Very Flat, Norfolk.

Thursday, November 19

Time to move on once more and the alarm rings at 4.30, jerking me away from my short sleep.

I fold my costumes carefully, so as to protect them as much as possible from creasing, and pack them into my cases.

As I pack the top hat I realise that I have left my thick woolly knitted scarf at Langhorne, presumably still on the hat rack on stage.  It is the first ‘casualty’ of the tour so far, but will be easily retrievable.  I will have to email Pam later today.

When all that remains to be packed is my wash bag, I shower and finally close up.  The whole process from alarm to leaving my room takes forty five minutes.

It is dark outside, but pleasantly warm.  The gloves, hat and scarf that I have packed for the cold winter weather remain resolutely unused so far.

In the car I go to set the sat nav for Philadelphia Airport.  Most of these units are pre-programmed with details of how to get to the car rental desk, but in this case it is slightly odd, in that the sat nav unit is made by Hertz, even though the car does not come from them.  I try and remember who I rented from and my mind is completely mixed up between Hertz, Avis and all of the others.  I have to dig out the rental agreement to find where I am going.

The traffic, even at this hour, is busy and aggressive but flows well and I arrive at the Dollar desk (for ‘tis they who entrusted me with this car), and make sure that I have all of my belongings.

The courtesy bus drops passengers off at terminals B, C and D until it is only me and the driver left.  ‘Norfolk, Virginia.  I used to do this flight every week.’  There is deep memory and a certain sense of melancholy in his voice.  ‘Millitary?’ I prompt.  ‘Yes, I was in the Navy’ and for a moment his thoughts are in the mess, or wardroom, as the great grey prow of his ship cuts through the waves.

He drops me off at terminal F and I leave him to his memories.

Terminal F at Philadelphia airport: ahhh, I have a strange relationship with terminal F.   The last time I was here was in October when I spent an entire day forlornly waiting to board a flight that never left. It is a perfectly nice terminal, with a very impressive food court at its hub.  It is almost as if the contractors who were building the main airport completed this building and set it to one side until they could attach it.  Somehow terminal F was forgotten, and remains at the edge of the field, unloved, and only reachable by bus.

With that forlorn little story of neglect in my mind I feel more amenable to Terminal F and make my peace with it.

I have time for a quick breakfast, before going to gate 20, ready to board my flight for Norfolk.  At the very tip of the terminal F there are 5 gates gathered together, all serving little Dash 8 propeller-driven planes.   As each flight boards, the agents make the same scripted announcement about boarding, carry-on bags, Sky-Miles medallion members, those who need a little extra time, zones one and two.

By the time my flight is called it hardly seems necessary for our agent to go through it all again, as we’ve heard it four times already.

The flight is quite empty, and I have two seats to myself, towards the rear of the plane.  I watch another House of Cards episode, or at least part of it, for the flight is not long enough to get me to the end.  As we break through the clouds I can see that Norfolk is wet today.  The wheels (only a few feet from where I sit) throw up a plume of spray as they touch the ground.

At the airport I pick up a car from Alamo, and start on the short drive into downtown Norfolk.  The street names are wonderful here, and I drive along Azalea Gardens, passing Kevin Road, Robin Hood Way and turn onto Princess Anne Road.  The businesses are nicely named too: ‘Murphy’s Propeller Works’ (good, I’m glad that it works); and ‘A Step in Time Chimney and Roofing’ (It’s an ‘appy ‘olliday with Meeearrryyyy!)

I arrive at the hotel and even though it is only 9.30, am checked in to my room, where I can start working on the blog. It seems a real struggle to write today and is slow going.

I get a slight break, when I get a message from an old friend, Christine, who used to work at the Williamsburg Inn and now lives with her husband and son in Norfolk.  She offers to take me out to lunch, and I have a very nice salad as we catch up on old times.  It is only a brief interlude to my day, as Christine has to pick her son up from school, and I go back to my room and finally finish writing.

I am due to walk to my venue (The Nauticus National Maritime Center) at 4.45, so I begin to gather my belongings together.

It is now time for an ironing rant.

Two years ago I made some comments in my blog about the dearth of electric outlets suitably positioned for ironing and I delighted to say that almost every hotel has now improved that situation.  I am happy to take credit for this change, on behalf of travellers across the globe.

Now, for a new campaign:  the covers on hotel ironing boards are so thin these days, that the metal lattice work beneath is imprinted onto whatever garment you are ironing.  There is no soft, foam padding, and it is as if you are ironing directly against the metal.  Not good enough, hoteliers of America – I want thicker ironing board covers!

Lattice work

With my lattice-imprinted shirts carefully folded and packed I walk to Nauticus, where I am greeted by Angela Mello who is my contact here.  She greets me like an old, old friend and takes me to her office, where I will be based for the evening.

Nauticus is a huge maritime museum, which includes the magnificent Battleship Wisconsin, moored alongside the building itself. The complex also includes a cruise ship terminal and it is there where the Dickens Christmas Towne is based.  Today I am performing A Christmas Carol in Nauticus itself and tomorrow I will be helping to launch Christmas Towne’s second season.

Angela takes me to the theatre, which is a huge cinema space, with a curving white screen on the back wall.  The thousands of seats (I’m sure that I do not exaggerate), curve around the floor space in a huge arc (now, how nautical is that reference!)

My props look rather lost in the midst of this huge space.  The challenges here are the complete opposite of those I faced in Langhorne and Burlington, where the space available to me was divided up on different levels and broken up by altar rails and the like.  Here, there is just space, and lots of it.  Looking at the expanse of floor reminds me of Noel Coward’s comment in Private Lives: ‘Very flat, Norfolk.’

Angela fetches Dustin, who will be looking after the technical side of things and we spend quite a long time working on the sound levels.  He adjusts the base levels to allow for what he calls my ‘boomy voice’.  When we are all satisfied we spend some time on the opening music/sound effect.

Sound Check

 

When all of the details have been looked after I go back to Angela’s office, where I spend a very enjoyable hour or so chatting with Jeff Cannon, who is an architect specialising in museum spaces.  Jeff is well travelled and fascinating

As we chat the door opens and Stephen Kirkland comes in.  Stephen is the director of Nauticus, and Christmas Towne is very much his pet project.  Last year he convinced the board members to invest in his dream and it paid off handsomely.  I worked with him to promote the inaugural season, and even though I was only in Norfolk for a single day, I feel as if Stephen is an old friend, and that I have been part of his project for years.

Time is marching on, and Stephen, Jeff and Angela leave me to prepare for the show.  I change, and then listen to music until Angela returns and takes me down the stairs to the theatre.  As I stand waiting I become aware of the strangest phenomenon.  All of the walls of the theatre are curved, and as I stand, I am aware of the conversation of the audience being ‘broadcast’ eerily along the walls; It is the same science that makes the whispering gallery at St Paul’s Cathedral in London such a fascinating place to visit.

On the dot of seven o’clock Stephen takes to the stage and makes a passionate speech about his visions for Christmas Towne.  He thanks the many sponsors and board members who have supported him, and then announces the show.

The strains of the cello playing God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen fill the auditorium, and I begin the show.

I am not sure how well the microphone is working, but the acoustics in the room seem very good and I make sure that I annunciate clearly (taking my late father’s advice to always finish one word before starting the next).  I try not to use too much of the space, and to remain in clearly defined areas for each scene.

One couple get up and leave the auditorium quite near the start of the show, and I hope that their exit does not mark the start of a mass exodus, which is my recurring performance nightmare!  Fortunately the rest of the audience remain in their seats, and respond more and more enthusiastically as the show continues.

As I make my final exit, Stephen is on the stage whipping the audience to even greater heights (he used to be an entertainment cruise director with Carnival Cruises, and is now reverting to his old self).  As a result I get to take three curtain calls, before going back to the office to change, ready for a signing session.  As I take the microphone off I notice that the battery level is on zero, which may explain why it didn’t sound as crisp as when we did the sound check earlier.

I spend forty five minutes in the main Nauticus hall, just outside the gift shop, signing books and talking about the show, and greeting people I met at last year’s event.  Stephen’s wife, Sarah Jane is there and is enthusing about the performance.

At the end of the evening I change and Stephen drives me back to the hotel.  There is a small restaurant in the foyer, and I order a burger for my dinner.

As I sit, pondering the day, a young man who appears to be no more that high school age comes into the lobby. It seems strange at this time of night and a moment later the revolving door turns and a few more join him; this trickle turns into a flood and soon the foyer is heaving with young people.  Many of the kids have musical instrument cases over their shoulders: there are violin cases, flute cases, clarinet cases.  Bringing up the rear three guys are doing battle with the revolving door as they force their double bases in.

I talk to one of the adults with the group and discover that they are from The Shenandoah University Conservatory, and are in town to play at a conference of musical educators tomorrow.

It is wonderful to see so much young talent gathered together, to perform excellent music.

One final thought crosses my mind as I go to bed:  It is going to be very busy at breakfast tomorrow morning.

 

Links:

Nauticus:  http://www.nauticus.org/

Shenandoah University Conservatory:  http://www.su.edu/performs/

 

 

 

 

 

Bloody Splendid!

I wake this morning feeling very tired.  It has been a busy few days and it doesn’t stop today, as I have another two shows to perform.

However I do have a little time to catch up, as the venue is only ten minutes away, and the sound check is not scheduled until one o’clock, so I spend a very lazy morning in the hotel watching TV, surfing, reading etc.

