walk I meet up with Blair, who works in the music department of the college, and who has looked after my technical needs for the last six years.

In the auditorium my set is already in place and this year has been dressed with a crust of bread on a pewter plate, a small tankard and a quill.  It looks very good.

To get ready for my sound check, Blair throws all of the necessary switches (The Blair Switch Project?), and the stage is bathed in light.

Foy Hall, Moravian College

I do a few lines from the show until all of the levels are correctly set, and then we can relax.  I sit in the auditorium thinking about the tour and all of the people I have met along the way.

I mustn’t get too carried away with nostalgia, though: there are two shows to perform today and the audience members deserve just as much from me as any of the others have had.

As I sit, Lisa Girard arrives and gives me a big hello-hug.  Lisa works at the Moravian Book Store, which sponsors my time in Bethlehem.  We catch up on our respective news for a little while, until it is time for me to go to my dressing room and get ready for the one o’clock show.

The audience is arriving very early, and everyone is keen to get to the front of the auditorium, which will be good for me.

The buzz in the hall is a good one, and I stand in the wings listening to the growing excitement.

As the start time gets closer Lisa and I are enjoyed by Kristy, also from the book store, who is dressed in a magnificent Victorian dress ready to introduce me.

On the stroke of one, Kristy heads onto the stage and starts to read the introduction: as she reads, she suddenly realizes that the script dates from 2012, and talks about the two hundredth anniversary celebrations: she quickly improvises and the audience is informed that we are lucky to be here for this very special performance, celebrating the two hundred…and second anniversary.

I am welcomed to the stage by a very long and loud ovation and have to wait for a while until I can begin the show.

It goes very well and I do indeed give the audience as much as I can; which actually may be too much.  I am aware that I am using up large amounts of energy, not to mention making great demands on my voice, which I will probably pay for later.

However, the afternoon audience gets a very good performance and they respond with a loud, long standing ovation.  I take my bows and leave the stage, ready to change.

The signing session is not held at the auditorium, but back in the bookstore.  After I am changed I walk with Lisa through the festive crowds, who do not bat an eyelid at the sight of a Victorian gent in their midst.

The line has already formed in the shop and as soon as I am in my seat the fun begins.  Lisa rules the queue with a rod of iron, ushering people to the table, making sure that the books are opened to the correct page for my signature.  Small talk is limited as she constantly moves the line on.  Kristy is on photographic duty, dealing with the alarming array of smart phones and cameras with great aplomb.

By three fifteen the queue has diminished and I am released, so that I can finally check into the hotel.

The Hotel Bethlehem is part of the Historic Hotel of America chain (in good company with Hershey and Williamsburg), and has a lovely stately, old feel to it.  The lifts have those semi-circular floor indicators above the doors, so beloved by film makers.

In my room I run a hot bath and soak for a while, before putting on the white robe and being generally lazy on the bed.

I am expecting a call from radio WKNY, which is for a re-scheduled interview, after I missed the original call in Williamsburg.  At precisely four thirty my phone rings and I spend fifteen minutes chatting about A Christmas Carol and its enduring legacy.

With the interview over I order a salad from room service and try to get some rest.  The early start to my day is beginning to tell now, and I’m sure that my body somehow knows that the punishment is almost at an end.

At five thirty it is time to get going again and I have a shower before dressing in costume.

My schedule today is a bit upside down, as I now have another signing session: before the evening show.

There is a musical event in the Foy Auditorium, so my show can’t start until eight, which would make for a very late signing session.  Lisa has therefore decided to have me in the store for an hour prior to the show, rather than after it.

I know that I am supposed to be there, and so does Lisa.  Kritsy knows and the other staff know.  Unfortunately, the audience doesn’t and we all spend a very quiet time chatting about this and that.

At one point I grab a couple of fluffy animal glove puppets from a nearby display and give an impromptu puppetry rendition of Scrooge berating Bob Cratchit.  It works, as a small crowd gathers to watch.  Maybe I should change the show for next year….

At seven the non-existent signing session ends and I leave the shop to return to the theatre.

My walk from the book shop takes me past the Central Moravian Church, where queues of people are waiting in the cold to listen to the annual Vespers concert.

The crowd is being entertained by a trombone ensemble, which is playing in the bell tower, high above the hustle and bustle.  The atmosphere in Bethlehem tonight is so, well, Christmassy, which is very apt.

In the auditorium I do another sound check and start to focus on the upcoming performance.  I would love tonight’s show to be a magical celebration of all that has gone before, encompassing all of the lessons that I have learned over six weeks.  I would love my ultimate show to be the ultimate performance, but I fear that will not happen.

I am drinking lots of water and sucking Fishermen’s Friends to ease my strained throat, but I know it is going to be struggle tonight.

At eight Kristy makes her updated introduction and I make my way to centre stage.

The show goes pretty well, and the audience enjoys it, but it is not an easy performance from my point of view: everything feels a bit of an effort.  My voice isn’t great and is a bit crackly.  I ignore my own advice and try a bit too hard, and strain a bit too much.

However as I say ‘God Bless Us, Every One!’ for the last time on USA soil, the standing ovation is instant, noisy and robust.  There are cheers and cries of ‘BRAVO!’  I even get a ‘HUZZAH!’

I take my usual three bows (one central, one right, one left), and then take an extra one, which is a bit cheeky!

In the dressing room I peel off my costume and take a few deep breaths.  There is no rush, as there is no signing session to get to, which feels a bit strange.

Finished!

I get into civvies, and take the microphone back to Blair and find a few patient audience members who have waited behind to try and catch an autograph and picture.  One family has a copy of A Christmas Carol, previously signed by Cedric and it is lovely to see his cheerful ‘keep smiling!’ written above his name.  Cedric could never just sign something; he always had to add a quote or a comment.

I pack up my case, and get ready to leave.  I say thank you to Blair and then walk back to the hotel.  The lobby and bar is busy and noisy and it is a struggle to get through to the lifts, which take a long time to arrive: Bah! Humbug!

I drop my cases off in my room and then go back to the bar, where Lisa joins me.  We find a couple of chairs in a corner and sip our white wines.  We are both exhausted.  All around us parties are in full swing and people are celebrating the season with their family, friends and colleagues.

I am fading fast and need to get to bed, so I say goodbye to Lisa for another year and  head up to the sixth floor.  I hang up all of my costumes to air, so I am not travelling with damp clothes tomorrow, before getting into bed.  I turn the TV on and set the timer, so that it will switch off after I’ve fallen asleep: which I do very quickly.

The Spirit of A Christmas Carol

After my wonderful day of rest, it is back to the routine of life on the road today.  I have a flight from Richmond Airport at nine twenty and want to be there by eight o’clock, so that I can return the rental car without too much panic.

As always I build in extra time into any journey to allow for traffic delays, so I have decided to leave the hotel at seven – which is exactly when the breakfast service starts.  Sadly, therefore, I must forego the delights of the Williamsburg buffet and throw myself upon the mercy of the Richmond International Airport’s food outlets.

It is another clear, crisp morning and the hotel looks beautiful against the first light of a new day.  I load my bags, check out and start the drive through the historic area of the city.

The Inn at Dawn

Once on the Interstate, the traffic is heavy, but flows well and I am soon seeing the signs for the airport, at which point my SatNav unit starts to misbehave as it did way back on Thanksgiving Day, when I picked the car up.  For no reason it suddenly announces that it has lost external power and will shut down in 14,13,12,11…..

It is very odd!  Apart from on my journey from Boston to Worcester all those weeks ago, it has behaved impeccably and now, just as I am about to return it, it becomes sullen and grumpy again.

At the Thrifty drop-off the agent asks if everything was OK and I, like a benevolent uncle, say ‘Yes, everything worked perfectly’.  The secret of the SatNav’s strops will remain between us – no need to tell the parents.

The airport is fairly quiet and I am soon in the security line.  The TSA agent is a cheery gentleman, who scans everyone’s ID and makes some comment about their home city, or their name.  I know what is coming.

‘Hey!  Do you know anyone called Charles?’ he asks, as he sees my name.

‘I’ve got the right name for the season, haven’t I?’  I reply.  It’s not a moment for self-promotion.

I find a restaurant and the breakfast when it comes is worth waiting for.  I have plenty of time, so I eat slowly whilst looking out across the apparently deserted runways.

My flight today is to take me back to Philadelphia and, being a short one, US Airways have laid on a Dash 8 for the job.  The Dash is a little prop-driven aircraft and we have to walk across the tarmac to board it.  Somehow it seems more exciting and somewhat nostalgic to board a plane this way.

As I walk, I feel like Bleriot or Lindbergh ready to take to the skies.  Neither Bleriot or Lindbergh had the good fortune to see their suitcases being loaded into the hold, as I do.  I can relax in the knowledge that my costumes will be waiting for me in Philly.  Assuming they remember to close the hold door.

The flight only takes an hour but the poor little aeroplane is buffeted by low-level winds and we are tossed this way and that, meaning that the flight attendant can’t provide a beverage service.  Oh, the hardships that we pioneers of flight have to deal with.

Catching forty

Once safely on the ground I walk about the same distance as we have flown to retrieve my bags, and then take the courtesy bus to the Enterprise car rental office.

The very helpful agent completes the paperwork in good time and takes me out to the lot.  He can’t find a car in the category we have booked, so chooses a silver Mazda 6 as a free upgrade, which is very nice.

The first thing I do is to try and Sync my phone to the car and it works!  I can actually listen to my Christmas playlist properly at last.  I plug my phone’s power cable in but it does not start to charge, and I see that the lead has frayed and split.  I will have to pick up another one somewhere.

My venue today is in Burlington New Jersey and it is not a long drive.  I have plenty of time, so I go to my hotel first, where I can get everything sorted out for the day.  I go through the well drilled routine of getting the costume into my small case and then set off for the Broad Street United Methodist Church.

In the car park I suddenly panic that my car has been stolen –  it is not where I left it: and then I realise that I’ve got so used to my black Ford Escape,  I didn’t even notice the silver Mazda sitting exactly where I had left it.

As I drive I look out for a store where I can buy a new charging lead for my phone and in doing so find myself in a lane which takes me onto a highway and away from Burlington.  I forget my need for an electronics store and concentrate on the road; I can ask the team at the Church about buying a lead later.

At the Church preparations are in full swing and I am straight away greeted by the event organiser Laura Jaskot, who is making sure that everything is ready for the events.  She is an energetic organiser and has a fabulous team around her

I have been coming to the Broad Street Church for six years, so it is a well known routine and I go straight to my dressing room (actually a counselling room), and unpack my things.

I grab a cup of tea and dollop some honey into it, before going upstairs into the sanctuary itself, to do a sound check.  Bob looks after the technicalities and always does a superb job, I trust him completely and if he says it sounds good, then I know it does.

