The Great Ormond Street Hospital is one of the leading centres for the care of children in Britain, if not in the world. Specifically GOSH is a leading centre for paediatric heart transplants, with state of the art equipment and the very best personnel, all of which comes at a cost. Fundraising for Great Ormond Street is vitally important and the team who promote and encourage various charitable events are busy indeed.
Those priorities (care of children and finding enough money to survive) have been the same since the hospital opened in 1852. At that time there were only ten beds in a converted mansion in the Bloomsbury region of London, and Dr West appealed to anyone who could help to spread the word. Fortunately he was acquainted with Charles Dickens and encouraged him to write an article in his magazine, Household Words.
In the edition published on 3 April 1852 was an article entitled ‘Drooping Buds’ and it opened thus:
‘In Paris, Berlin, Turin, Frankfurt, Brussels and Munich. In Hamburg, St Petersburg, Moscow, Vienna, Prague, Perth. Copenhagen, Stuttgart, Graz, Brunn, Lemberg and Constantinople; there are hospitals for sick children. There was not one at all in England until the other day.
‘No hospital for sick children! Does the public know what is meant by this? Those little graves two or three feet long which are so plentiful in our churchyards and our cemeteries – to which, from home, in absence from the pleasures of society, the thoughts of many a young mother sadly wander…..’
He went on to describe the necessity of specially trained doctors and nurses, so vital when the patients could not answer questions or explain their symptoms. He talked about the cheerful decor and air of positivity in the old building, once the home of respectable families. His words enlightened the world and soon donations and subscriptions were pouring in.
Six years later the hospital had outgrown the old house and money was again needed for expansion. Dickens stepped up to the plate once more, giving a speech at the annual Festival Dinner and then by giving a public performance at The Martin’s Hall in central London. The money raised from the reading enabled the Hospital for Sick Children to buy the next door mansion and ensured not only its survival but its growth.
It must be pointed out that Dickens was not the only literary benefactor, for there were many; most famously JM Barry left the copyright of Peter Pan to the hospital, ensuring a lasting and regular income.
So, why am I telling you all of this, other than it being an interesting peek into philanthropic life of Charles Dickens? Well, two years ago I decided to run a half marathon and at that time raised funds for Brain Tumour Research, in memory of my sister-in-law Sheila Woodruff. Last year I was recovering from my bout of Covid and various related medical conditions, and found that I couldn’t run. The doctors told me to keep active, but I couldn’t even manage a single mile without becoming breathless. I walked and cycled, but running was out of the question until late in the summer when little by little I was able to achieve longer distances. This year I am out on the roads again, increasing my distances and decreasing my times to an extent that I am confident that I can once more tackle the 13 mile route in October.
And so I am delighted to announce that my chosen charity for 2024 is The Great Ormond Street Hospital. I have already set up a JustGiving page to receive donations and although the race itself is many months away, I urge you to help support such an incredible cause. I hope to work closely with the fundraisers through the year, and may possibly recreate Charles’ 1858 performance of A Christmas Carol in London, but for now the big event is The Oxford Half Marathon. I have set a fundraising target of £3,000 and would love to smash that. The link to the fundraising page is at the end of this post.
This morning my branded running vest arrived, complete with my name blazoned across front and back above the tagline ‘A better future for seriously ill children STARTS HERE’ So: Ready. Steady. GO!!
Throughout July and August I have enjoyed a Summer break from performing, and spent plenty of time with the family. Once the children had finished their school year, and spent a week rediscovering the boredom of freedom, we packed up our car and headed to France for a week. I tell you this not to give you a blow by blow account of our holidays, but to describe a visit to an exhibit that I have wanted to see since my childhood: The Bayeux Tapestry.
Bayeux
In England the date 1066 is as well known to schoolchildren as 1776 is in America, for it was the last time an English Monarch was defeated by a foreign invader. With the death of King Edward the Confessor there was a dispute over the throne of England and two contenders came to the fore: firstly, Harold Godwinson, a Saxon King, who claimed that Edward (his brother-in-law) had promised him the throne on his deathbed. Across the English Channel William, the Duke of Normandy, was somewhat irked for he was of the opinion that Edward (first cousin, once removed) had promised the throne to him. Not only that, but Harold had actually pledged an oath of allegiance to William, so when William heard that the crown of England has been placed on the the wrong head he drew up his plans to get it back.
Things moved quickly, William had a fleet of ships built in the small Normandy port of Dives (actually very close to our camping site), and in October 1066 sailed the channel with a well prepared army to confront Harold at Senlac Hill, near Hastings on the south coast. Harold’s forces were already weary having marched to the north east of England to defeat King Hardrada of Norway (yet another pretender to the throne) before marching all the way back to the south to meet the Normans. Usually conflicts over sovereignty develop into wars lasting many years (the aforementioned Revolutionary War lasting for 8 years), but the Battle of Hastings, which would change Britain forever, lasted less than a day with William defeating Harold on 14 October 1066. Anyone who would like a more genuinely Dickensian account of that time can read Chapter VII of Charles’s ‘A Child’s History of England’.
Much of our knowledge of that day comes from a remarkable artefact The Bayeux Tapestry, which is in fact an embroidery, not a tapestry, and was probably made in Canterbury, not in Bayeux. The tapestry (let us call it that) is 230 feet long and 20 inches tall and details in almost comic-book form events leading up to, during and the end of the battle. It has lasted in remarkable condition for almost 1,000 years and is now displayed in a museum in Bayeux itself, not far from the grand cathedral in which it was originally shown to the Norman populus. When I was a boy at school I was fascinated by the tapestry, and we had a book at home which showed each scene on a separate page, complete with a description of the action shown: I devoured that book. The most thumbed page being the famous scene in which King Harold is slain, apparently from an arrow in his eye, although many historians believe that the injury was not mortal, and he was in fact later hacked to pieces by Norman swordsmen.