As noon ticks round I prepare my bags for the show, have an energising cold shower, and carry my suits (with a pang of guilt, as I am using the hotel hangers and am convinced I will be spotted as I leave the premises) to the car.

The drive is easy and I turn off the main freeway into the leafy neighbourhood of Langhorne, where the impressive Methodist Church stands proudly a little back from the road.

The Langhorne Methodist Church is a new event for me, and that always brings its own challenges. The simple routine of a day at somewhere like Burlington are well founded: I know where to park, who does what, where to change, how the audience will be and any number of other little details. But, at a new venue all of that is unknown.

I follow the signs to the car park at the rear of the building, unload the car, and seeing a large sign which says ENTER HERE, follow the path towards a door.

Before I get to my goal I realise that I still have my glasses on, so turn round and return to the car so that I can leave them there; this is not a question of vanity, but a respect to people’s sensitivities.  When I chose the frames for my first glasses a year or so ago, I liked a set made by French Connection UK.  The UK arm of the French Connection fashion house began marketing as FCUK many years ago, and at time we all thought it terribly risqué and daring.  As the years have passed, however, the brand has just become lost in the corporate morass, and everyone in Britain (maybe with the exception of a few sniggering, giggling teens), has forgotten that there was ever anything remotely crude about it.

In America, however and especially in a Church community, the simple text could definitely offend, so it is better to keep the glasses tucked away.

I re-follow the path with the ENTER HERE sign and find that the door is locked, so go around to the front of the building where I meet Linda Rutlidge who has booked me today.  Last year Linda watched my show in Burlington, and decided that it would be an excellent event for her own Church.  My main credentials being that her husband, who had one fallen asleep during a performance of 42^nd Street, remained awake for the whole of A Christmas Carol!

Linda is busy.  Goodness she is busy as she has put together an incredibly ambitious programme for the day.  Between the two shows there is to be a Turkey supper served, which will feed both audiences – probably numbering about 350 guests.  Then there are the pre-ordered books, which need signing, and distributing to those with a particular coloured, ticket.  Then there is the distribution of show tickets previously ordered. Then there is finding me a dressing room, and making sure that I have everything I need.  Poor Linda is everywhere.

She introduces me to Tim, who is to look after the technical side of things and he in turn introduces me to John Lutz, who is the Pastor here.  John and Tim run through the various lighting options open to us, and then we do a sound check.  The microphone is very boomey and echoey in the room, but Tim and John convince me that it will become more muted when the people are sat there.

With all of the checks done John shows me to the room where I will change, which is actually the church’s photocopying room.  It is slightly awkward, in that the large window looks straight out on to the ramp leading guests to the front door, and there is no curtain.  The internal door to the corridor also has a window in it, and although it is covered with a cloth, people could easily see in.  I must time my changing carefully!

With all of the pre-ordered books, Linda had asked me if I wouldn’t mind signing a few before the show, so I sit at a large table in a large room and start to work through the pile next to me.  As I sign, a friendly face comes down the corridor and Pam Byers enters the room.  Byers Choice is not far from Langhorne, so this is Pam’s first chance to come and visit me at a venue.  We chat about various things that have arisen from the completed events, and plans for the forthcoming ones; and all the time I am scrawling GeraldCharlesDickens 2015.

As the word that I am signing spreads around the Church, volunteers start appearing and ask if I would just inscribe a book to a daughter, or grandson, or husband.  Soon the volunteers are joined in line by audience members, and that is the time to stop!

I return to my dressing room, and by keeping a careful eye on the windows to front and back, manage to get into costume with no embarrassment.

The audience is a good size and as they file into the church  I stand at the back, next to Tim’s sound box, watching them take their seats.  It is a large room, and I try to imagine what people will be seeing when I am at the front.  Shortly before the show Pastor John lights candles on the stage, and everything is ready.

Linda makes a welcoming announcement, and everyone settles down. Tim sets the music playing and I begin my long walk down the aisle.

It is a curious space to perform in, not unlike Burlington, but with more spaces and levels to use.  In my mind I have to work out what each level represents, so that the Cratchit’s house is always on one step and the streets of London on another.  Can the top level, which has Scrooge’s furniture on it, also be Nephew Fred’s house?

The sound is still rather too loud for my liking, and I try to restrict my projection as much as I can, so as to keep the echoes to a minimum.  Acoustics that are perfect for choirs, do not always suit the spoken word.

I am not entirely sure how the show is going, actually.  The stage area is quite a long way from the front row of seats, being a ‘new’ audience many are not sure if they are allowed to respond and react.  The whole thing is a learning process from both sides of the fourth wall.

The response at the show’s conclusion tell me that it has been a success however, and as the only exit from the stage is straight back down the aisle, I leave the room through an applauding guard of honour.

I change as quickly as I can, as the line for book signing forms outside the photocopying room (I undress unseen by keeping close to the wall next to the door, like an FBI agent about to storm a room).

The signing lasts for quite a long time, and people have plenty to say.  Books signed by my Uncle Cedric are in plentiful supply, as he spent many years travelling to the Philadelphia area.

Whereas I sign Gerald Charles Dickens, 2015 and add a dedication if requested, Cedric used to write long quotes from the book, as well as the inevitable ‘Keep Smiling!’

When I have finished signing books, Linda asks if I would like a cup of tea, and she brings a lovely teapot, cup and saucer, milk jug, and sugar basin to my room.  I sit alone, just resting and sipping the black tea, whilst the first audience go into the dining hall for their lunch.

After twenty minutes or so I go into the hall too and am soon eating roast turkey, mashed potatoes, carrots and apple sauce.  In the background a group of singers entertain us all: The Men of Harmony sound wonderful, and lend a real Christmassy feeling to the proceedings.

Pastor John is helping to serve the food, Linda is running everywhere, serving, clearing, talking.  The feeling throughout the room is one of inclusion and friendship and caring – it is what a church community should be all about.

I chat to lots of audience members, who tell me how much they enjoyed the show, which is good to hear.  I ask Linda about the sound and she says everybody thought it was fine, and could hear perfectly.   I may suggest to Tim that we turn it down a little for the second show.

The lunch continues, and the second audience fill the seats vacated by the departing first crowd.  I go back to my little room, turn all of the lights out and lay down on the floor to get an hour’s sleep, before going through the whole process again.

At 6.15 I get up, splash some cold water on my face, and start putting my costume back together again.

It is a much larger, and noisier audience, and I again take my station next to the tech desk, exchanging a few words with people as they arrive.

With ten minutes to go John takes to the stage to light the candles once more and as I watch him, I realise that this is just what an audience watching Charles Dickens would have seen.  Shortly before Dickens took to the stage a gas-man would light the lamps ready to illuminate the author as he read A Christmas Carol.

The microphone is definitely better this evening, and I use the space more effectively too.  But I get so hot, goodness it is bad; I don’t know why, particularly because the lighting isn’t materially different from anywhere else, but the perspiration is flowing uncontrolled tonight.

‘God Bless Us, Every One’ and I am finished and once more walk through a lovely, loud standing ovation and go back to my copy room.

The signing line is much longer tonight, and at one point I have to grab another ink cartridge for my pen, but everyone is in good spirits and has lovely things to say.  One lady leans on my table, and points at me: ‘I am going to say to you, what my mother used to say. That was bloody splendid!’  What a good review!

Eventually the audience leaves and the volunteers bring their books up for signing, and to pose with me for photographs.  I thank Tim for his help and Linda gives me a great big hug (as well as a bottle of wine and some chocolates).

I go back to my room and wearily, very wearily, pack up.  By the time I emerge almost everyone has left the building.  I am let out through a back door (actually the one I couldn’t get in at this morning) and drive back towards the Holiday Inn.

I am obviously tired and struggling to concentrate, because I miss the turn to Street Road on three different occasions, sending my sat nav unit into paroxysms of ‘recalculating route’.  I accidentally get onto the Turnpike and have to go through the automated toll booths twice, even though I have no EZ-Pass in the car.   Usually in the tolls there is a little traffic light that says ‘Payment Accepted’ or ‘No Payment’, and those do not light up, so I’m hoping that at this time of the night I may be OK.

Finally I get back to the hotel, where for the first time in two weeks I treat myself to a desert of apple pie.

It will be a short night with the alarm set for 4.30 in the morning, and soon the rigours of the past week creep up on me and take me to the land of sleep.

 

 

 

 

Happy Days

Tuesday November 17

At last I sleep through to a decent time, waking up at around 6am, which is a welcome change to my routine.

Another bonus is that the Holiday Inn Express boasts a Keurig coffee maker – the first I’ve come across this year.  With a delicious cup of Columbian brew at my side I begin my daily writing, until the details of my travels from California are completed and sent into cyberspace.

I have a shower and reflect that the twin bottles of ‘Volumising Shampoo and Conditioner’ are probably going to struggle on my thinning locks: the volume switch was turned down many years ago.

After a nice breakfast I come back to my room and kill a bit of time, before calling a Virginia PBS radio station.  On Thursday I will be performing at the Dickens Christmas Towne exhibit in Norfolk and this brief interview is to promote the event.

Dickens Christmas Towne is about to open for its second year, and I spent a little time in Norfolk last year helping to launch the inaugural season.  I am very excited to be returning and to actually see it up and running.