Sadly for Bob he has had a difficult year and recently has broken his wrist as well as cracking some ribs.  However he is great good spirits, as always.

We play around with the various lighting options in the Church until we arrive at a combination that works.  By now the first audience members are arriving, so it is time to withdraw.

In the dressing room there is a large set of shelves upon which canned foods are collected ready for distribution throughout the city.  It is always fun to see what is there, and this year I think a donation has been made by the Warhol family:

I set my phone and speaker up and listen to Rhapsody in Blue until the battery finally gives out.

The perfect preparation

I get into costume and go upstairs to the little ante-room next to the stage.  Laura appears and at precisely two-thirty she steps out and greets the audience.

After the standard spiel about cell phones and photography, and a little history of the Church itself, she turns the afternoon over to me and I walk out to the applause of an appreciative crowd of about a hundred.

The sanctuary is a beautiful place to perform.  The main part of the stage is quite narrow (front to back), so doesn’t give much room for movement, but there are four different levels that I can play with, and I can experiment with some different moves, which is always fun.

Many of the audience are old hands at this and know how the show is going to work.  They ooh, and ahh at the Cratchit’s lunch; and titter in anticipation as I become Topper homing in on ‘the niece’s sister.’

The show is good and there is plenty of applause as I take my bows.

Once off the stage I change and make my way to the signing reception, which they do so well here.

My table is set in the corner of a large room, and as the audience mingle they are served with tea and cakes and cookies and muffins and all sorts of good things.  On my signing table stands a china teapot, cup and saucer and a plate filled with delights, including a selection of my favourite British biscuits: McVitie’s Rich Tea.  I am in biscuit Heaven!

There is already a long queue waiting for me, so I pour myself a cup of tea and begin. Most people are bringing event programmes, or the Arthur Rackham illustrated edition of A Christmas Carol that the Church are selling, to be signed.

One lady, however has a very special copy of the book and takes her time before speaking.  Her father used to read the Carol to the family every Christmas and today would have been his one hundred and first birthday. Please would I sign his old copy, as it would mean so much to the family.  The volume dates from 1937 and is well loved. It is an extremely moving moment for all at the table.

Another lady gives me a book to be signed and then places a programme in front of me, saying ‘will you sign that to….’ I miss the name in the general hubbub of the room, although I think it begins with P.   I ask her for the name again. ‘Oh, no name, just sign it.’  And then I realise that what she said was ‘Can you sign that, too please?’ not ‘can you sign that to Prince’, or whoever.

Once the tea party has disbanded, I get back into my normal clothes and the whole team walks around the corner to go to dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant that has become our regular haunt in recent years.

Tables are pushed together to accommodate our party of fourteen and we all order.  I chose ravioli in a tomato sauce: pasta is always a safe bet before show.

When my dish arrives eagerly tuck in and am horrified to discover that the ravioli is filled with cheese.  I had assumed they would be meat filled and hadn’t thought to ask.

Don’t get me wrong, I love cheese in all of its varieties, but cheese, or indeed any dairy product, doesn’t like my throat. For a performer, dairy lines the throat and constricts it, making it difficult to project properly.

Other actors and singers had told me this for many years and I had always thought it was rather faddy.  However on tour a few years ago I started to have a lot of trouble with my throat, and was constantly struggling to perform well.  I decided to try the ‘no dairy regime’ and it has worked superbly.

I should just ask for a simple salad instead, but time is pushing on and the team needs to be back at the Church before the audience starts to arrive.  I decide to eat.

I drink as much water as I can, and with any luck all will be OK.

When we are done, we all walk back to the Church, everyone mans their stations and I lay on a couch and grab thirty minutes sleep before getting ready.

I drink more water, suck on Fisherman’s Friend lozenges and do some deep breathing exercises.  However, as I feared, my throat is tight. Damn! (Actually, I probably shouldn’t be cursing in a Church, when I need all the help I can get).

The most important thing is not to panic.  I know what the situation is and I know that Bob will do a great job with the sound.  Don’t overdo it, don’t try too hard.  Don’t panic.

As soon as I start the show I know that I haven’t got away with it.  My voice is strained and I struggle with the more delicate dialects (Ghost of Christmas Past and the boy signing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen).  But I obey my mantra and calm everything down.   Gradually it begins to work and the show comes back to me.

I am helped in no uncertain terms by a superb audience who are out to enjoy themselves and give me just as much as I give them.  The standing ovation at the end is noisy and boisterous and I clap them too.

Downstairs at the reception the high spirits remain.  The line is long and here are lots of things to be signed.

One gentleman has driven for eight hours from North Carolina with his family, just to be here.  He has seen me on previous occasions at Hershey and Williamsburg and apparently I have picked on him more than once to be Mr Fezziwig.  The reasons for that choice are obvious!

He has taken to reading A Christmas Carol to his friends each Christmas, and this year has decided to buy them all books.  A stack of sixteen is placed on the table.  Would I inscribe God Bless Us Every One, in each and sign?

There is a long line forming behind, so he suggests we wait until everyone has finished, and then do them.  The stack of books remains on the edge of the table.

As the queue dwindles a mother and her son come to the table and she sees the pile of books: ‘Oh, great, you have more!  They said you’d clean sold out.’  I explain that these books have already been sold and are just waiting to be signed.  She and her son look crestfallen.  ‘Oh, that’s a shame, he really wanted a book.  We’ll just have to get one next year instead.  Come on David.’ And they start to leave.

‘Mr Fezziwig’ has heard this exchange.   He picks up one of his books and gives it to her:  The spirit of A Christmas Carol is alive and well in Burlington.

I sign the copy for David and a very special Christmas moment has been played out before me.  I’m sure that CD is looking down with a twinkle in his eye.

At the very end of the line, waiting patiently, are Bob and Pam, who have come to see the show for a final time this season, and to say goodbye.  It is lovely to see them again and we chat for a while, and catch up on some news, before they leave to drive back to Chalfont.  I change and pack up my things ready to drive back to The Quality Inn and Suites.

All of Laura’s team are packing up their own things too and gradually the Broad Street Methodist Church is being returned to its natural state.  I say good bye to everyone and drive back to the hotel

On the way I pass a Wal-Mart, where I successfully find a new lead for my phone. I plug it in and the battery begins to recharge.  Not very many minutes later I am in bed, and metaphorically the same process begins for me.

A Day of Golf: A Day of Rest

And so a day off:   It has certainly been a tough week and I am definitely ready for a little me time.

So, what happens?  I wake at four thirty in the morning, which is extremely annoying.  I doze on and off but the damage is done.  I sit in my bed and write the blog, until six o’clock comes round, and then I dress to go and fetch a cup of coffee from the lobby.

As it is a performance-free day I also take the opportunity of having the frock coat and waistcoat that I did not clean in Hershey, dry cleaned.

After I have finished my coffee I have a shower and re-dress, ready for breakfast.

The Regency Room is a restaurant once more, and the area where I performed twelve hours ago is now surrounded by marble topped buffet stations.  It is strange to look at it now, with the memories of a packed room echoing with laughter and clapping so fresh in my mind

Leroy (surely he must live in this restaurant), shows me to a seat by the window, where I have a gorgeous view of the hotel’s golf course.  It is a bright, cold morning and the frost is sparkling on the greens.

My waiter for breakfast is Emmanuel, whom I have known for many years.  It is remarkable how The Williamsburg Inn holds onto its personnel, and presumably that is a testament to the way they treat their employees.

Emmanuel is originally from Jamaica and we chat a bit about cricket.  I think that we should arrange a double-header sports event here, where the Revolutionary War was conceived and planned, the USA vs Great Britain: one cricket match and one baseball match.

My breakfast begins with the best of intentions and I have a plate of fruit, followed by some cheese, ham and croissant.  However, the siren call of the pancakes and syrup is too enticing and I give into temptation.

As I leave the restaurant I say goodbye to Leroy, as I’m not sure if I am going to be at breakfast tomorrow morning, and return to the Queen’s Suite for the last time.

I have already packed my bags, and take them down to the front desk to discover where I am to be relocated to.  My new room is at the far end of the hotel and, although not a regal suite, is just as luxurious and much more suitable for a man travelling alone.

I leave my bags and then get ready for my day’s activity: golf.  At last the golf shoes that I have trailed around the United States; the golf shoes that I was going to use in Omaha; the golf shoes that I was going to use in Wilmington, are actually going to see some action.

Williamsburg is the home of The Golden Horseshoe Golf Club, which comprises three different courses.  Unfortunately the Gold Course, which is the one I was admiring at breakfast, is not open today, but the Green Course is only a mile away and equally as impressive.

I leave the hotel in plenty of time to get registered and fitted out with rental clubs.  The heavy frost has delayed the opening of the course, so there is a bit of waiting around until I can get out to play.

A frosty start

I buy plenty of balls, a glove, a cap, a pitch mark repair tool and a yardage book for the course.  Unfortunately my UK bank card doesn’t work, which is frustrating.  Almost at the moment that the card is handed back to me it my phone rings:  it is my UK bank’s fraud department checking that I am in fact in Virginia.  Very impressive.

I had originally assumed that I would be playing alone but the pro shop has paired me up with a local player and I am introduced to Jack who, although not a member, plays the course often.  It will be good to have a bit of local knowledge but I hope my very rusty game does not embarrass me.

At nine o’clock the practice range is opened and we can go and hit a few balls.  I am very relieved that most of the shots are fairly decent.

Waiting to play

As I am standing with an 8-iron in hand, concentrating on not swinging back to fast or too far, I am aware of somebody standing close behind me.  I keep my mind on the shot and execute a fairly passable swing, sending the ball some one hundred and thirty yards down the range.

‘Mr Dickens?’

I answer in the affirmative.

‘My name is Glen Byrnes and I am the Director of Golf here at The Golden Horseshoe.  I heard you were coming today and I wanted to say thank you for all you do at Williamsburg.  It is a pleasure to have you here.’

Jack (my playing partner), looks at me with a degree of surprise.

Glen goes on to offer to have a special bag tag made up for me, so that I will always be reminded of my day’s golf at Williamsburg.  Realising that Jack is going to be playing with me, Glen offers to have a tag made up for him too.  Jack is now definitely impressed by his playing partner.

The warm sun is starting to have an effect and the course is starting to come alive.  At ten twenty we are ready to go.  Just before we tee off, the official starter informs us that a third player, Tom, is going to join us.  We all shake hands and introduce ourselves and then look down the course, wondering what the next few hours hold in store.

I won’t give you a shot by shot account of the round but it is my usual cocktail of some fantastic shots, mixed in with an unhealthy slug of blooming awful ones.

I am very glad that I have Jack with me, as there are no signs on the course directing the way to the next tees and I would definitely have got lost on many occasions.

It is a perfect way to relax and despite the appallingly high score that I am amassing, I love being in the crisp air, beneath the blue sky, in the good company of two men who don’t mention Charles Dickens once.