The director of the organisation that runs Christmas Towne is also on the line, and we chat with Kathy, the presenter, for fifteen minutes.  I’m sure that our enthusiasm for the event will be obvious to the listeners.

When the interview is over I go through all of the preparations for my day ahead, making sure that I have three shirts ironed, and pack all of the little bits and bobs that I will need for two shows.

Ready for the show

As I leave the hotel a bright blue sky and warm sun greet me. I pack everything into my Mazda, before setting the satnav unit.   I start the engine and notice that the car has a ‘SPORT’ button.  That sounds exciting, so I set it.

The journey to Burlington, which is actually over the state line in New Jersey, takes about twenty minutes.  The sport button doesn’t seem to make a huge difference to the car’s performance.  When I switch it ‘on’ the transmission drops a gear and there is a slight increase in acceleration.  Turn it ‘off’ and the gear shifts up again, and the engine revs drop accordingly.  As far as I can tell he sport button allows you to either a) use more fuel, or b) use less.

Having conducted this experiment I am arriving in Burlington and am soon pulling up outside the familiar building, that is the Historic Broad Street United Methodist Church.

I have been coming here for six years or so and it is always a very happy stop on my tour.  The team who organise the event are fun, and I treat them all as good friends.  As I unload my car the front door of the Church is opened and I am greeted by Joe Jaskot, the husband of the event organiser, Laura.  He helps me with my bags, and soon I am being hugged by Laura and her mother.

Unfortunately one member of the team is not here this year – Bob, who has expertly looked after the sound system over the years, has been through the rigours of heart surgery recently and is not recovered enough to be here.  We will miss him, but at least I can dedicate a line from the show to him: No Bob!

The sound system has been set up in advance and we do a quick check of the microphone, which sounds excellent.

And now there is the issue of my new musical effect at the start of the show.  Laura has brought a huge portable CD player in, which is set up behind the stage, a microphone  that is wired into the main sound system, is ready to be held in front of the speaker.  Joe has been given the task of looking after this Heath Robinson system, and is understandably nervous about the whole operation.

We find a microphone stand, and adjust it so that it is at the same level as the speakers.  Joe can now concentrate on playing track 2 (which features five minutes of tolling bells), and listening for my opening lines, so that he can fade the sound away at the appropriate moment.

We run the beginning of the show a few times, and all seems well.

In the lobby of the church the first audience are beginning to arrive, so I go to my dressing room to get ready, and Laura goes to greet the guests.  Joe looks at the CD player, and makes himself even more nervous!

At 1 o’clock Laura, Joe and I meet at the base of the stairs that lead to the stage.  The team is in place and we are ready to go.  Joe goes to his post, to man the CD player, I go to the back of church’s sanctuary to make my entrance through the audience, and Laura goes to the stage to make the introductory remarks.

Our rehearsals pay off and everything works perfectly.  The music accompanies Ebenezer as he walks through the audience to stand at Marley’s graveside.  The heavy bell starts to toll.  Scrooge removes his hat, and stands, uncomfortably alone.  The narrator takes over: ‘Marley was dead, to begin with’.  The sound effect fades gently to silence. Perfect!

The Broad Street United Methodist Church was built in 1847, and is a beautiful space to perform in.  Bright sunlight shines through the simple stained glass windows and the lighting is augmented by subtle electric candles and overhead lights.

I have often found that I discover new ways of doing things in Burlington:  maybe it is the shape of the stage, or the different levels, or the proximity and friendliness of the audience, but the space seems to encourage creativity.

There are a few moments in the show that I am keen to tweak during this year’s trip and I try a few today.  Many of the audience have seen the show on multiple occasions, and know what is coming.  Today  I have great trouble keeping  a straight face as Mrs Cratchit, for the giggles start long before she leaves to fetch her Christmas pudding.

It is a fun show – that’s definitely the right word!  There is a huge sense of friendship and support, and the ovation at the end feels as if it is a declaration of thanks, as well as congratulation. (That is actually an interesting thought – what emotion is being displayed by an audience at the end of any performance?)

I leave the stage and return to my basement dressing room, where I peel off my costume, towel down, and change into my fresh clothes ready for the signing reception, which is held in a large meeting room, where tea and cookies are served.

That sense of family and friendship continues as I sign and pose for those dedicated followers who return every year.  Many wear their dedication like a badge of honour:  ‘this is our seventh year to see you!’

When every smile has been smiled for every camera (or phone), and every signature signed, I go back to my dressing room and change into my normal clothes, ready for a spot of dinner.

Laura has booked a table (as has become a tradition) and fourteen of us make our way from the church to Francesco’s restaurant just around the corner.

Many of the volunteers follow my blog avidly, so there are many congratulations for Liz and my Wedding.  Everyone wants details and stories and when I tell them about our honeymoon most ask: ‘Why Zanzibar?!’

Dinner is delicious, and I have veal, simply cooked in a lemon sauce, with no cheese, and a salad dressed with balsamic vinaigrette.

When we return to the church there is still over an hour to go before the second show, so I lay on the sofa in my room listening to music, playing backgammon, and reading – all thanks to the wonders of modern technology.

The heating has been turned on to warm the church and the ancient water pipes are groaning and rattling as if Jacob Marley himself is haunting us all.

With forty five minutes to go I get up from my couch, have a hot  cup of tea and start to stretch and breathe properly, in readiness for the evenings events.

I put my costume on, fix the microphone to my shirt, clip the braces to my trousers (suspenders to my pants), tie my cravat and wait for Laura to give me the cue.

This evening’s audience is slightly larger, and has the same mix of old friends spread through the pews.

As the Ghost of Christmas Past is doing his/her stuff I become aware that my little microphone has come unclipped and is dangling down.  As I ‘fall asleep’ in the chair, I turn away from the audience so that I can clip it back, but almost immediately it falls out again.  I decide to leave it hanging, and rely on the room’s excellent acoustics to see me through.

Rather annoyingly I mix some of my lines up:  as Christmas Present morphs into Yet To Come, I say: ‘Scrooge looked all about him for the Ghost of Christmas Present…’ then, instead of continuing ‘but saw him not’, I leap forward to ‘but he saw no likeness of himself among the multitude’, which should come in a few minutes, when Scrooge is taken into the city.

I now have the job of getting back to where I should be and adlibbing in such a way so as not to repeat myself.  It is a clumsy and awkward moment and I am angry with myself for such a  silly mistake.

Apart from that the show is another great success, and the audience are vocal in their thanks.

In the signing session I pose for a photograph with a family, who are regular attendees.  Apparently my picture is on their wall at home more often than some of their closest relatives! However this is a poignant year for them, as their father (and grandfather), has recently passed away.  He read A Christmas Carol to them each year and loved bringing his family to my show every year. As we talk about him there are tears and trembling lips.  It must be so difficult for them to be here, where there are so many happy memories, but they were determined to come and celebrate as he would have wished.

I am sure that he was there with us, watching, laughing, listening.  In fact, he is probably chatting to Charles Dickens right now, asking why Marley’s face looked like ‘a bad lobster in a dark cellar!’

I am feeling very tired as the last of the audience leave.  I pack up my bags, and say good bye to Laura and Joe and the rest of them for another year.

As I drive back to my hotel, the moon, with a tinge of bronze to it, lays lazily on its back, and looks like a huge smile in the sky.

I smile back and reflect on a very happy day.

 

Links:

Broad Street United Methodist Church: http://broadstumc.org/

 

 

 

 

 

From Angels to Brotherly Love

Monday 16 November

 

Mathematics Exam – Basic Level.

Q : A flight departs at 9.20, and the passenger has to be at the airport at 8am.  The airport is a forty-five minute drive away.  What time does the passenger have to leave his hotel?  Explain your answer and show working.

A: 5.30 am.  The airport in question is Los Angeles, and it is Monday morning.  In all probability there will be an accident and the journey could take anything up to three hours.

My alarm is set for 4.45, but I am up and packing before it rings.  I go through the careful process of protecting my top hat, and making sure that I have collected all of my belongings, before leaving the room.  I decide to leave the sun block behind, rather doubting that I will need it again.

The night sky is clear and the stars are looking down at me.  They are old friends now.

Even as I load the car up I can hear the rumble of busy traffic on the freeway close by and as soon as I take the entry ramp I join a river of cars and trucks, flowing like lava towards the City of Angels.

I hook up my phone to the car stereo and flick through my music choices.  Somehow I don’t feel like Christmas music this morning, and I select Liz’s fantastic CD: New York Connections.  The beautiful sound of Gershwin, Joplin and Sondheim will keep me company as I drive, and make me feel closer to home.

As is usual in traffic like this, I have plenty of time to look at the surroundings (although concentration is necessary: the Californian driving style proves the Darwinian theory of the survival of the fittest.  There is no quarter given as cars swap lanes with astonishing boldness).

One roadside sign that catches my attention says: ‘3 Day Suit Broker!’  A suit broker?  I understand a stock broker, or an insurance broker, but a suit broker? A strange world we live in.

My sat nav unit began the journey by telling me that my arrival time would be 6.20, but as I crawl on it amends that to 6.24, 6.30, 6.33. 6.40.

As I approached the City Limits of Long Beach the traffic filled all five lanes, and  there was just a sea of red lights in front of me.  Ironically the first lane to stop was the High Occupancy Vehicle Lane, dedicated to those good drivers who had taken the decision to car share, thereby easing the congestion.

Fascinating Rhythm plays on the stereo: the joyful pace of the music not reflected by the traffic.

There is a sign to Bixby Knolls.  What a great name – it sounds rather like a Hollywood starlet, or an aging repertory actor: ‘Sir Bixby Knolls will reprise his performance as Heathcliff for the twenty-fifth year’.

In my rear view mirror the sun is rising, and the darkness is swallowed up to be replaced with a steely blue, changing rapidly into gold.

At last I see the sign to leave the freeway and am on the final approaches to the airport.  I spot a petrol station and pull in to refill the Sonata before returning it to Avis.  The exit to the forecourt is right on a junction and the traffic is heavy.  I don’t see any opportunity of getting out into it, until a nice lady waves me forward.  I stamp on the accelerator and shoot out into the road, so as not to hold her up.  Quick glance in my mirror, she is way behind; and stationary.  At the moment I register this fact, I become aware that traffic is coming from either side and I realise that I must have run the red light.  Well, when in LA….I accelerate harder and clear the junction before anyone is much the wiser.  Good old Darwin (for the Sonata has now earned its name).

I pull into the Avis lot, and am soon on the bus into the airport terminal, where after the inevitable queues, I am finally able to get some breakfast.

I find a table with a power point and start to work on the blog post, which takes me a little while.  In fact the flight is called before I am able to correct it and add pictures, it.  It will have to sit in the computer’s memory until my layover in Detroit.  No Blog.

The gate is very busy and once again the agents are asking if anyone would mind checking their roller bag, and I again offer.  Sadly on this occasion I do not get offered priority boarding, and I become a part of the slow-moving scrum of people edging their way towards the gate so as to be first in line when ‘Zone 2’ is announced.

I have a window seat, which is always my preferred option, but today the sun is so hot, that even with the shades down I am being cooked.  I have four hours of this ahead of me and it is very uncomfortable.

I have downloaded season 2 of House of Cards into my Kindle so I set it up and watch the first, shocking, episodes.

The flight seems to drag on and on and on.  I follow our progress on the little tracker-map and it seems as if we remain stationary over Colorado forever.  We drone over Nebraska and Idaho before finally, apparently reluctantly, starting our descent into Detroit.

The disembarking is slow, but I am relieved to discover, as I stand up, that my back hasn’t suffered a relapse during the journey.

Detroit is one of those major hubs where the various terminals are linked by a monorail.  It is rare to depart from the same terminal that you arrive in and often an ungainly rush through crowds of people is required to make the onward flight.

Today, however I am in luck as the flight arrives at gate 31,and my onward flight is to depart from gate 29.

I sit down and power up the laptop once more, ready to finally post the blog.  Of course, Murphy’s Law kicks in and the computer chooses this moment to download countless updates, and by the time it is ready to do anything useful my flight is being called.  No Blog.

It is another massively full flight and my cheery good nature is feeling a little fragile by now.  A girl tries to force, and I mean FORCE a bag into the overhead bin, when it is patently obvious it won’t fit.  It is too large by half.  That is why they have those little measuring cradles at check-in and by the gate. There is no excuse for finding that your bag wont fit..  Nobody else can get seated as she selfishly stands there looking at the bin and the bag; the bag and the bin.

Then there is the business man conducting the loudest phone call you can imagine, just so we all know how important he is.  In case the urgent talk of meetings and contracts isn’t enough to convince us, he sets up a conference call for tomorrow: ‘That will be great – yes, I will be through security by then and will be having a glass of red wine in the Delta executive lounge.’ Grrrrrrr.  If you are so important, then why are you in the back with us?

Then, there is the guy next to me: he is large and pushing me against the window, but that’s OK: I have no issue with anybody’s size of course.  But he has the most annoying twitch as he reads his Kindle – every few seconds he shoots his elbow out horizontally.  He doesn’t actually make contact with me, but it is right in my eye line, as I try to read, and becomes more and more irritating as the flight goes on.

Sorry, just grumpy.  Rant over. For now.

The flight from Detroit to Philadelphia is only an hour, and finally I disembark into the cool Pennsylvania air.  I have to pick up a rental car, and here that means waiting for a shuttle bus to take me to the Dollar office.  Is there a Dollar bus to be seen?

As I wait I watch buses from Enterprise and Alamo and National and Hertz (four of them), and Avis (three) go by,  before Dollar puts in an appearance.

It is all made better by the driver, Mike C, who is very cheerful and chatty.  It must be a thankless task driving constantly around an airport perimeter road, but he is very obviously enjoying himself, and that enjoyment is infectious and most welcome to a weary, jaded traveller.

Logistically the day has actually been very easy – there have been no delays or hold ups or difficulties, and the theme continues with Dollar.  In no time I am in possession of a chunky, solid-feeling Mazda CX5, and am on my way towards the Holiday Inn Express located about 30 minutes North of Philadelphia.

As I  leave the airport I notice that the Wells Fargo Center is bathed in red white and blue light, to show support and comradeship to the people of France.  It is good to see that the City of Brotherly Love is living up to its nickname.

The traffic is light and soon I am turning onto the rather unimaginatively named Street Road and into the hotel’s car park.

And now, at last at 8.30 pm, I finally post my blog.

I am very hungry, and as I drove in I noticed an Applebee’s restaurant nearby,  so I get back into my car and set the sat nav.  The route calculation is quick: ‘arrive at destination in 1 minute’ OK, probably didn’t need to drive to the other side of the parking lot!

I have some pasta and chicken and then go back to my room and have a shower, washing the heat and grime of a day in the air away, before turning off my light and drifting away to sleep.

 

Links:

New York Connections performed by Liz Hayes:  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Gershwin-York-Connections-Elizabeth-Hayes/dp/B0002LQQE6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1447764413&sr=8-1&keywords=elizabeth+Hayes+New+York+Connections

Post for Sun Nov 15

The post for Sunday November 15 will be up shortly (during my layover in Detroit!)

The Rain That Never Came, or: Working Intently

Sunday November 16

Today is to be a repeat of yesterday, with two shows in the amphitheatre at Rogers Gardens.  I wake fairly early (I am hoping that when I travel back east tomorrow, my body-clock will settle down a little and allow me to sleep to a time without a 3, 4, or even a 5 in it).

I write and drink coffee, before getting ready for breakfast.  I have another load of white costume shirts waiting to be washed, so I go via reception to ask where the guest laundry is.  Once again, as in Minnesota, it is in a separate building: this seems to be the way of it on this tour.  I am going to get extra fit with my laundry treks!

Having set the machine running, I go to breakfast, where I enjoy a bowl of muesli and fresh fruit, accompanied by orange juice and coffee.

I am keeping an eye on the time, as the Brazilian Grand Prix is being run today and I have discovered that it is being shown live on NBC Sports.  The lights go out at 8am, and I want to be back in my room to watch it.  I finish breakfast and go back to my room, via the laundry where the wash cycle has finished.  Having shrunk one of my casual shirts the other day, I separate my three others from the load of costume shirts, and take them back to my room to drip dry:  I make it back just in time for the race’s start.

As with so many Grand Prix this year, it is a disappointing race, with very little action at the front of the field.  The current regulations make passing difficult, and Lewis Hamilton just can’t mount a challenge to his teammate Nico Rosberg.  It is almost as if Hamilton’s competitive intensity has dimmed slightly since he tied up the World Championship a few races ago.

Fortunately for the television audience young Max Verstappen (only 17 years old), hasn’t read the memo about not being able to overtake, and he enlivens the race with some amazing lunges around the outside of the first corner.

The race drifts to its inevitable conclusion and on the podium Rosberg looks smug and Hamilton looks, well, rather disinterested by the whole thing.

I take the trip down in the lift, walk to the other building, go up the lift and collect my dry shirts, and get ready for the day’s shows.  The weather is a little more overcast and slightly cooler today, but in California that is all relative: it is still somewhere in the 70s.

Just before 11 I load up the car and make the short drive to Rogers, where Theresa is waiting for me.  Apparently Hedda is worried, as the weather forecast is showing high winds and rain sweeping down the coast, from LA towards us.  The plan is to perform the 1pm show outside, and while that is going on to prepare a marquee (which is usually used to store Christmas trees) so that we have an alternative should the bad weather threaten the 5 0’clock performance.

I make my way to the amphitheatre where Patrick, the sound and lighting man, is setting up his equipment.  Hedda arrives and she is looking very stressed about the whole weather thing.  The first threat is the wind, and we will not be able to have the large umbrellas that afforded me protection from the sun yesterday, as they will become large sails, and could wreak havoc among the guests.

The amphitheatre stage: in the sun.

Patrick and I do the briefest of sound checks,  and I amble over to the marquee to take see what is going on there.  It is empty, and the canvas sides are flapping noisily in the ever strengthening breeze.  A member of staff is already hard at work decorating the wall where the stage will be, and a Christmas garland, made of fir and red Christmas ornaments is already being draped from the tent’s frame.

I can do nothing for now, but return to my dressing room and go through my normal preparations for the show.  When I emerge, fully costumed, into the main office area I find Hedda, Theresa, Michael (operations manager) and Nava (marketing director), all gathered around a computer watching the latest radar predictions for the weather.  It is going to be a tight call to even get the first show finished before the rain hits, and that is not even worrying about the effects of the strengthening winds.

With thirty minutes to go before show time the decision is made: we relocate.  This means the set, the sound system, the lighting and, of course, the audience have to be moved.