Away from it all

Jack and Tom approach the green

The last hole is a long straight par five and my third shot is one of my best of the day.  It is a satisfying way to finish.

I shake hands with Tom and Jack and after returning my golf cart, I drive back to the hotel.

I spend the rest of the afternoon watching television and checking emails.  I am horrified to get one from Pam telling me that I had missed an interview this morning at eight forty-five.

In my joy at having a day off I had completely shut off all thoughts of the tour and completely forgot that I had a call coming in.  Fortunately Pam is able to re-schedule it for Saturday afternoon, which is a relief.

At seven I walk through the long corridor to the bar, where I sit chatting to the bar tender, Mark.  He is great company and asks after Liz and Cameron who came here for Christmas some three years ago.  He even remembers that Cameron supports Arsenal football club.

I order a chicken dish, which is delicious.  Last night I really couldn’t enjoy the food, as I had the show to think of, so it is nice to be able to eat slowly and savour Chef Brust’s beautiful flavours.

Watching Mark at work behind the bar is amazing.  He is constantly on the move, mixing cocktails for the restaurant, as well as his own customers, but he is always able to have a conversation with everyone, as if he has known them for years.

At one point he throws out an open question:  favourite and least favourite Christmas song?.  The choice of best is varied, and I plump for Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song.  However there is a clear winner in the least favourite category: Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.

Once dinner is finished I return to my room.   My dry cleaning is hanging in the wardrobe, so I add the frock coat and waistcoat to my cases, which have not been unpacked since this morning, and get ready for bed.

As ever Williamsburg has been good to me and it will be a shame to leave this luxurious life.  Tomorrow morning, however, I will be back on the road driving to Richmond and then flying north again, towards the final two days of my USA tour.

A Right Royal Party

Firstly, congratulations dear readers:  The blog posted on Tuesday (Plenty of Beer), received more views than any other I have written.  Obviously my laundry and breakfast habits are more interesting than I could ever have imaged!

Meanwhile, in a hotel near Occoquan….

In essence today is a copy of yesterday, in that I need to leave fairly early for a two and a half hour drive, which will be followed by two performances.  The only slight difference is that yesterday I left an elegant historic hotel and slept in a Hampton Inn, whereas today I am leaving the Hampton Inn and will sleep in an elegant Historic hotel.

I go to the lobby for breakfast and have the obligatory waffle.  While I am sat, a couple arrive for their breakfast and, as they have plenty of bags, it looks as if they are checking out too.

There follows a conversation that Harold Pinter would have been proud to put in one of his plays.  There is nothing witty about it; neither is it particularly profound.  What makes the exchange striking is its sheer normalness.

Here’s how Pinter may have recorded it:

‘Act 1: Morning. The scene:  a motel breakfast room.  Two characters enter: a man and a woman. They are dressed casually in jeans.  He wears a hat.  They appear to be together.  They carry bags which may have Christmas gifts within.

Together they approach the table where a coffee urn is set.  They fill their cups.  She looks at a box containing assorted tea bags. She looks at him.

A pause.

F: ‘Do you drink tea?’

He pauses.

M: ‘No.’

F: ‘I don’t either.’

She pauses.  He sips his coffee while she studies the tea bags further.

F:  ‘I drink Ice tea.’

He looks at her.  A pause.

M: ‘Ice tea, yes.’ A pause. ‘Not hot tea’

F: ‘Not hot tea, no.’

The more I think about this conversation the more questions it raises.  If they are a couple, as they appear to be, they would know about each other’s tea drinking habits.  The bags and their general manner do not suggest some illicit wild love affair and they certainly don’t have the appearance of work colleagues travelling together.  So, who are they?  Where are they going and where have they been?

Anyway, whatever their background, they eat a quick breakfast and leave the motel to continue their story, whatever it is, without me eavesdropping.

Moments like that can be fascinating when you are travelling on the road alone.  I’m sure that I have been the subject of such scrutiny by various people along the way.

After breakfast I pack my bags and get onto the road, having filled up the car with fuel.  My route takes me south on the I 95 to Williamsburg.

I decide to entertain myself by trying to spot licence plates from as many different states as I can.  Obviously Virginia and Maryland are popular, but little by little my collection increases.

You would not believe the sheer joy I feel when I spot ‘Indiana’ or ‘Delaware’, or some such.

By the time I reach Williamsburg I have collected 22 different states and as I pull into the car park I spy ‘Ohio’ to add one more.  I think that’s quite impressive.  If I could have seen California, Nebraska, Missouri and New Hampshire, I would have had a full house of States visited on this tour, bad sadly those four eluded me.

The Williamsburg Inn is magnificent; there is no other word for it.  The building is a mansion and sits at the head of its very own sweeping, circular drive.  The portico is four stories high, and is supported by four pillars, each decorated by white Christmas lights.  Southern charm exudes from every white brick.

Inside the elegance continues.  A tastefully decorated Christmas tree sits opposite the main door, and the lobby is filled with antique furniture.  To the left a fire burns in a grate.  Behind the tree there are windows which allow the hall to be filled with natural light.

The main reception desk is tucked away in a separate room to the right, so as not to sully the ambience with the distasteful business of checking in or out.

I am greeted as soon as I walk in: ‘Welcome home Mr Dickens’

Apparently there has been some confusion over the actual dates of my stay.  The hotel had expected me to arrive last night, and to check out on Thursday, whereas my schedule has me checking in today and remaining here until Friday.  The issue is swiftly and quietly dealt with and I am soon given the keys to room 3269: The Queen’s Suite.

Oh yes!  As last year I am being treated, literally, like Royalty.  The suite is magnificent, with four different rooms, each of which is larger than any hotel room I’ve enjoyed on the trip so far.

Part of the Queen’s Suite

The bathroom boasts his ‘n’ her wash basins (for Queen Liz and Prince Phil), and a big, deep bathtub.

In the wardrobe I discover a new amenity that I have not realised was essential in a hotel room before, and that is a shoehorn.

Essential in any room: my shoehorn

However, what the Queen’s Suite at The Williamsburg Inn does not boast is a coffee machine, Keurig or other.  I suppose that the Queen has a little man to fetch her morning pick-me-up.

I call room service and order a burger for lunch and get my things ready for the shows.

As I wait for my lunch I check emails and am interested to see that there is one from Katherine Desinger at the Farleigh Dickinson University in New Jersey.  She has thoughtfully forwarded some of the feedback from the audience at our event.

You may have gathered during some of my posts, that actors are a delicate, insecure bunch, and never was that more apparent than now.

There are thirty two comments and spread through thirty one of them are words such as: ‘Superb; captivating; animated; excellent; professional and entertaining; magical; great’ and so on.  But amongst all of the fulsome praise is one negative comment and of course that is the only one I will remember:

“I found Gerald’s rendition of Scrooge’s voice quite annoying and irritating. Gerald’s interpretation of how Scrooge would sound was grating on my nerves the entire evening. With regard to the other character’s voices, I think Gerald did a nice job.

However, being that Scrooge is the main character that voice rendition put a significant damper on things for me throughout the presentation. Should this event be offered once again in the future, I would not attend. “

Oh dear!  Although, in my defence, when Dickens describes Scrooge, he does say that the cold within him ‘spoke out  shrewdly in his grating voice’, so the fact that the writer of the comment uses the word ‘grates’ is a sort of compliment.  But it hurts, nonetheless.

After I have eaten I go down the sweeping staircase, resisting the temptation to wave to my subjects, and head for the Regency Room, the hotel’s signature dining room.

The Regency Room

I am greeted by Michele DeRosa, who is responsible for booking me and running the events at the Inn.  She is terribly apologetic but has to tell me that the Queen’s Suite is only free for one day (as they thought I was arriving yesterday and hadn’t expected me to take up residence for the extra day), so I am going to have to move room tomorrow morning.

I don’t mind at all, of course.  It is lovely to be in the suite even for one day, and there is no bad room here, they all have the same degree of luxury.

The Regency Room is laid out for the tea and one look tells me that it is a sell-out event.  White-jacketed waiters are making sure that each table is properly laid, and that water glasses are filled.  The whole operation, I am delighted to see, is under the military control of Leroy.

I have worked with Leroy for many years and was dismayed when he told me last year that he would be retiring, but here he is, still commanding his troops.

As I am being wired up to do a sound check, another old friend arrives: Ryan Fletcher, who has introduced me at every one of my events at Williamsburg.  Ryan is an opera singer, who teaches at William and Mary College.  We have always got on well and exchange a big hug of welcome, which almost crushes my ribcage!

We chat and catch up for a while and then I go back to my room to change.

By the time I get back down, the seating has already begun and there is a fine array of Christmas sweaters and ties on display.  I stand with Michele and Leroy at the top of the stairs which lead into the Regency Room, and greet the guests as they arrive.  One young girl hands me a bag with a wrapped gift in it:  a large tin of chocolate covered peanuts.  People are really so kind, and I am very humbled.

When everyone is seated, Leroy gives Ryan the nod and the event begins.

Ryan and Michele check the time, while Leroy takes control

The atmosphere in The Regency Room is always amazing.  My performance space is the dance floor in the centre, but I try to roam among the tables whenever I can, to include those guests sat at the sides of the room.

Everyone joins in and laughs at the appropriate moments, and the hardly-stifled giggles as Mrs Cratchit prepares to fetch her pudding, tell me that a lot of people have seen the show many times before.

As I get towards the end I move a small table to centre stage, to represent Cratchit’s desk.  There is a large hand bell on it (I used to use a bell here, and the staff have put it on the stage in case I need it).  During the very last lines of the show I place Scrooge’s top hat on the table too, and suddenly realise that Scrooge has been linguistically reunited with his ex fiancé, Belle.  It is a rather sweet moment, and I actually start to well up.

The show runs its course and I take my bows as the audience stands.  I hope Scrooge’s voice wasn’t too irritating, though.

As my suite is very close to the main hallway, where I will be signing, it is easy to run upstairs and change costume.  When I come down there is a goodly line and I start the pleasurable experience of signing, and talking about the show.

As the line gets near its end a few people who are arriving for the evening show start to come to the table.  Among them are two ladies, who turn out to be mother and daughter.

They explain that Starr, the mother, has been trying to come to the show for three years and has actually had tickets for the last two, but last-minute medical issues have prevented her from being able to attend.  At last, this year, she has made it and is quite overawed.

She is clutching a Christmas box, and hands it to me saying, almost in tears, that she has made this for me.

It is the most beautifully designed and stitched sampler, in the Victorian style, featuring three quotes from A Christmas Carol.  So much thought and effort has gone into the piece.

A printed label on the back explains the history of samplers and points out that they often featured spelling mistakes.  This one is perfect: even the word ‘honour’ is spelled correctly!

I am dumb-struck at Starr’s creativity and generosity.