At least I won’t be needing my sun block today.

At the moment the marquee is a dark space, with chairs being laid out, but the staff of Rogers Gardens sweep into action with a co-ordinated operation that is truly impressive.

Firstly the most vital parts of furniture from my set are brought down on carts, and set up.  The girl who was decorating the tent earlier now starts work on set dressing and in no time it looks as if it had been there all week.

Patrick is re-wiring his sound equipment, and I stay close so we can test it as soon as he is plugged in.

There is a problem with the canvas sides of the marquee flapping noisily, which will distract the audience.  A brief problem-solving conference is held, and a solution found:  espaliered apple trees are transported and placed against the inside of the tent walls, and on the outside flat-bed shopping carts are loaded with sandbags to keep the canvas still.  It is a brilliant solution, and one which helps to decorate the inside too.

The new set

Now Patrick has got the sound rigged, he turns his attention to the lights, and tripods complete with the LED stage lanterns attached are carried into the tent.

Light work

Meanwhile Hedda has addressed the audience and told them what the plan is, and they applaud her.  Everyone is involved in the adventure!  As the work continues in the marquee, the carol singers are busy entertaining the very patient audience.

At 1 o’clock Hedda and Nava announce to the crowd that they can make their way to the tent, and lead them, Pied Piper-like, through the pot plants, shrubs and trees to the new venue, where the transformation is complete.  We actually start the show only ten minutes late, which is a quite remarkable achievement from everyone involved.

And now it is my turn.

Many years ago, when I first adapted A Christmas Carol as a one man show, I decided to stage it very simply, with just a chair and a hat-stand; this meant that I could perform it anywhere.  Never has that decision paid off more completely than today.  As I get into the show, I start testing out the boundaries of the light, and the space

The audience are very close, in fact I am almost on top of the front row and they get the full Dickens experience.  They are fantastic, and seem to be wrapped up in what we in Britain refer to as ‘The Blitz Spirit’: when a group of people are brought closer by adversity.  OK, I grant you being asked to walk from an amphitheatre to a marquee, to watch a show is not really on a par with huddling in the London Underground stations as bombs fall, but the sense of camaraderie is the same.

Does it rain?  Of course it doesn’t, and I am able to adlib when Scrooge looks out of his window on Christmas morning: ‘No fog, no mist….’ and I add, ‘and no rain either.’  It raises a huge laugh and a round of applause.

The show finishes to a fabulous ovation and Hedda looks like the cares of the world have lifted from her shoulders.  We have pulled it off spectacularly.  The staff at Rogers has been simply amazing.

Having changed into a fresh costume I go to greet the patient people in the signing line, where the congratulations continue.  Everyone has thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon.

At the very end of the signing session a gentleman waits, who was sat in the front row for the show. His name is David and he is a journalist who has come to interview me between the shows.  David is a freelance writer, originally from England but now living in Orange County.

He is currently involved in launching a new project, which sounds absolutely fascinating, and which has close connections to the works of Charles Dickens, hence the interview.  The idea is to serialise some of the novels, and release them weekly via an app, to encourage people to read the classics once more.  Of course, this is exactly how Dickens published his books in the first place, so it is a great way to show the works in their original form.  The app is called NoteStream and I encourage anyone with an interest in Dickens to support the project.

We chat for the best part of an hour, and it is a fun conversation.  But now I must get back to work.  I sign a couple of books for David, we shake hands and he leaves, while I start to prepare for the evening show.

It is another full house, but there isn’t the same excitement and buzz to the evening audience.  In fact the show is quite hard work.  They are one of those ‘intense’ audiences: fully focused and concentrating hard, but not quite so willing to open up.  Quite British, in fact.

All I can do in such situations is to just perform the show as well as I can.  The biggest mistake is to try and force a reaction – that never works, and always results in a sub-standard performance.

When I get to the end the applause is loud, long and accompanied by lots of shouts and cheers.  A job well done, I think.

The signing line is one of the longest of the week, which none of us expected.  One constant comment throughout all of the signing sessions has been: ‘are you coming back next year?’  All I can say to that is ‘I hope so!’

At 8pm Rogers Gardens falls quiet again.  The lights in the trees are blowing in the gentle wind, and the forecast rain has never fallen, but with the information available at the time, the decision to move under canvas was definitely the correct one.

I change and pack up all of my bits and pieces from the board room.  Hedda has booked a table for herself, me, Theresa and another staff member, Susan, to have a wind-down dinner.  Theresa gives me the address and having set the sat nav, I follow the instructions and arrive at R+D Kitchen, in a nearby mall.

The four of us are very tired, after a challenging day (for them, much more than me:  I just did the two shows that I was expecting to do).  We eat appetisers, and talk.  We order Entrees and talk.

It turns out that Hedda, whose family come from Henley-on-Thames, almost went to St Helen’s school in Abingdon, where Liz is now head of keyboards in the music department.  It’s a small world.

We finish our meals (I have Greek-style chicken with tabouleh, which is delicious ) and say our goodbyes for another year.  I am sure we will all meet again in twelve months, and who knows what the California weather will have in store for us then?

I return to the Ayres Hotel, and set my alarm for 4.45am: tomorrow is a day of travel.

 

Back to Rogers Gardens

Saturday 14 November

My night has been broken and restless, as I’ve been trying to find a position, and an arrangement of pillows, that will ease the continuing spasms in my lower back.  I really doubt that I will be able to do the shows today, or at the very best I will have to sit in a chair and just recite, which will be disappointing for everyone involved.

Having written the blog, propped up and surrounded by pillows like an elderly man in his hospital ward, I start the lengthy process of getting up to make coffee, and am slightly surprised that I am able to move with less difficulty than I’d imagined.  Maybe things won’t be quite so bad after all.

I stand in my room and tentatively begin a series of stretching exercises, keeping my back straight at all times.  It works, and soon those big muscles that were threatening to lock are becoming mobile once more.

I run another hot bath, and follow it up with a shower, directing the powerful jet to my back.  When I emerge I am feeling human again!

I go to breakfast.  The hotel is built around a lovely courtyard, with a fountain in the middle.  The sky is Californian blue, and the morning temperatures are already warm.  The idyllic surroundings are slightly spoiled by the smell of aviation fuel, from planes departing the nearby John Wayne Airport.

That said, the courtyard is a lovely place to sit with an orange juice and coffee, just relaxing (I believe the term in these parts is ‘chilling’; I am British, however and must preserve the high standards of our mother tongue)

Worries about my ability to perform subsiding, I need to prepare for the day ahead, so iron shirts for two shows and makes sure that everything is packed in my little roller-bag.

I do some research and find that there is a CVS Pharmacy just a mile from the hotel.  I pick up all of my costume and go to the car park, where my unloved silver Hyundai Sonata is patiently waiting for me.

Alright, I was rather mean about it yesterday and as I look at it again, I realise that it is a sleek model, not unlike a Mercedes in shape.  I silently apologise and we vow to start on a new footing today.

At CVS I scour the shelves and purchase pain killers expressly targeted at the back region, a pack of medicated, adhesive heat pads and some sun block.

My performances at Rogers Gardens are in an open-air amphitheatre and re-reading last year’s blog reminded me that I got terribly red, so the sun block is an essential part of my preparations.

It is still far too early to go to the venue, so I decide to do a little exploring.  I scroll through the points of interest on the satnav unit I find ‘Balboa Island Pier’.  I maybe a bit slow sometimes, but I am guessing that Balboa Island Pier may – just possibly – be near the ocean.

I follow the directions and am soon driving slowly through the small community of Balboa.  The main street is narrow and crowded and lined with two story wooden houses.  There are plenty of juice bars and everyone looks so, well, Californian.  Most of the crowd is in brightly-coloured lycra – their bronzed skin glistening as they run, or power-walk.  A few grizzled relics from the 60s, with various shark-toothed necklaces, pass the time of day with each other.  This really could be a set in nearby Hollywood!

I drive until I can go no further, and then I walk along the edge of the sea relishing every sight, smell and sensation: Balboa is a seafront community, with each house having its own jetty.  The size and opulence of the craft moored there tells its own story as to the wealth of the owner.

Across the sound (presumably from the island itself, which is serviced by a small ferry), come the strains of a tuba being played.

Paddling at Balboa

Seen it all before

The water is full of people Kayaking, and paddling surfboards.  A few little motorboats buzz here and there.  A stately pelican stands on a wooden post and watches it all go by.

The sky is blue and the palm trees are vivid green against it.  As I stand looking at this gentle scene, I remember that despite the events of yesterday the world is essentially a good place, a peaceful, friendly place and no minority will ever take that from us.

I leave Balboa in a very positive frame of mind, and ready for the day’s events.

Rogers Gardens is basically a nursery, but on a grand scale.  The car park is already full but I find a spot near the back gate, which is where my actual venue is situated.  As soon as I enter, members of staff are welcoming me back, and a series of radio messages sees me handed over to Theresa who is in charge of looking after me during the next two days.  She has been labelled my ‘handler’.

We go to a building, containing some of the administrative offices, which is to double up as my dressing room and green room.  I am shown into a board room, and Theresa fetches me a coffee.  There is a box of books on the table that need signing for a group attending the first show, so I get down to that, while we talk.

As it is still early, I decide to sneak around the garden centre incognito and take a few pictures, but almost as soon as I emerge into the sunlight I am greeted by Hedda, who is responsible for booking me.  Hedda is a Brit, and is in charge of ‘Holiday Buying’ for Rogers Gardens.  Last year she put a toe in the water by booking me for a single day, to see what the public’s reaction was: the result was two sell-out shows, so this year she has doubled my stay.

We walk to the little amphitheatre, where the set has already been laid out in front of the large box hedge backdrop.  The technical guy is testing the twin bars of LED theatre lights, and has three microphones to chose from.  Between us we settle on a head mic, that you wear like a pair of back-to-front spectacles.  It’s a bit Madonna (or Brittney Spears – depending on your generation), but it will do the job, without falling off.

With our sound check completed I carry on with my tour of the gardens, admiring the amazing displays. In a room dedicated to Christmas I get my first glimpse of the Byers Choice carollers proudly on show.  As ever, when I see the carollers, I feel an immense sense of pride in what Joyce, Bob and the family have achieved.

Byers Choice

For those of you who are unaware, Byers Choice manages and promotes my tours in America.  I have been working with them for over ten years and they are the kindest and most professional people you could wish to meet.  I was fortunate to be introduced to them all of those years ago and our entire relationship –professional and personal – is thanks to these figures looking back at me from a Christmas display in California.

Time is moving on, so I go back to the office and change ready for the first show.  I take my pain killers, and affix the heat pad to my back (like I need extra heat, the temperatures are nudging the high seventies outside).  I liberally apply the sun cream to the expanses of my forehead and then sit to relax and wait.

Theresa is hovering, with ten minutes to go before the show we decide to walk up to the theatre.  On stage a quartet of carol singers are entertaining the crowd, and I take pleasure in the fact that they are also in heavy woollen Victorian coats and scarves – at least I am not the only one suffering: comrades!

The carollers finish and Hedda makes her introductory remarks, finishing with: ‘and now relax and enjoy A Christmas Carol.’  That should be the cue for my music to start, but there is a glitch in the system and there is a rather unprofessional pause, followed by some electronic static, and finally the tolling bells come in.  I walk through the centre of the audience, and begin the show.

It is a strange feeling being in the open air, and seeing the audience so close, and so plainly.  Real life goes on around us:  a nearby display of wind chimes add their own soundtrack to Victorian London.  A baby cries out, at the very moment that the Ghost of Christmas Present brings forth ignorance and want.  It is as if the whole nursery is joining in with the show.

The heat isn’t quite as bad as id expected, as Hedda had arranged for a series of well-placed giant umbrellas to provide some shade (last year the sun was directly in my eyes, and made things difficult: the folks at Rogers are good at learning lessons).  Even my back seems to be playing along…until…I jump up into the air as Fezziwig:  as I land I can feel all of those lower muscles cry out in protest.  For the remainder of the show, I am a little more careful.

It is great fun and the audience respond fantastically and when I finish they are all standing (maybe out of relief, those seats can’t be comfortable!) and cheering.

Theresa escorts me back to the office, where I have 15 minutes to towel down and change, before making my way back to a signing session, where there is a line of people waiting for me.  Hedda has set up a table and chair for me in one of the display areas, which will be Santa’s base in a few days time.  The people are very kind and complimentary, and lots of pictures are taken.

After the signing has finished, I go back to the office, change out of my costume and make the most of the two hour break before my early-evening show at 5.

I drink some coffee, play backgammon on my phone, read a book on my Kindle, lay flat on the floor to ease my back muscles again.

And soon it is 4pm, and the process of preparation begins again.  More painkillers, another hot patch, new shirt.  Make sure watch is transferred from the other waistcoat, Victorian penny in pocket.  New batteries in microphone, cravat properly tied. New cartridge in fountain pen ready for the signing session.  Shoes double knotted, check coat collar turned down properly.

Ready.

As Theresa escorts me to the top of the amphitheatre the sun has just set, but the sky still has a light blue tinge to it, and the moon is the smallest sliver you can imagine.  The carollers are performing again, this time grateful for their scarves and the audience is appreciatively clapping each song, which is always a good sign.

Hedda takes to the stage, gives the cue and this time the sound effect comes in bang on time.  The musical intro lasts for exactly the amount of time it takes me to walk down the steps, which is a happy coincidence.

Again the show is great fun and made more even more magical by the gathering night.  All of the trees in the nursery are festooned with white lights, and the whole setting is simply amazing.

I make sure NOT to leap into the air as Fezziwig tonight, and enjoy a pain-free show, which is a huge relief, considering that this morning I was having doubts as to my ability to do it at all.

The only problem I have is when I fling my top hat high into the air as ‘Scrooge got dressed all in his best.’  Black hat, black sky and I have no idea where it has gone:  fortunately it returns to my groping hands successfully.

The show finishes and again the audience stand, and cheer.

Having changed and returned to Santa’s chair, I spend thirty minutes or so chatting and poising.  There are quite a few actors in the line, who say nice things about the show, and the transition between the different characters.  It is always nice to get a fellow professional’s take on the show, and actors are always brutally fulsome in their praise (whatever they actually think: ‘daaahling, you were quite simply wonderful!’)

It is 7pm, and it feels like 10.  I change back into my regular clothes, thereby changing from Gerald Charles Dickens back into Gerald Dickens, and go back to my car.

After a short panic as to the whereabouts of my wallet (a regular occurrence), I drive back to the hotel, have dinner in the restaurant and am in my room by 8.30.

I watch a bit of TV and then try to read, but my broken night and the rigours of the day soon have me nodding off, so I turn the lights out and let sleep take me.

Links:

Rogers Gardens: http://rogersgardens.com/

Byers Choice:  http://www.byerschoice.com/

A Shrunken Shirt, A Bad Back, A Traffic Jam: It Is All Meaningless.

Friday 13 November

Today I am to head west, and as my flight does not leave until early afternoon, I have a morning to catch up with a few things.

Blog, shower and breakfast are all accomplished without problem, and I turn my attention to an email from Pam Byers, detailing various issues for the forthcoming weeks.

Pam has been co-ordinating my tours for the last couple of years. The logistics of getting me to the right places at the right times, to do the right show, for the right people is immense and the document that contains all of the information is a truly impressive thing.

Of course, as a tour progresses, some things change: media interviews are planned and ideas for shows are slightly developed.

Today Pam has told me that one of the venues require a forty-five minute version of A Christmas Carol for some students to watch. My full version of the show is around eighty five minutes now, and the shortest edit I have is for an hour.  So, to lose another fifteen minutes will be an interesting challenge, and I need to start thinking about it straight away.

An empty morning also means one thing, as regular readers will know: laundry!

The Comfort Inn and Suites, Chanhassen, is a three story hotel, built in two wings, leading off from a central reception area.  I am staying on the second floor of the east wing, whereas the guest laundry is on the third floor of the west.  This means lots of long treks through the central area, until finally I have a bag of warm, clean, fresh clothing.

Now to pack my case: this all revolves around the top hat, which has to be protected at all costs.  First I stuff it with socks, to pad its shape from inside, and then I wrap my thick knitted woolly scarf around it, and position it on the base of the suitcase.  I pack more socks, and other small items around it, before packing white shirts behind it.  When the hat is fully protected on all sides I lay my waistcoat and frock coat over it and it is safely cocooned against the rigours of air travel.

Sadly I have one casualty in the laundry bag, as a favourite short of mine has shrunk, and the sleeves only make it about half way down my arms now. I bid it farewell and commit it to the rubbish bin in my room.

It is now time to check out and the day is a glorious one, with clear skies and warm (most un-Minnesotan) temperatures. As I drive away from the hotel I pass a branch of Lunds Grocery store, and I have a wave of happy nostalgia.  When Liz and I were in Minneapolis in February, Lunds became our local store, and it is magnificently stocked with fresh fruit and vegetables.

As I drive towards the airport I see a sign for Nicollet Avenue, which is where the Music Box Theatre is situated: another happy memory, and I am smiling as I reach the airport and drop my car off.

I unload my bags from the car and make my way into the terminal.

(I am writing these words on the following morning. Throughout the day I make lots of little notes on my phone, to remind me of the little details which would otherwise slip my memory.  As I read now I see that yesterday I wrote ‘BUSTY AIRPORT’.  I assume that is self-correcting for ‘busy’ for I do not recall being aware of the crowd being particularly busty!)

The terminal is so busy, there are crowds everywhere. The security line alone seems to wind throughout the building, without beginning or end.  Fortunately I have plenty of time, so I just wait it out until I am safely through.

(Much later in the day the frustration borne out of extra security measures will be brought into sharp relief)

The flight to Los Angeles looks as if it is going to be very full indeed, and the gate agent asks if anyone is willing to check their roller hand luggage, rather than carrying it on. I don’t need anything from my small case, so volunteer, and am rewarded by being boarded in Zone 1 (which ironically means that most of the overhead bins are empty)

The seats are in banks of three and I am rather squashed next to the window. My comfort isn’t helped by the fact that I have twinged my back this morning (probably loading or unloading my bags from the car), and I can feel it beginning to stiffen.

Recently Delta flights have been serving cookies, pretzels and peanuts as a snack, but the flight attendant announces that there will be no peanuts on this journey, as one passenger has a severe allergy, and to prevent the risk of any contamination which may affect him or her, the decision has been made to rid the entire plane of peanuts. That is a company who takes food issues very seriously, and a great credit to them.