Starr’s sampler

I have an hour or so in my room, before the evening event gets under way, so I make use of the bathtub.  I just lay, letting the hot water soak my aching limbs.  It feels very luxurious.  I wonder if the Queen had a bath here too.

Suitably relaxed and cleansed, I am soon getting back into my costume.

The lobby and bar are already busy with guests for the dinner event.  I go straight to the Regency Room to check everything is OK.

In past years I used to perform each chapter between the courses at dinner, as at Hershey but we made a change last year and now I wait until dessert is served, before starting a  complete run of the script.  It is easier for me and easier for the kitchen staff.

I am seated at a table with Ryan and his wife Jeanne, as well as Carol Godwin, Christine Vincent and her husband Erich.  This is a great table, as it represents the original Williamsburg team.  Ryan has been present at all of my shows, Carol was in charge of PR when I first visited, whilst Christine worked in the events department and always looked after me during my stays here.  There is a lot of nostalgia, and plenty of anecdotes around the table.

Also in the audience, sat just a few tables away, are Stephen Kirkland and his wife Sarah-Jane.  Those of you who have been following the blog from the start of the tour will remember that I worked with Stephen for a day to promote his event in Norfolk, Virginia: The Dickens Christmas Towne.

I greet Stephen and Sarah-Jane and chat about how successful Christmas Towne has been: Stephen is confident that they will top 10,000 visitors during the coming weekend.  I am very glad for him as it is the result of a long held dream and back in November nobody had any idea if it would actually work.

Dinner is served, which is a thick crabmeat soup, followed by the tenderest beef you have ever tasted.  The hum of conversation in the room tells its own story, and everyone is having a most enjoyable evening.

At eight fifteen Ryan once more gets the nod from Leroy and the reminiscing with Carol and Christine must stop.

Once again it is a pleasure to play the room, and  the audience once more become part of the story.  I have placed Starr’s sampler on the set, and make sure that I include her in part of the show.

Poor Sarah-Jane Kirkland was earmarked from the beginning of the evening to be the object of Topper’s flirtatious advances, and she blushes perfectly on cue.

I am wearing the nicer of my two frock coats this evening, but it is also the heavier one, and I am building up quite a sweat as I move around the room.

‘And, as Tiny Tim Observed: God Bless Us, Every One.’

The applause and ovation are wonderful and I make my bows to all corners of the room.

The change of costume now is a necessity rather than a luxury, and I take a few minutes in my room to gather myself, before going back to the lobby where a long line is waiting.

Everyone is happy, and there is definitely a Christmas spirit in the air.

When the last of the guests have donned their coats and left the hotel, or returned to their rooms, I make for the bar where Carol, Christine and Erich are waiting (Ryan and Jeanne had to leave straight after dinner).

Over dinner Ryan suggested, as he does every year, that I should be performing this in The Whitehouse.  Carol has decided that this is a superb idea and is putting her marketing brain to work on the problem.  She picks my brains about Dickens’s visit to DC and where she can read about it.

It is an interesting thought: could Topper sidle up to the first lady and purr into her ear: ‘Hellloooo’.  Probably not, without being shot.

As we chat I can feel the energy draining away from me.  I have performed fifteen times in eight days and it has been an exhausting period.  Tomorrow I have a complete day off, surrounded by the delights of Williamsburg, before heading into the final two days of the tour.

Everyone is ready to leave and I hug my good byes to Carol, Christine and Erich, before returning to my palatial suite and falling asleep between the Queen’s sheets.

What a Difference a Day Makes

It’s back in the road today after my lovely luxury stay at Hershey.   I have the alarm set early and have my cases packed and blog written in good time.

I take the bag containing all of my beer to the car and as soon as I walk through the main hotel doors I am hit by a stimulating wall of icy morning air.  Straight away I realise that what I should have done yesterday was walk, rather than staying in the hotel.  A brisk hike around the trails which surround the property would have energised me and probably led to a better performance last night.

There is ice on the car but it feels as if the road surfaces are perfectly good, so I don’t think that the weather will affect my drive this morning.

With the first load safely in the car I return to the hotel, and breakfast.  The Circular Dining Room is completely deserted and I am seated at a table by the windows, where coffee and grapefruit juice are served to me.  I decide to have a continental breakfast this morning, and start it with a warming bowl of porridge, sprinkled with brown sugar.

I am returning to the buffet to get a plate of fruit and some pastries, when who should appear but David and Teresa.  We all sit together and pick up on our conversations from last night.

At one point David suggests that there should be a conference for actors who perform one man shows, as he has so enjoyed talking to someone in the same field.  It’s a fun idea, but I think there would have to be a therapist on hand, as we’d all watch each other’s shows and think: ‘Oh, he’s so much better than me, I can’t do as good a job as that!’

Sadly I have to curtail our chat as I need to be on the road by eight.  I am probably leaving too early, but I have the roads around Washington DC to negotiate and they can be truly awful.

I go back to the room and collect my cases, before checking out.

I start the car engine to generate some heat and as I scrape the ice from the windows there is a mournful whistle from a passing train: if I had to chose one sound that evokes America, it would be that.

Once in the car I turn on the heated seats, set the SatNav,  rig up my Heath Robinson music system, and hit the road.

In Car Entertainment

Today I am listening to Simon and Garfunkle’s Greates Hits.  We used to have the old vinyl album at home when I was a child and I am amazed at how familiar it still is, all these years on.

Of course there are the famous songs: Sound of Silence, The Boxer, The 59^th Bridge Street Song and Bridge Over Troubled Water; but I love hearing the ones that I have forgotten about: For Emily, Wherever I may Find Her, Cecilia (which I thought very naughty and racy when I was growing up), Bookends, El Condor Pasa, and the beautiful arrangement of Scarborough Fair/Canticle.

It is a lovely wallow in nostalgia.

The traffic is very light until I get to about fifty miles from DC, at which point it turns into a steady, slow crawl.  I’m glad that I had left so much time this morning.

At one point there is a complicated intersection, and a sign proclaims: ‘Keep Right for Democracy  Blvd’.  Well, that doesn’t seem very democratic: surely I should be given the choice to keep left also?

The traffic edges it’s way around the City and towards Arlington, before I am released onto the I 95, heading South.

My destination today is Occoquan, a small town on the outskirts of DC.  I will be performing two shows today and my sound check isn’t until one o’clock, so I drive to my hotel where I am able to check in.

I potter, in a fairly lazy way, and get my costumes sorted out.

At ten minutes to one I load the car up again and drive into the centre of town.  My day will be split between two venues.  The show is organised by The Golden Goose Christmas store: a wonderful Aladdin’s cave of a shop.  But the show itself is a block away in the tiny Ebenezer Chappell.   I park outside the latter building and am horrified to see the audience piling in.  LaVerne Carson, one of the owners of the Golden Goose, is standing out the door handing out programmes and greeting everyone.

Surely I have got the time wrong?  I was certain that the show was at Two, but by the looks of it they are ready to get going imminently.  LaVerne greets me and reassures me that there is indeed still an hour to go before show time: they are just a very keen audience.

I take my things to the store, where I am greeted by Pat, the other owner, and the rest of the staff.  I am sat in the back office and a sandwich is bought for me.

Every spare space in the building is used as a stock room, and as I eat I am surrounded by curiously labelled boxes: ‘Skiers: boy/girl’; ‘Woman golfer. Blk shirt. Red shirt. Blue shirt’; ‘Young Hockey Player Tween’; and, somewhat alarmingly: ‘#29 Dickens Family’.

Starting to doubt my family background

Lunch finished I stroll around the shop for a while, admiring the magnificent displays, before retiring to the rest room to change into costume.  Even in here there are shelves stocked high.

It is one fifty as I arrive at Ebenezer and the buzz of excitement is very loud.  There is a large contingent of ladies from the Red Hat Society, who are always good fun and I think that this show will be a perfect antidote to my disappointment of last night.

Tommy entertains the Red Hat Brigade

LaVerne makes a lovely introduction, finishing off with a quote originally made about Charles Dickens himself: ‘A whole theatre under one hat’.

I am greeted by very warm applause.

I am careful with the show and start slowly.  I really want to regain my confidence and rebuild it from the bottom up.  The audience is wonderful and soon I am back in full flight.  All of the emotions work and I am very pleased with the whole performance.

The warmth that greeted me when I started is replicated as the audience leaves.  I am stood at the door and everyone wishes me ‘Merry Christmas’ and shakes me by the hand.  The amount of people who greet me with a declaration of how many times they have watched the show is quite amazing and very moving.

When the audience has left LaVerne and I walk back to the shop where the signing session is held.  I am greeted at the door by Brittney and we manoeuvre our way past the long queue, into a small room at the back, where my table is set up.

There is a photographer from a local magazine set up and he takes lots of pictures as I meet, greet and sign.

The session lasts exactly an hour and I finish by signing a few pre-ordered bits and bobs for the store itself.

With Brittney, Tommy and Joe

The photographer is packing up his equipment and asks me if I travel in France at all?  ‘Not much’, I reply.  ‘You never get to La Sarthe and the twenty four hours?’ and suddenly a shared passion for motor racing is discovered as we chat about the various events he has attended at Le Mans.

When we have finished talking, I go back to the rest/stock room to change back into ‘normal’ clothes.

There is just time between the shows for dinner and I am taken to the restaurant by Joe, Jean and Michael, who have entertained me in the same way for the last few years.

Jean is an avid fan of all British TV and is keen to pick my brains about the new season of Downton Abbey, about which I know very little, as I’ve been travelling during its run.  I am able to tell her about the exhibition at Winterthur, however.

Our conversation moves on to Doc Martin, via Morse/Lewis and Endeavour.

The food arrives and it is truly delicious.  I have a bowl of pasta, with medallions of Filet Mignon in a lime-based sauce.  Yum. Truly Yum.

Soon it is five thirty and I have to get back to the store to change once again.

The audience has gathered early (in fact many of them gate-crashed the first show’s signing session and have been sat patiently ever since.)

LaVerne’s nephew Tommy is entertaining them on the keyboard, playing a selection of Christmas Carols and the mood is suitably festive.

The second show is another good one.  I go up one gear and everything is still working well.  There are a lot of students in the crowd and once they realise that the programme is not a stuffy reading, and that they are able to laugh and join in, they fully embrace the whole experience.

At the end, the hand shaking is repeated and one family, who have seen the show many times, and listen to my CD version over and over, stay to chat.  The two daughters listen to the CD so much that their parents think that they could probably recite it from memory now.

Back at the store and there is hardly anyone in the signing line.  Most of the audience had things signed this afternoon and have already met and thanked me at the door of the Church, so have gone straight to their cars and home.

It is a nice early finish, and I am able to change and get my things gathered up by eight thirty.  I say my good-byes to Pat and Laverne.

I have been coming to The Golden Goose for as long as I have been touring and Pat and LaVerne always put on a great show.  More than that they, and all of their staff, are generous, hospitable, and genuinely good people.  I always enjoy my Golden Goose day.

Back at the hotel I get a couple of loads of washing into the machine and then relax for the evening.

Tomorrow there is another drive and two more shows, but I feel much more comfortable about the performances than I did twenty four hours ago.

What a difference a day makes.

Plenty of Beer

Today I have the luxury of a long, lazy morning in the luxury of the Hotel Hershey.  As yesterday, I have a tea at three forty-five and a dinner at seven thirty.

I have decided to take the opportunity of an almost free day to have one of my frock coats and one of my waistcoats freshened up.  The costumes take quite a battering during the trip and it is rare to spend more than a single day at a venue.   I bundle them up in the laundry bag and take them down to the lobby.

And now to breakfast.  Regular readers will know how much I enjoy my breakfasts, and the offering at Hershey is always remarkable.  The Circular Dining Room is a beautiful restaurant and it is laid out with an amazing buffet.  I could order from the menu, but there is so much choice spread out before me, that I decide to dive straight in.

Porridge, scrambled eggs, thick country ham, croissant and jam all serve their purpose well, and I feel very replete as I leave.

I work away for an hour, or so, on the blog and have the finished article posted by nine forty-five, which suits my plans perfectly.  When I had been in the lobby earlier I happened to notice a little printed sign saying: ‘Guided Tour of the Hotel.  10.00 in the lobby.’  Why not?  I have the morning free and I’m sure that it will be interesting.

The group is made up of a father, his two young sons, and me.  We are under the stewardship of Alfred, who has worked at the hotel in one guise or another since he was fifteen.  He started out as  a bus boy, then left for a career in teaching, before coming back to the hotel after his retirement.

Alfred tells his tale

We all sit in the lobby as he tells us about the Milton Hershey story, and how the hotel was built entirely from local labour during the great depression.  The employment that the project brought was vital to the area.

We go to the Fountain Lobby (my tea venue) and I am amazed that it has not changed in its appearance since it was originally built in 1934.  Hershey had travelled extensively in Europe and North Africa and wanted to reflect the Moorish architecture within his hotel.

We see the Milton Hershey Suite ($2,000 per night), where there is a cheque from Hershey written to the White Star Line for a ticket to return to America on board the Titanic.  Fortunately Hershey had to change his plans at the very last minute and never boarded the ill-fated liner.

At this point the father and the young boys have to depart, so the rest of the tour is a private one.

In the Circular Dining Room Alfred points out a mural on the ceiling:  It shows a wrought iron structure with a plant’s stem wrapped around it.  The artist was responsible for similar displays throughout the hotel and he left his own peculiar signature in each piece.  Somewhere in every scene is Bigfoot, lumbering forward.

The mural

Bigfoot

The tour lasts for an hour and thirty minutes and is fascinating.  I’m very glad that I got to see it all and to learn so much more about the man who made his dream a reality.

Back in my room I devote the rest of the morning to admin work.  Ticket requests are coming in thick and fast for my performance back home in Abingdon, and I trawl through emails and telephone requests to make sure that I am fully on top of the situation.

Despite this lazy morning, I am feeling rather tired, as I usually do on my second Hershey day,  I don’t know if it is the air conditioning here, or purely where the events lay in the tour, but it is always an effort to get going on day two.

As the start-time for the tea show nears, I get into costume, and go to the Fountain Lobby.  There is a different team on today and I am working with a new sound engineer.  I warn him that I tend to project quite loudly, so to start with the level low and build up.  ‘Yes, that’s good,’  he says, presumably wondering why I’m telling him how to do his job.

The crowd is very large, and moving between the closely-packed tables is going to be difficult, but I walk around the mezzanine level looking down upon the diners, and chart our possible routes.

I am delighted to see that one of my biggest fans is here: Derek is six and has been coming to my shows at Hershey with his grandparents for the last few years.  He loves the show and gets completely wrapped up in it.

As I am waiting to start Derek and his grandmother come to say hello.  She is carrying a very heavy looking bag.  ‘Oh my,’ she says, ‘this bag is very heavy.’  Aha, I‘d been correct.

I assume that it is a large amount of books to be signed, until she says: ‘We wanted to give you something to say thank you for all that you do for us and for being so generous with your time’:  she opens the bag to reveal eighteen bottles of beer (six lager, six porter and six ale).

How wonderful of them and how generous and thoughtful.  Equally thoughtfully she says: ‘if you can’t travel with them then I hope that you take joy from giving them to someone else as a gift’  I do not have to fly for another three days, so nobody else is going to benefit from my generosity quite yet!

Plenty of Beer

I am given the nod to begin and walk out into the centre of the lobby.  ‘Good afternoon ladies and gentleman.  The sound is set too high and my voice booms and distorts around the lobby.  Quickly my techie adjusts it and the levels settle down.

The show starts and the audience is very good.  I fuss over Derek’s family, making his grandmother the Ghost of Christmas Present (who of course presides over the visit to Fezziwig’s where there is ‘plenty of beer’).

I also make Derek himself the young boy on Christmas Morning, which he adores, as do the rest of the audience.

The response to the show is wonderful and there is another standing ovation in the lobby.

After a great meet and greet session, I return to my room and flop onto the bed.  I have just over an hour between shows and I am feeling very drained.

I watch TV and rehearse Scrooge’s snoring scenes (so much so that I keep waking myself up), before showering, dressing and taking myself to the Castilian Room to prepare for tonight’s dinner.

It is a much smaller audience tonight, which will be good for my voice but not good for the atmosphere in the room.  The stage and tables seem to be rather remote and lonely.

I do a sound check (‘I’m sorry about this afternoon’s sound.  I know you told me that you would project, but I hadn’t realised how much!’), and then wait for the audience to gather.

Tonight I am seated with my dear friends David Keltz and his wife Teresa.  David is an actor who portrays Poe and we always have a great time together.  Each year Teresa and David try to visit me somewhere on the tour and it is usually here at Hershey.  I spy them waiting outside the room and go to greet them.  Big hugs all round.

At seven o’clock the audience is seated, orders are taken and the evening begins.  I’m not really on good form at all tonight.  For the first time on this year’s tour I am straining for the performance, and can feel the pain of tension around my temples.

Usually I am able to calm everything down but for some reason tonight everything seems to be an effort.  The small amount of people spread through the room doesn’t help with the atmosphere, but it is me that is not doing well and I can’t blame anything else

The evening moves on and the service by the staff is superb. At table eight the conversation is wonderful  We talk about theatre mainly and about the joys of performing one man shows.

Once dessert has been laid I get up to do the final two chapters of the book and it is here that things start to come back together.  The emotion of Bob Cratchit is good and the despair of Scrooge pleading with the Ghost of Christmas yet to Come is powerful.

I bring the evening to a close with the customary toast to the season.

Almost everyone in the audience comes up to me to thank me and shake my hand.  Many who have seen me before say it is the best they’ve seen.  That is very kind!  I was not happy with the show, but maybe my standards are higher than they used to be.

As last night we have made good time and I make a point of thanking the banquet staff for their amazing service over the two nights.

I go back to my room to change before meeting David and Teresa in the main hotel bar, where we sit for a further hour, chatting about re-incarnation, the probability of life elsewhere in the cosmos and the life and death of Tommy Cooper (an English comedian who died in the middle of his act on live television.  As he collapsed, everyone in the audience thought it was part of the act and roared with laughter – the last sound he heard.  What a way to go)

With David and Teresa

Soon it is time to part, as I have a fairly early start tomorrow.  I say goodbye to my friends and we all promise to meet up again soon.

In my room I set the alarm for six o’clock and let myself drift off to sleep.

Starting the Final Leg

Today definitely feels as if one part of the tour has ended and another, the final stage, is beginning. Geographically it is not a big journey today, but emotionally it is a big leap.

I have agreed to meet Bob for breakfast this morning, which will be fun.  I write as much of the blog as time allows, before showering and going to the restaurant for eight thirty.

Bob is already sat at a table nursing a cup of coffee, and he looks as tired as I feel: It has been a very hectic few days for him and the whole team at Byers’ Choice.

I join him, and we spend a very chatty hour over breakfast, during which the coffee cups are replenished by the attentive Joseph Ambler staff, on a regular basis.

This is a time during which we can talk about the tour: what has worked and what we can do better, and also next year’s itinerary too.  It is probably the nearest thing I ever get to a business breakfast, and it feels very grown up.

We also talk about the possibility of Pam and Bob visiting us in Oxford next summer, which would be fabulous.

We finally sip the last of our coffees and say goodbye.  I return to my room to finish the blog, which seems to be a very long one.

I had planned to be on the road by ten thirty, but the writing keeps me in the room until eleven.  I pack in a very hurried and haphazard way, which rather offends my love of a neat, ordered suitcase.

The staircase at the Ambler Inn is very narrow and steep, so I make two journeys to get my cases down.  There is a very tame squirrel outside the door, who watches me curiously as I appear, disappear and reappear with my various pieces of luggage.

Whilst yesterday was grey, misty and wet, today is clear, cold and sparkling, which will make for a lovely drive across the Pennsylvanian countryside to Hershey.

The SatNav tells me that I will arrive shortly before 1pm, which is perfect, and I settle in to the journey.

One of the nice things about writing a blog is that I make sure to look at everything along the way.  I look at street names, advertisements, the behaviour of other drivers and so on.  On today’s journey I keep seeing things of interest, before realising that I wrote about them on the corresponding day last year.

I pass a sign to Dry Tavern Road, which apparently leads to the community of Dry Tavern, which has a population of around six hundred.  If their tavern is indeed dry, I’m not surprised that so few chose to stay there.

At one point of the journey a car comes the other way flashing his headlights continually.  I don’t speak American Road language well, but the British translation for a car doing the same would be: ‘slow down, there is a traffic cop around the next corner.’  I instinctively slow down, just in case, and am delighted to discover that the brotherhood of the road transcends national boundaries; for, sure enough, there is a cop.  He is probably very confused as to why all of the traffic is passing him at precisely 54 mph.

I turn off the main turnpike to join highway 322 and pass a site where wrecked cars are scrapped.  There is something mournful about the yard, the more so as it is terraced, almost landscaped.  Each car stands on its own lot and the whole place looks like an automobile cemetery.  In most cases the damage is so severe that I am sure the analogy goes further:  I would imagine that each car does stand as a monument to a soul lost.

I drive on, with a renewed level of awareness and concentration.

Soon I know that I am nearing the town of Hershey, as I pass a sign to ‘East Chocolate Avenue’.

The Hotel Hershey is one of my longest standing bookings: I think that I have been coming here for fourteen or fifteen years now.  I navigate my way up to the beautiful twin-towered hotel, which stands proudly overlooking the town.