I pass the flight by watching the last two episodes of House of Cards, and then admire the views below.  We are flying over the snow caped Rockies and the low setting sun casts a wonderful golden glow on the snow as well as creating long, deep eerie shadows.

Soon we are flying over a huge reservoir which in this part of the world can only mean one thing, and sure enough The Strip in Las Vegas is soon curling away in the middle of the desert.

We start to descend and on our right wing is another plane making his approach to the parallel runway. As we get to ground level it disappears behind the terminal building, but there is yet another runway next to us, where a third jet is taking off.  LAX is a truly frightening airport – there is so much going on.  I hope that their air traffic control software is up to date.

When we reach our gate I go to stand and my worst fears are realised. The pain from my back is extreme.  I wince and sweat, and can hardly breathe.  I have to say, this does not bode well for tomorrows shows.

As I exit the plane every twist and move sends fresh waves of pain through me and I move awkwardly, crab-like towards the baggage claim, where I have the unenviable task of hoiking two bags off.

I try to twist and exercise , get the muscles moving, before they spasm and lock completely, and manage to move a little more easily to the car rental desk, where I am quickly installed in a little Hyundai Saloon (not exciting enough to merit a name), and head out onto the highways of Los Angeles as 5pm.

Good Lord, I have never seen so many cars, all nose-to-tail, filling multiple-lane roads. At each overpass the road beneath is a canvas of white and red colour: modern art representing a million people desperate to get to somewhere, all of them pumping exhaust gasses into the atmosphere.

Oh, how lovely the Rockies were just an hour or so ago……

The traffic never lets up as I crawl past Long Beach and on towards my destination, the Ayres Resort hotel near Newport Beach.

As soon as I am in my room I run a scalding hot bath and relax my back into it. It seems to help, which is a good sign.

It is as I am laying in the bath that I first hear the truly terrible news from Paris.

What an awful world we live in, when such carefully planned and co-ordinated attacks can be levelled on a beautiful city at play for the weekend.

In the course of my trips I see happy, cheerful, loving, caring people. And then there is this: Sick, depraved hatred, targeting the innocent.

Suddenly a bad back is meaningless.

My thoughts go out to everyone in France, who have suffered so much over the last year. You will win through, goodness always does, but in these dark days the huge majority of the World is praying for you.

A Challenge Overcome

Thursday 12 November

At the beginning of a tour there are always certain landmark days, which herald a first. Today, for example, will be the first time this year that I perform A Christmas Carol twice in a day, and how my energy levels hold up will be an indication as to how the rest of the trip will pan out.  My first week has actually been fairly easy going and there is a much tougher schedule ahead of me, so I hope that I come through today’s events without any problems.

My sleep patterns are still a bit haywire, and I am able to sit in bed for a couple of hours catching up with emails and writing my blog, before getting up and ready for Breakfast.

I am not entirely sure how the day is going to work out, so I pack everything I need for two shows, just in case I don’t get back to the hotel between times. I iron four shirts and carefully pack two waistcoats, trousers, frock coats and two sets of braces; as well as my watch and cufflinks.

9am seems to be very early to leave the hotel for a 1’oclock show, but David promised to give me a tour of the arboretum today, and we have arranged to meet at 9.30.

The drive from the hotel is a short one and I am soon turning into a long curving driveway, and pulling up at a security checkpoint, where a lady asks my name, which I tell her.

‘Oh! Yeah! I was told to look out for you and see if you look like Charles Dickens, but I don’t know what Charles Dickens looks like, so I was worried I wouldn’t recognise you!’

I put on my top hat for her: ‘does this help?’

‘Oh! Yes, now THAT is good! Have a great day, a great show’ and so I get my first experience of the anticipation and excitement here.

David is waiting for me in the vast wooden atrium of the visitor centre and takes me through to see my performing space, which is a small, elegant room with a barrel roof. A stage has been erected at the far end and it is well dressed and decorated.  There is lots of spruce, giving off that gorgeous smell of pine forest, and the deep green is offset by poinsettias of red and white.  The team here have done an amazing job.

There are about a hundred chairs laid out in immaculate straight rows. With nobody sitting in them they look stark, rather disconcertingly like a KKK meeting.

I am introduced to various members of staff and everyone is excited about the day ahead. The two performances are to be private events for the patrons and donors to the arboretum, so the team are anxious to impress.

Our tour of the centre continues and David takes me to the library, where there is a truly impressive archive of books documenting the scientific discovery of various plantlife throughout the ages.  The oldest book in the collection dates back to the 1500s.

The librarian pulls a huge volume out from a rack and opens it carefully to show me the most amazing watercolour illustrations of Parakeets. The colours are as vivid as the day they were painted.

‘Do you recognise the painter?’ I’m afraid that my knowledge of Victorian bird illustrators is limited, but I look at the small signature anyway, to be polite: Edward Lear!  Long before he became famous for his nonsense poems, Lear was a jobbing illustrator, and had been commissioned to contribute to this major work, detailing previously undiscovered birdlife in Africa.

And this seems a sensible time to break away from my tour, and to pay tribute to Edward Lear’s literary efforts:

There was a Young Lady whose chin, Resembled the point of a pin; So she had it made sharp, And purchased a harp, And played several tunes with her chin.

There was a Young Lady of Portugal, Whose ideas were excessively nautical: She climbed up a tree, To examine the sea, But declared she would never leave Portugal.

There was a Young Lady whose eyes, Were unique as to colour and size; When she opened them wide, People all turned aside, And started away in surprise.

And with that, let us resume.

The next part of our tour is outside and David leads the way to his Jeep. We are going to drive around the park on Three Mile Drive.  As we turn off the main route and into the trees, it feels as if we are in a new Jurassic Park film – a sensation heightened by the giant turkeys that stand in the road impeding our progress.

Even in the winter the Arboretum is an impressive site. The sinuous road passes various areas given over to specific species, and it has been cleverly landscaped with lakes and statuary to complement the planting.

We wind our way back to the beginning of the route and disembark at the visitor centre. It has been a great tour, and has given me a sense as to the scale of the arboretum and what it means to the people who work here.

And now, it is back to work. We do a sound check for my microphone (which I probably don’t really need), and for my opening sound effect, which is run from an iphone : ah, the modern world.

The lighting in the room is not brilliant, but David is already talking about getting theatre spots installed for next year to correct that. Seeing how he works I have no doubt that they will be here when I return.

With an hour to go before the audience arrives I go to my green room, which is a terribly impressive second floor space, with views across the landscape outside. I get into my costume and then sit checking my phone and have the lovely experience of seeing Liz’s name pop up on my Facebook page.  We chat back and forth for a little while, until we both have to sign off – her to eat supper and me to get ready to meet and greet.

The Green Room

As this is an exclusive event the staff have laid on an hour-long cocktail reception before the show. I go and cruise the various rooms, chatting randomly to anyone I can find.  Eventually, and without apparent instruction, the crowd starts to move into the theatre and before I know it, we are all ready for the off.

I have to be honest: it is not an easy show. Something just doesn’t seem to ‘click’ and it seems to be a struggle to engage the audience.  It feels alright to me, I don’t feel wanting for energy, and the words are all there.  I can’t put my finger on it.

Maybe it is the more formal nature of the event, or the lighting, or the temperature, but what it comes down to really, is that I just do not get the job done to my satisfaction, which is annoying.

The audience clap loudly, and there are lots of encouraging comments and handshaking as they leave, but it all feels slightly hollow.

Damn, that is frustrating!

I go back to my dressing room to change. Downstairs all of the staff are delighted by the response.  As the shuttle busses took people back to the car park, everyone was talking in glowing terms about the show, so maybe the problem is in my mind only.  Anyway, I need to re-set a little, so decide to go back to the hotel for a couple of hours.

Once there I have a short nap, before waking with the alarm, having a cold, energising shower, and getting ready to go again.

Back at the arboretum there is still a buzz from earlier and I feel a little more positive. I chat with Peggy and David and various other members of the team, before going back to my room to change again.

The main bar for the reception is in the room beneath me and as the audience starts to gather I can tell that they are a much livelier crowd, as the noise levels are much higher than this afternoon. Good: now I must do my part.

I go downstairs to meet and greet and the first person I see is my friend Dennis Babcock, the producer of To Begin With, which we premiered in Minneapolis back in February. We greet each other with a large hug.

I move around the room chatting with various folk, some of whom I have met during the day, others who have only just arrived for the show. Once again the almost imperceptible drift begins in the bar and the river of the audience flows towards their seats.

This evening I nail it. I wish I could tell you what is different, but the energy level is high, the timing is precise and the audience very responsive.  At the end they stand to applaud and I take my bows very, very gratefully.

I stand outside the hall and everyone comes up, offering congratulations and shaking my hand. Autographs are requested and superlatives shared.  This is much more like it.

As the happy crowd leaves, a member of staff whispers to me ‘there was probably $50,000,000 worth of investment in that room tonight.’ I’m glad that I didn’t know that beforehand!

I have arranged to have dinner with Dennis, so go back to my room to change and pack, desperately trying not to leave anything there. When I come down again I say goodbye to David and Peggy and all of the team, thanking them so much for all of their hospitality and generosity.  It has been an amazing day, and I am greatly looking forward to returning to The Minnesota Landscape Arboretum next year.