Overlooking Hershey

The lobby is busy and noisy, as it always is.  Families are checking out and carts laden high with cases, bags and souvenirs are being pushed by cheerful bellman.

As I walk in I am greeted from various corners of the lobby: ‘Hey Mr Dickens, great to see you?’; ‘Can I help you with those bags Mr Dickens?’; ‘Is it really a year?  Wow good to have you back!’

The girl at the front desk is equally effusive and welcomes me like an old friend. ‘You must forgive me, but remind me do you prefer milk or dark chocolate?’

I go to my room and am settling in when my US cell phone rings.  It is Bob saying that the folks at Hershey have called him and are worried about me, as I haven’t arrived.  I tell him that I am actually in the hotel, in the room and about to have a sound check.  Presumably word has not filtered into the corporate offices from the front desk.

I make my way to the Fountain Lobby where tables are being laid out for my tea event.

Throughout the tour my show develops.  With each performance it changes in little ways, as I try new movements, or subtly alter the pacing of a scene.  Here in Hershey I have to forget all of that.

The Fountain Lobby is a beautiful covered ‘courtyard’ furnished in a hacienda-style.  The floor is tiled and there is a fountain in the centre.  At one end of the room windows look out across the town of Herhsey.  All of this is very beautiful, but it makes performing very difficult.

Because the guests are seated all around the space, I can’t focus the show in a particular spot and I have to keep moving.  In the same way I can’t leave long pauses, as I might on a stage, for some guests might think I’ve left altogether.  In a way I have to treat the whole show as an audio presentation, rather than a theatrical one.

The beautiful weather is not helping either, for the sun is streaming straight into the eyes of guests, meaning that I will be completely invisible to them when I’m at that end of the room.

The Fountain Lobby

However, I have been coming here for fifteen years and they keep inviting me back, so it must be working!

I do a brief sound check and the system sounds good, albeit a little echoey, but that should improve when people are seated and all of their winter coats can soak up the sound.

Ready for the sound check

I go back to my room and have a bit of a rest until my performance at three thirty, or thereabouts.

When I return to the lobby the guests have already arrived and are tucking into sandwiches, scones and cakes.  The superb Hershey servers are almost floating surreptitiously around the floor, topping up hot water and clearing plates.

When the final plates of goodies have been set it is time to start.  For some reason they never have anyone to introduce me here, so it is simply a matter of marching into the centre of the room and beginning.

Once more I remind myself, to forget all of the theatrical experiences on the trip:  this is a different group, in a different setting.  They will not respond in the same way.

As I begin I try to gauge how the audience are reacting.  At one end of the room (near to the large windows), there is a group of ladies spread across three tables.  They are in good spirits and laugh a great deal.  It is very difficult not to play just to them, but I make myself continue to sweep the room.

Working the room

The script for a show like this is shorter than the full theatre one.  The charity collector doesn’t appear in the opening scene, and therefore not at the end either; and Scrooge doesn’t ask ‘are there no prisons? Are the workhouses still in operation?, which means that the Ghost of Christmas present does not repeat the question to him later.

The Carol singer does not sing at Scrooge’s door on Christmas Eve and so Scrooge never remembers him, saying ‘I should just like to have given him a little something.’

But the story still shines through and the guests are listening intently.

I get to the end and actually get a standing ovation, which is far from the norm in the Fountain Lobby.

There is a table set up for my signing and lots of people have brought books with them.  Many have seen me before: some here, some in DC, some in other areas of the country and many memories are shared between us.

As soon as I have finished signing, Eoion, the banquet captain for this evening’s event, is hovering anxious to go over the running order.

At dinner I will be performing each chapter of A Christmas Carol between courses: five chapters, five courses.  It is a logistical nightmare and we have to coordinate very precisely with the kitchens.

We bash out a suitable running order, and the plan is that we be finished by ten o’clock.  We will be lucky to do that, I think.

I return to my room, hang my costume up to air and lay on the bed for an hour or so.

Back in England Liz has been decorating the house and has sent pictures.  It makes me feel very homesick.  Because of the touring I never actually get to decorate our house, which is very sad.  It would be lovely to be there now, hanging ornaments on the tree, swearing over the tangle of Christmas lights, and sitting down at the end of the evening admiring our handy work.

Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do and know that I am very fortunate to be doing it, but there are things that I miss very much.

I scroll through Facebook and happen upon a video of the recent Orion rocket launch.  Suddenly it is if I am six again, watching Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins blast off from Cape Canaveral.

I can remember my Arfix model kit of the Saturn Five rocket and ‘flying’ it round my bedroom.  I remember looking up at the moon and being amazed that men were actually walking on it.  Fuzzy black and white images, as James Burke introduced the BBC coverage of the moon missions.

Oh, my word it was so exciting!  The future lay before us and there were no limits to what the human race could achieve.  Space was truly the final frontier.

And now I am older than my father was then, and a new era of space travel is starting: we are planning to go to Mars.

I know there are many issues about space travel: not least the obscene amount of money spent on what many see as a futile exercise, when there is so much that needs doing here on earth.  But….it is SO exciting!

Coming back down to earth, I shower (the shower gel smells of chocolate), and get dressed ready for the evening show.

I am performing in the Castilian Room, which is a very nice, small function room.  A stage has been set in the centre of the room, with tables all around it, so once again a straight theatrical show is out of the question.  The advantage of having a central stage is that everyone in the room is very close and can feel involved.  It all makes for a lovely atmosphere.

Events at Hershey follow a well trodden path and there is a wonderful sense of tradition here.  One of the nicest aspects of my first day is that I get to dine with Richard Wyckoff and his party.

Mr Wyckoff is in the media industry and has close links with the Hershey Corporation.  Every year he hosts a table which includes the hotel’s manager Brian Day and various other guests.  This year at the table are Bill and John, two young executives from the Hershey group.

Introductions are made and hands shaken, before the dinner starts.  Brian introduces me and I take over the running of the evening.  It is like Cape Canaveral handing over to Houston once the rocket has cleared the tower.  OK, obsessive.  Enough of the space thing.

The evening’s events go well although I don’t feel quite on top of the performance and I’m not quite sure why, which is frustrating.  Everyone is having a good time though.

The conversation back at the table is fascinating.  Bill and John are responsible for booking big name acts to perform at the Giants Center in town.  They have been trying to book a particular star to appear.  I cant say the name, but it rhymes with Naylor Twift.  Unfortunately they cannot afford her, as her minimum fee is exorbitant.  For her solo act it would cost more than to have the Rolling Stones play and there are four of them!  Professional courtesy prevents me from naming the figure.  But it rhymes with Clive Sillion…..

Another wonderful story:  Bruce Springsteen was appearing.  Early in the evening he dropped his daughter off to her prom night, got in a helicopter, flew to Hershey, handed his band the hand-written play list for the night, played the gig, flew home and was still back before his daughter!

I am in the wrong branch of the entertainment industry.

Once the desserts have been served, I get up to perform the final segment and as I crouch down I feel something ping.  A waistcoat button?  No, they all seem to be there.  Shirt button?  Don’t think so.  Trouser button?  Well, they are staying up and are not around my ankles, so probably not.

The show finishes and everyone stands and applauds.  I lead the company in a toast to the spirit of Christmas, before sitting down. I look at my watch I am amazed to see that it is only 9.40.  I am trying to work out if I have missed a complete chapter, or something.  We never usually finish this early.

As at this afternoon’s events, a lot of people have brought books to be signed, including a wonderful 6^th edition of A Christmas Carol, lovingly framed and presented.

Some of the guests have grown up with this performance and among the audience is Hannah, looking glamorous and beautiful.  Hannah is there with her boyfriend and her parents.  When she first saw the show she was so young that she curled up on a restaurant chair and fell asleep!  And here she is now, on the point of marriage.  It all makes me feel very old.

We all pose for pictures and say our goodbyes, with promises to meet again next year.

I return to my room, where I can investigate the costume and to my confusion, nothing is missing.  I have no idea what it was that was pinging.

I wind down with a glass of wine in the bar (having been suitably abstemious during dinner), before returning to my room and getting into my bed.

The final week of the tour has begun.

The Most Arduous Day

Today is the most arduous day of the tour.  It is true that there will be no long drives, no flights or tight connections to panic over;  I am sure that the audiences will be responsive, and enthusiastic in their praise;  I know that the event organisers will be friendly, caring and will have my very best interests as their first priority.

The fact is that I will be performing for approximately thirteen hundred people in the space of a few hours, as well as signing smiling and chatting to pretty well all of them: Definitely an arduous day in store.

It starts, inevitably, with coffee.  The rooms at the Joseph Ambler Inn do not have coffee makers, but there is a Keurig (of course), machine in main reception area.  I swap a large bag of laundry for two cups of coffee and come back to my room to write the daily blog.

While I am writing, an email comes in from Bob, alerting me to the fact that a TV crew is coming to the first show and would like to do an interview at some time during the day.  I reply that I will come to the visitor centre at eleven, so that we can have some flexibility with the arrangements.

Breakfast at the JAI is a delicious buffet.  I fill my plate with French toast and bacon, drizzling maple syrup all over the whole thing.  As an afterthought I also have a glass of water, which makes me feel ever so slightly more virtuous.  Actually, no it doesn’t: decadence all of the way.

In my room I iron two shirts for the day, and set off for Byers.  The weather is misty, rainy, cold and dank.  I am so glad that I insisted on a 4 wheel-drive SUV back in Boston – I haven’t seen a flake of snow since.

The parking lot at Byers is already full, and I drive to the overflow car park at the back of the building.  A covered walkway leads from the car park directly to the staff cafeteria, but I can’t use that door today, as there is a rather elegant ‘afternoon’ tea being served in there this morning.

I walk to the front of the building with a couple who have parked in the same lot as me and we ponder the question: ‘Rain or Snow – which would you prefer?’  We all come down on the side of snow.

Once in the building, I lay all of my things in the board room before finding Bob and Dave chatting in the latter’s office, which has bits of computers all over the place.  It would seem that every electronic malfunction at Byers’ Choice occurs during the Christmas season, and that every recalcitrant computer ends up in Dave’s office.

Bob and I chat for a while about a few business matters, including the possibility of having a book published ready for next year’s tour.  We talk over a few ideas and discuss the timings of such a project.  I am due to be working on a show in Minneapolis during the spring, and I should have plenty of time, after the rehearsal period is complete, to write then.  It is an exciting idea and I really hope that it comes to fruition.

When we have finished our meeting, I go to the kitchen where Joyce Byers is scurrying around, making sure that the tea service is continuing well.  Joyce is the reason that Byers’ Choice exists; it was her that first created the carollers in the late 60’s.

The whole company, which attracts avid collectors from far and wide, was built around her vision and talent.  You may expect her to be taking it easy somewhere, and touring the factory only occasionally, but that is not Joyce’s style and here she is in an apron, working away behind the scenes.

Of course she immediately starts fussing over me and when I ask if there is any honey, she immediately calls the store and within five minutes a jar is delivered to the little kitchen.  I make a cup of tea, mix the honey into it and sip it gently.

The TV crew has arrived, so I get into costume, in case they want to film the interview straight away, before the first show.  I go to the theatre, where I find Bob talking to the splendidly named Grover Wilcox, who is the lead journalist on the project.  He has a big bushy moustache, which curls up into a big smile as he shakes me by the hand.

It turns out that Grover is a member of the Philadelphia Pickwick club, so the inevitable question is: ‘who are you?’

‘I am Angelo Cyrus Bantam’

Everyone else looks rather confused at the course of this brief conversation.  Every member of any Pickwick Club takes the name of a character from the novel.  Bantam is the Grand Master of Ceremonies in Bath, when Mr Pickwick and his friends travel to that beautiful city.

Inevitably a member of the Pickwick Club in Philly has plenty of memories of Cedric and soon everyone is smiling and laughing.  Cedric’s influence is eternal.

The plan is for the entire show to be filmed.  Will, the sound engineer will look after a tripod mounted camera at the back of the hall, while Katie will roam surreptitiously with a camera on a steady-cam unit, capturing close ups.

After the show (and after the signing), Grover will then interview me about the performance.

But now, it is time to move on.  Dave is anxious to do a sound-check, which we complete without any fuss and I go back to my dressing room to prepare for the biggest show of the tour.

The audience starts to arrive.

700 plus

Over seven hundred seats have been laid out and extras are required as the advertised start time comes and goes.  The choir of carol singers are enthusiastically applauded after each song, and everyone seems to be in the most excellent spirits.

Looking across the sea of heads in the hall I am thankful that I am not the sort of person who gets nervous by large audiences.  Actually, for me, a small audience is much more intimidating.

A large crowd gathers

A lady comes up to me and asks if I am Mr Dickens? On receiving the affirmative reply, she tells me that she is a neighbour of my cousin Rowland, and that he has brought a group here to watch the show.  I had no idea that he was coming, but soon there he is, with his wife Andi and their children.

It is great to see him!  Here is a fact about my show: my earliest memory of hearing A Christmas Carol, was on one Christmas Eve at my home in Tunbridge Wells.  Rowalnd’s family (Uncle Claud, Aunt Audrey, Kate and Rowland), were staying with us for Christmas.

The children shared a room and once we were tucked into our beds Uncle Claud read A Christmas Carol to us.  I remember distinctly being scared of the ghosts and being amazed to discover that Scrooge had not missed Christmas Day and that the spirits had ‘done it all in one night’.

So the fact that Rowland is here with his own children makes this a very special telling of the story for me.

At last Bob is satisfied that everyone is seated and he and I walk through the stacks of cartons in the shipping department, to the little door next to the stage.

I wait in the darkness as Bob makes his introductions.

As I walk onto the stage the applause is amazing and I take a moment to relish the experience of standing in front of seven hundred people.

The show is tight and good.  Dave has tweaked the lighting since last night and the effects he creates enhance the story.  I absolutely hit my mark for the special spotlight which illuminates the vision of Marley’s face and there is a gasp from the crowd as it appears.

The ‘new’ script works well and there is a lot more light and shade to it.

Throughout the performance I am aware of Katie creeping around with her steady-cam.  She always seems to pop up in perfect spots for individual scenes and I imagine that the end result is going to be superb.  I hope that I can get to see the footage sometime.

The show ends to great applause.  I run back to the board room to change as quickly as I can, as this is going to be one mighty signing line.

When I get to the room I find that I am not alone, as Bob’s son, George, and his friends are using it as green room.  The lads have been assisting with the car parking, which for an audience like this is a mammoth undertaking, not made any easier by the pouring rain today.

When I come in one of the guys says: ‘Wow, have you been out in the rain?’

‘No, just the show!’

They get moving to assist the audience out and I towel down and get into my other costume.

My signing table is situated in its own room, which houses a display of Nativity scenes from around the World.  The table is in the centre of the room and the line enters at the door, goes all around the room, behind my table, to the other side where Pam stands.  She lets each group up to the table individually, which gives me lots of space but also means that the photographs taken look individual and special.

This is a very busy signing session as everybody seems to have multiple books and carollers to be autographed.  As the time goes on there is no sign of the line ending.  I am very aware that I have another performance looming in little over an hour, not to mention the TV interview with Grover.

And still they come.  And still I am talking and smiling and signing.  I am aware that my voice is beginning to feel a little scratchy and I drink as much water as I can.

The strain on my voice during a day like this comes much more from the signing than from the shows.  Firstly the microphone system is good, but also there is a technique for projecting your voice, which comes from the diaphragm.  The vocal power comes not from my vocal chords, but from the amount of air I can push over them.

Here in a small room I cannot use that technique: ‘I AM DELIGHTED THAT YOU ENJOYED THE SHOW!!  HOORAH, HUZZAH!  NEXT PLEASE: HOW LOVELY TO SEE YOU!

It just wouldn’t work and it is the vocal chords that are taking the strain.

On the line goes.  People have returned to the shop and bought more product and are joining on to the end of the snake again.

At last the line doesn’t disappear from my sight out of the door any more.  That still means another thirty minutes or so, but the end, quite literally, is in sight.

And there, waiting to the very last, is Rowland, Andi and the family.  We have a brief chat and I wish that I could spend more time with them.  We pose for family snaps together, before they head home and I head for my interview.

Sometimes a television interview can drag on while the lights and sound are made perfect, but Grover, Katie and Will have got everything prepared and I just slot into the chair and we begin.

Grover has obviously loved the show and he asks me lots of questions about the performance itself: how have I worked on the transitions between characters; how did I develop the different voices.  These are all subjects about which I am very happy to talk about.

With Grover

Time is moving on, however, and the second audience is already here.

Bob has ordered me a grilled chicken salad and as I sit in the little kitchen eating I can hear them arriving.

Grabbing a bite

Oh!  I suddenly realise that in the rush I haven’t re set the stage for the second show, so I grab my hat and cane and make my way to the theatre.

Grover had complimented me on my use of body language through the performance, and this skill comes into play now:  head down, looking neither to left or right, purposeful walk says: ‘yes, I am Gerald Dickens but do not talk to me now!’  It works and nobody approaches me.

Back to the dressing room where Bob is showing some guests the painting that hang there.

It’s a strange build up to a performance.  My biggest concern is my voice, I really don’t know how it has been effected by the long signing session and the interview.  I make myself tea and honey again and hope for the best.  I really won’t know until I speak the first lines.

In the hall another large audience is gathering and I again watch on with Dave from the back.  Everyone gets seated in good time and for this show we pretty well start on the dot of five thirty.

‘I have endeavoured, in this ghostly little book…..’  The voice is clear and I am not straining.  Thank heavens for that! I can relax in the knowledge that I have the vocal capability to get through the second show.

As is always the case, the evening audience is quieter, but not so much as to worry me: there are plenty of laughs, and indeed sobs.

My mind is wandering a bit during the performance and I’m thinking of slogans to put on t shirts for merchandising at events: ‘Supposin!’ is obvious.  ‘Like a bad lobster in a dark cellar’ and ‘One, vast substantial smile’ are others which come to mind.

Looking at Dave’s lighting this year, I also think of other effects that we could include: a stained glass window effect as Scrooge goes to Church, and a projection of the business name: Scrooge and Marley, across the top of the back wall.

Concentrate!  Thanks to the fact that I have lived with this story for twenty years I don’t lose control of the show, or make any errors, but it is not very professional.

It is another rousing reception at the end and I take a couple of extra bows.  I have pushed to the limit today, and I am so glad to have come through the test successfully.

In the signing room the queue winds round and out of the door again but it is not as strenuous as this afternoon.

One gentleman shakes me heartily by the hand and says: ‘I’ve seen you for seven years and you are like a fine red wine: you just get better and better with age!’

With the end of the signing I slowly collect all of my things together in the board room, listening to Liz playing the piano as I do so.  Pam comes in and we chat for a while, which is nice.

When I am all packed up I go back into the theatre, which is a theatre no more.  Bob, Jeff and Dave are re-creating the factory floor.  George and his friends are providing the brute force.

I say good bye to everyone and walk out into the rain to drive back to the Joseph Ambler Inn, where I sit in the bar eating a gorgeous thick, juicy, medium rare steak.

You know what?  I think I’ve earned it.

Growl, Boom, Sob and Canoodle.

Oh, what a night.  The bed at the Fairville Inn is a beautiful four-poster, the room is warm, the road outside is quiet.  Everything is conducive to a good night’s slumber.

However, having gone to sleep at 10, I wake up at midnight.  I nod back off again, before waking once more at 1 am.  This time I just cannot get myself back to sleep.  In the end I decide to start work on the blog.

Worryingly, the blog-writing finally gets me back to sleep.  I sincerely hope it hasn’t been having the same effect on everyone who has been reading it.

I wake for the final time as the alarm goes off at 6. I  get the laptop fired up again and am about to post the blog, when I realise that I have left my camera in the car.  I throw some clothes on and go to retrieve it. To my horror I discover that I have left the car lights on all night, although it is only the small side-lights and not the main headlights.

I am relieved to discover that the central locking mechanism responds when I hit the button on the key fob, so there must be charge left in the battery.

In my room I successfully upload text and pictures and then start to pack for the day.  I will have plenty of time this afternoon before I have to be at Byers’ Choice for my evening show, so there is no need to prepare a costume case.

At 7.20 I walk from my little house, into the main building at the Inn, for my breakfast.  Laura, the owner, greets me and congratulates me on the show yesterday afternoon, which she attended with her mother.

I am sat down and fussed over, which is always nice. Grapefruit juice, coffee, fruit and a delicious baked omelette, which Laura’s husband Rick has been preparing behind the scenes, all serve to bring me into the real world.

Not surprisingly, after my broken night, I am feeling a little jaded this morning.

As I am finishing up my breakfast, another couple come in for theirs.  They had also seen the show yesterday and are as generous in their praise as Laura had been.  We all chat for a while about the show and the tour, and they ask me if I wouldn’t mind signing their books, which of course I am happy to do.

The Fairville Inn is a wonderful B&B, run by cheerful, friendly and most attentive hosts.  I heartily recommend it to anyone who is exploring the Brandywine Valley.

The Fairville Inn

I get the car loaded up and breathe a sigh of relief when the engine starts at the first turn of the key.

My first appointment for the day is back at Winterthur, to meet Ellen and to tour the house.  The traffic is busier now and it takes me a little while to turn left across the carriageways.  Once on my way, I realise that the road is a little blurry and quickly come to the deduction that I have left my spectacles in my bedroom.

I turn the car round, and head back.