Dennis and I decide to go to the restaurant near my hotel, where David and Peggy took me yesterday and he says he will follow me. I get off to a good start by turning the wrong way in the car park.  Dennis dutifully follows and patiently matches my u-turn and away we go on the correct route.

The restaurant is almost empty, but we order some appetisers and catch up on our news. Of course Dennis is keen to know about the wedding and honeymoon to Zanzibar.

After a while we discuss the ongoing situation of To Begin With – or not ongoing situation, as it is at the moment. Having got the show to the stage with great critical acclaim, Dennis now needs a major investment to move it on to the next level.  At the moment, frustratingly, there are no investors coming forward, although there are plenty of irons in the fire and plenty of tentative interest.  Just one of those contacts needs to take the plunge.  It is a waiting game.  I just hope we don’t have to wait for too long!

It is 10.30 when we say goodbye and I return to my hotel.

It has been a fascinating day, both from a personal and professional point of view.  I have been introduced to a remarkable team in a remarkable setting, and I hope that today is just the beginning of a long association together.

Professionally I had a challenging day, but believe that I met that challenge and overcame it.  That is a nice positive thought to fall asleep with.

Link: http://www.arboretum.umn.edu/

Heading North

Wednesday 11 November

So it is time to move on. The Inn at Christmas Place seems to have become home and it is a strange feeling to be packing up and leaving room 529.  However the tour must go on and today I am headed north to Minneapolis, another favourite city of mine.

It is still dark as I check out. One of the staff is just arriving for work, and makes a shivering sound: ‘brrrr, its chilly this morning!’  Chilly?  The folks in Tennessee do not know the meaning of the word:  when Liz and I were in Minneapolis in February it was 27 below; now that is chilly.

The roads are quiet, and there is patchy fog hanging over the road. I wonder if it will affect my flight, but then realise that it doesn’t matter.  I have a direct flight today, with no connections and do not have any actual commitments in Minneapolis until tomorrow.

I have hooked up my phone to the car’s stereo system, and have my Christmas playlist blasting out. For the first time on this trip I have the delight of singing along to ‘I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas’.

The miles pass by.  I drive across a bridge over Happy Creek, which is rather nice, and see a sign warning me that ‘The Use Of Unapproved Compression Brakes Prohibited!’.  I don’t know what compression brakes are.  I don’t know where to go to get them approved.  I assume if I have compression brakes, and I have not had them approved (there is nothing in the car to tell me one way or the other), then I am not allowed to brake on this stretch of road.  Fortunately it is flat and there is no reason to slow down, which is a great relief to me at 6am.

I stop at a petrol station near to the airport and fill Ethie up with fuel, before taking him back to the Dollar car rental drop-off zone. Dollar are obviously not doing great business in Knoxville as all of their spaces are full and there is nowhere to park.  I pull in as far out of the way as I can and reluctantly say goodbye to my faithful companion of the last few days.

The Airport is quiet this morning and check-in is easy. With my boarding card in hand I go to security, where I take off my watch and my belt and my shoes and place them in the large plastic trays.  On the other side I get belted up again and head for the Rudy Tuesday concession for some breakfast.

I have travelled through the McGhee Tyson Airport on many occasions, and as I mentioned a few days ago, it is a favourite of mine, but I have never known the history of its name, so while I eat I look it up online.

Charles McGhee Tyson was a son of wealthy socialite parents in Knoxville and he lived a privileged life, playing golf and dating the daughters of similarly affluent families.  He was sent to be educated at Princeton, but returned to Knoxville after he graduated to work as an executive in his father’s textile mills.

In 1917, as the First World War raged in Europe McGhee (as he was commonly called) enlisted in the Naval Reserve Flying Corps and eventually was posted to England, where he was stationed at the mouth of the Humber.  His squadron’s mission was to drop mines over the North Sea targeting the German U Boat threat.

Late in October 1918 McGhee’s plane crashed shortly after take off (there is doubt about the reason – some say it was shot down, other accounts suggest it hit another allied plane in the thick fog).  Although the pilot survived, McGhee was lost and and his body was not retrieved for a few weeks.  Indeed, as the rest of Europe celebrated Armistice Day on November 11, McGhee’s father had the terrible duty of identifying his son.

Many years later Bettie Tyson, his mother, donated some money for a small airstrip to be built at Knoxville, with the proviso that it be named after her son, the aviator.

How extraordinary to read this story on Armistice Day itself, and the thoughts and prayers of thanks that go out to all servicemen today seem to have an even greater poignancy.

I am shaken out of my thoughtful state by an announcement over the tannoy: ‘Will the person who left their watch at security please come and reclaim it.  It has a black strap, a silver face and has Skagen written on it.  Please return to retrieve your property.’

Oh, my lovely watch! Liz gave me that for a birthday present and I adore it.  It is very slim and stylish and, as far as I am aware, exclusive to John Lewis where we bought it.  Thank heavens that the security people have found it before my flight boards. I make my way back to the agents and ask for my watch.  ‘But, another man just claimed it’ they say.

‘That’s MY watch!’

‘An older guy, with a beard came straight up and took it’

There is crime afoot and immediately one of the agents starts to trawl all of the gates in search of the master watch thief of Knoxville. I am terribly upset to have lost my beautiful watch, but also, so upset at human nature.  I tend to trust everyone, and when that trust is betrayed it leaves me feeling very empty indeed.

And then I think back. When I went through the security check I had taken my watch off and put it in my coat pocket then bundled it all up in the tray.

Since hearing the announcement I haven’t actually looked in my coat pocket, I just reacted to an exact description of my watch. So, while the guard is searching for the older bearded man I go back to my coat and there, in the pocket, is a black-strapped, silver-faced Skagen watch.

Now a double hunt ensues, as I am trying to track down the security guard as he is trying to track down the other man. Fortunately I am more successful than he is and I manage to explain the situation, before a very embarrassing confrontation occurs.

I return to the restaurant and pay for breakfast before going to the gate, where the flight soon boards. The early morning fog has lifted now and it is a beautiful morning as we soar over those wonderful mountains.

The flight to Minneapolis is due to take just over two hours, so I set up my Kindle and watch two episodes of House of Cards (the new, Kevin Spacey version). It is so well made and I have become completely hooked.

My viewing pleasure is briefly interrupted by the flight attendant serving drinks. The world of corporate sponsorship has hit the airline industry these days.  No longer do Delta offer a ‘drinks service’; these days they are ‘proud to offer Pepsi products and Starbucks coffee’.

By the way, the flight attendant looks like Telly Savalas, which is quite disconcerting and rather frightening. ‘Who Loves ya Baby?’

We land at Minneapolis on schedule and it is a sunny day here too, which is a welcome sight after the ice and snow of February. Even the temperature is at a decent level.

I fetch my bags and take a tram to the car rental plaza and soon I am in a pristine white Toyota Corolla heading out onto the freeways surrounding Minneapolis.

All is well with the world: the roads are running freely, the sun is shining, I am in a city I love, I have my watch on – what more could I ask for? I glance at the sat nav and realise that as I am making my way round a long right handed curve, the picture is showing a turn to the left over the river.  I look to my left and not only does the road not go that way but there is no river either.  The satnav unit is struggling to find a GPS signal and, presumably to make me feel good, is displaying a completely fictitious route.

It is at moments like this that you realise quite how much faith you put into these little boxes. I have NO idea where I am, and NO idea where my hotel is.  I turn the unit off and on a few times, and fiddle with the settings menu until at last the proper picture appears.  By sheer good luck I am going in the right direction and my exit from the freeway is just coming up on my right.  A lucky escape indeed.

Although it is early I am able to check in at my hotel, and in my room there is a welcoming bag of goodies, including four miniature bottles of Islay Single Malt Scotch!

I am here to perform two private shows for the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, and the event has been arranged by Peggy Johnson, who has been coming to see my various shows for many years.

I settle into my room, and set about trimming my beard for the first time on this trip, which is never a job of a moment and which involves a great deal of cleaning up in the bathroom afterwards.

I buy a sandwich for lunch and then relax a little (why I need to relax, I do not know: I haven’t really done anything for two days!). Peggy rings and we arrange to meet for an early dinner at five.

The weather outside has changed and now a torrid thunderstorm is ranging over head. The dark sky is ripped apart by flashes of lightening, and the heavy thunder comes in immediately afterwards.  The rain is heavy and the car park outside my window is rapidly flooding.

At five I go to the lobby and Peggy is waiting for me. We drive for, well, probably 30 seconds across the highway, and pull up outside a steak restaurant where David Maddison, the young Director of The Minnesota Lanscape Arboretum, is waiting for us.  We shake hands and are shown to a booth.

Dinner is great fun. David is incredibly passionate about the Arboretum, and has great plans for it (which include bringing me back for a series of performances much closer to Christmas next year).  He also likes golf and James Bond films, so we are going to get along just fine!

Our meals come and I have a delicious parmesan-crusted Walleye (a white fish, native to the Minnesota lakes, related to the Pike family), with wild rice.

David offers to show me some of the Arboretum tomorrow morning, before my sound check, which will be fun. His enthusiasm is infectious and I am anxious to lean as much about the place as I can, especially if our professional relationship is going to be a long-term one.

Dinner finished we say goodbye and head out into the torrential rain once more.

Coming to a new venue is sometimes difficult, but the feeling I get from David and Peggy (who knows the show of course, and has been the driving force for my coming here), is one of immense enthusiasm and excitement. I think that tomorrow will be fun!