In the dining room there is yet another couple who saw the show yesterday and the previous conversation is resumed.

After another round of hand-shaking and goodbyes, and with my eyesight suitably enhanced, I get back on the road once more.

Ellen is waiting for me in the staff car park behind the main house gift store and takes me in ‘back stage’.

My tour of the house is due to start at 9.30, but first Ellen wants to show me the current exhibit in the gallery, that is attached to the main house: The Costumes of Downton Abbey.

Over the past few years Winterthur has struck up a remarkably close relationship with the hit television series.  There is no specific connection, other than the fact that the life of the DuPonts at Winterthur was very much the American equivalent of that led by the Grantham’s at Downton.

The exhibition is superb and very well laid out.  No glass cases here: each costume stands on its own stage, in front of a huge photograph from the series.  Sometimes there is a video clip playing too.  Accompanying each ‘scene’ is a large panel with a fragment of Julian Fellowes’ script.

Among the costumes are articles from the DuPont’s wardrobe, to compare how the two families (one real, one fictional), lived.  One exhibit that particularly appeals to me is Mr DuPont’s travelling trunk: I think that would be very useful for me on the road!

As the official opening time gets nearer (for I have being granted a before-hours view), the official guides start to arrive and can fill me in with a few interesting stories.  For instance: Shirley Maclaine had it written into her contract that no still photographs of her could be used, so she is not included in any of the cast shots.

One of the scenes shows Matthew Crawley striding out across the moors in his hunting tweeds.  Closer inspection of the picture might give a clue as to why he was so rudely disposed of during the 2012 Christmas episode:  there, clearly visible in his front pocket, is the outline of an iphone….as an actor you displease Julian Fellowes at your peril!

The iphone….

Ellen tells me that the exhibition has been amazingly successful, with many visitors coming dressed in costume.  It is extraordinary how huge the Downton phenomenon has become in America.

It is soon time to join the rest of the visitors who are gathering for the 9.30 tour of the house itself.  I am included in a small group under the supervision of our guide, Lois, and we set off for our tour of a most beautiful house, decorated for Christmas.

Although the DuPonts were among the rich elite of America, the house is not ostentatious.  The rooms are small and homely, and you can really get a feel for the family that lived there.

One room is laid out with baskets containing gifts for all of the visitors and the packages are wrapped in cellophane which was a DuPont product.  Clearly Mr DP liked to impress his guests and do a little extra marketing on the side!

As our tour comes to an end, Lois (the guide), whispers ‘are you Mr Dickens?  Our director would like to see you when we finish’.  Sure enough there, waiting for me with a big smile on his face, is David Roselle.  He thanks me once more for the events yesterday and seems keen to put on some of my other shows in the future, which would be lovely.

I say good bye to both David and Ellen and thank them for giving me the opportunity to see the house.

It is 10.30 and I am in perfect time to drive to Bala Cynwyd for a radio interview at 12.00.  I am making good time, but beginning to doubt that I have put the correct information into my SatNav, as I appear to be heading right into Philadelphia itself.

I check the address and it is correct.  My fears stem from my knowledge of the town in North Wales, of the same name.  It is a sleepy little resort town, on the banks of the beautiful Bala Lake and certainly doesn’t have any buildings containing more than two floors.

I pull up outside a modern office building, with the Philadelphia skyline in the background, and take the lift to the tenth floor where I am met by Paul Perello.

We go to the studio, and straight away Paul begins by telling me that he met Cedric Dickens years ago and that he made quite an impression.

Cedric was my father’s cousin and was as an ebullient and fun-loving man as you could ever have wished to meet.  He left a trail of smiles in his wake.

‘Uncle Ceddy’ had many connections in Philadelphia and travelled here a great deal.  It is always lovely to hear stories about him (and there are plenty to be told), when I am travelling.

The interview is recorded ‘as live’, and we spend a very happy thirty minutes chatting about A Christmas Carol, my show, Charles Dickens, Byers’ Choice and the season in general.

As Paul signs off he says. ‘Well, folks, this has been fascinating and I could carry on talking to Gerald for an hour…’  In fact, he is almost as good as his word, for our conversation continues long after the tapes have stopped rolling (or the memory chips have stopped doing whatever memory chips do).

We continue talking as we walk to the lifts, before shaking hands and returning to our respective worlds.

My car journey continues through the sprawling suburbs of Philly and takes me towards my home from home when on tour: Chalfont PA.

Chalfont is the home city of Byers’ Choice, the company (or rather the group of friends), who promote my American tours and look after me while I am on this side of the Atlantic.

I have been working with Byers for almost ten years now and I could not ask for more.

My hotel is the Joseph Ambler Inn, a collection of historic cottages.  I am greeted at check-in like an old friend.  My room is the Penn Suite on the second floor.

A few years ago the suite was renovated to include a state-of-the-art bathroom, with a deep Jacuzzi bathtub. I know where I am headed straight away.

I have a lovely long, hot soak and let the bubbles pummel my weary body, before laying on the bed and having a much needed afternoon nap.

I have to leave at around 4.30, so I set my alarm to give me plenty of time to get shirts ironed and everything prepared for the show.

The route to the Byers’ Choice factory is so familiar to me that I don’t need to set the SatNav and within ten minutes I am pulling up outside the magnificent facility, which houses not only the administrative offices and manufacturing floor, but also, a beautifully designed visitor centre, which charts the history and development of this family run company.

I am greeted at the door by Bob Byers, jnr, who runs the operation with his parents Joyce and Bob snr, and his brother Jeff.

It is Bob who manages my tour and deals with all of the contracts and enquiries.  It is Bob that looks at a confused list of venues and requests and somehow sees an order and shape, which eventually will become my tour.  It is Bob who books airlines and hotels.  It is Bob who is now shaking hands and giving me a big hug of welcome.

In the offices are many good friends and everyone is as delighted to see me as I am to see them.

The sound check for the Byers’ Choice shows is essential to get right.  The stage is erected on the factory floor and we are expecting three audiences of between five hundred and seven hundred people.  It is a massive space and without good sound the shows would be a disaster.  Fortunately Byers’ Choice  has David working for them, who does a superb job on the technical aspects of my show.

This year he is very excited as he has introduced some new lighting effects into the show, and he is keen to try them out.

I stand, lonely, on the stage at one end of the huge bare room, filled only with seven hundred white chairs.  Somewhere, in the distance, David twiddles with the sound mixing desk and I am live.

When doing a sound check I have various parts of the show that I run through, to try and include all of the vocal highs and lows.  I growl as Scrooge, boom as Present, sob as Cratchit and canoodle as Topper.  My entire show: ‘Growl, Boom, Sob and Canoodle.’

When we are both satisfied with the sound and the lights, I go back to the offices, where I chat with the various employees who will be helping out at tonight’s event.

Tish, Wendy, Lisa all stop by and say ‘hello’.  Wait, Lisa?

Lisa Porter was the very first person from Byers’ Choice to see me perform, and was my closest ally throughout my years of working with the company.  Over the last five years it was Lisa who acted as my ‘fixer’ at Byers and who co-ordinated all of the day to day activities of my tours.  Lisa and Bob made the trips work.

Why have I suddenly lapsed into the past tense?  Because Lisa left Byers’ Choice earlier this year, to pursue new professional challenges.  But here she is, in the office, just as she always was.  For a moment I completely forgot that she was no longer working here.  Her smiling face is so at home.

We have a lovely hug and talk about the tour, which she has been following through these pages. One by one other members of staff come up and greet her too: everyone is happy to see her back.

While she is occupied, I scurry back to my changing room, to fetch a special gift of thanks that I have been carrying throughout the tour, just for this moment.

The very kind shop staff at Winterthur gift wrapped it for me yesterday, and as I take it back to the office I have an awful thought that I might have picked up the wrong package.  Who knows what Lisa will find when she un-wraps it?  It feels slightly too large, and in a box.

Fortunately as the paper is peeled away (and there is plenty of it, for the Winterthur staff have been thorough, even going so far as boxing it for me), I see that it is after all the correct package.

One of Lisa’s main headaches in working with me, were the constant emails first thing in the morning saying: ‘I seem to have left my fountain pen/watch/cufflinks at last night’s venue.  Would you be able to call them and get it/them shipped on to my next hotel?’  It was a scenario played out many times over the years.

So, as a permanent reminder of our days together I have created a box frame containing a fountain pen, a pocket watch and a set of cufflinks.  She is delighted, and we pose for a picture together.

With Lisa

Now, however, I must get back to this year’s tour, for the audience are massing and it is time to get ready.

The microphone has no clip, so I pin it to my shirt, using two white-headed pins.  It is a good system and wont slip, that’s for sure

The dressing room at Byers is in fact the board room and I have plenty of space to spread out, so I carefully lay my replacement costume out, ready for a quick change after the show is finished.

Ready to change

Then I sit down and listen to some music: firstly Rhapsody in Blue and then, to get me into the mood of A Christmas Carol, my show’s new anthem: the rock version of The Carol of the Bells.

With fifteen minutes to go I join David at the sound desk as the audience continues to swell.

Bob is scurrying here and there, coordinating everything and trying to get the last few people from the car park into the theatre.  Moving such a large body of people can be difficult and we inevitably start slightly late.

Despite my lack of sleep, the show is great.  I love the energy created by an audience of this size: it is infectious and I give it my all.  David’s lighting effects work superbly and the sound is good.

My only problem occurs about fifteen minutes into the show, as one of my shirt buttons works its way undone.  The button is question is under my waistcoat so there is no ‘costume malfunction’ issue but the effect is painful. The slight gape of the shirt turns it inward and for the rest of the show the two pins holding my microphone on, are either stabbing or scraping me.   It is not the most comfortable show I’ve ever done.

However my discomfort doesn’t seem to have been noticed by the audience, because they go wild at the end.

With the applause still continuing I leave the stage and run back to the board room for my quick change.

When I arrive in the visitor center to sign, there is a large crowd waiting for me and I get a second round of applause

The well drilled process starts.  Pam stands at the head of the line.  She chats and offers to take pictures, (she is becoming extremely proficient with every make of smart phone).  Quietly, efficiently, effectively she keeps everything moving.

The line is long and I am getting weary now, but everyone has lovely things to say.

Lisa stops by to say goodbye.  She chats with Pam, and it is strange to see my two ‘fixers’ together.

The signing continues and one mother prompts her young son to tell me what he thought of the show:  ‘I didn’t like your show!’ he says.  Oh, OK, well, that’s honest and fair enough:  ‘I LOVED IT!’ A great piece of timing – he will go far, probably as a stand-up comic.

The room is at last empty, apart from Bob and Pam and me.

The day is officially over, and I change back into twenty-first century Gerald.  I chat a little with Bob about a few possible future projects, before driving back to the Joseph Ambler Inn, where I am sure I will have a much better night.