Recently our eldest daughter has been studying the Battle of Hastings, and as the city of Bayeux was less than an hour’s drive from our site, the opportunity to see the real thing up close was too good to pass up,
On a rainy day we queued beneath bedraggled flags of the Normandy region: two golden lions passant guardant on a red background – a heraldic device that still appears on Britain’s Royal standard, albeit now with an extra lion added. The tapestry itself is stretched out in a huge U shape, and every visitor is given an audio guide, meaning that the crowd shuffles along at the same pace as if they are all on a conveyor belt. I have to say that I was profoundly moved to be so close to the cloth, and had to remind myself to not get too caught up in the story but to look closely at the design and stitching created by the fingers of nuns in the 11th century. I really felt that I was almost touching history: an incredible day.
Running out of Puff, and Running Back into it Again
Another very pleasing aspect to this Summer has been my return to running. Back at the beginning of the year my various medical issues resulting from my bout of Covid took all of my energy from me. Various tests and scans at the time discovered that my blood pressure had soared to dangerous levels, and that I had suffered a carotid dissection (a small split in the carotid artery), and that I would need to be on medication to control the blood pressure as well as Aspirin to thin my blood until the doctors were certain that the split had healed. I was advised that exercise was vital, and since I had trained for – and completed – a half marathon in October, running seemed to be my best bet, but I discovered that as soon as I started I was breathless, and had to slow to a walk, even half a mile was a struggle. Of course the walking was a positive, so I kept at it, but I became so frustrated watching other runners pounding the streets with apparent ease – even some of the less fit folk seemed to be able to keep up a good pace without stopping. At first I convinced myself that just by getting out regularly my fitness would develop and I would soon be running properly again, but it never happened, I just became more and more depressed about the whole thing. I came to the conclusion that my fitness regime would now be of a more pedestrian pace.
A couple of months ago I was called back to the hospital for a follow-up MRI scan,to see if the dissection had healed completely. For the second time in my life I slid into the huge white tube and endured over an hour of a science fiction-style soundscape with whirs and clicks and beats and tones all assaulting my mind. As with the first time I had such a scan my thoughts were for others who had lain on that same table, and whose lives were changed forever by the news they received. I had a deep sense of melancholy and sadness, not out of fear for myself, but for them.
Fortunately my results showed that all was well and when I spoke to the consultant he told me that I could stop taking the Asprin. I was still going for my hybrid walk/run sessions, and a few weeks after changing the medication I discovered that I could run further, before needing to walk. The change was hardly noticeable at first, but little by little I realised I had higher energy levels. Over the past two weeks the progress has speeded up remarkably, and the walk/run ratio has tipped firmly in favour of running, and I am getting back to where I was a year ago. I couldn’t do a half marathon, there is still a lot of work to do to get back to those levels of fitness, but I am beginning to think of myself as a runner once more. My puff has returned!
LLandrindod Wells
On Tuesday 22 August it was time to turn my attentions back to work, as I was booked to return to the mid-Wales spa town of Llandrindod Wells to appear at the annual Victorian Festival there. I have been visiting Llandrindod for many years and the festival has become a regular feature in my calendar, but the 2023 performance would have particular significance for me. When I first spoke to the festival organisers earlier in the year they mentioned to me that the theme for the ’23 festival was ‘Christmas in August’, and I naturally suggested that a performance of A Christmas Carol would be appropriate, which meant that I would be starting my 30th anniversary tour in Wales.
At home in Oxfordshire I loaded the car with all of the props and costume that will become so familiar over the coming months, and set off at around 10.30am. I had a nagging doubt that I had forgotten something, but couldn’t for my life think what it was. 2 costume, complete with shirts, socks and shoes: check. Table and chair: check. Stool: check. Top hat and cane: check, check. Copies of my book: check. No, I was fairly certain that I had everything, and the relative emptiness in the back of the car must just have been because I had become used to hauling my old heavy reading desk about for the various performances of Nickleby and Mr Dickens is Coming.
All went well with the journey, and I skirted to the south of Birmingham and set West towards Wales, stopping briefly for lunch at Shifnal (where Charles Dickens took Little Nell and her grandfather in The Old Curiosity Shop, and it was in the Village Church that Nell died, a scene that prompted Oscar Wilde to write: “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing”)
Back on the road and driving past the Ironbridge gorge I was quietly running through my lines when one word suddenly flashed through my mind: HATSTAND! That is what I had failed to pack. It was too late to go back, so I pulled over and sent a message to the event organisers asking if it may be possible to find a hatstand somewhere in Llandrindod – maybe a hotel, or antique shop would help. I felt very foolish, but there was nothing I could do and on I drove.
Every aspect of my visits to Llandrindod is familiar, and I did not need assistance from my navigation app to pull up outside the Portland guest house which is my home in the town. I was greeted at the door by Ruth, the proprietor, and was soon relaxing on the bed in room 5 on the top floor (that ascent becomes a little more tiring each year).
I was due at the theatre at 6pm, and since the journey from The Portland to The Albert Hall is little more that 500 yards I left my room at 5.50. It was lovely to be back in the beautiful little theatre which is celebrating its own anniversary this year, as it opened as a place of entertainment in 1923. I was greeted by theatre manager Ben, and his father Jon, who run the venue with a sense of love, duty and respect for the old building. Since the pandemic, and due to the ever-increasing cost of living crisis, theatres are struggling at the moment, but at the Albert Hall they are trying anything to get people through the doors. Ben told me of their low-cost cinema events, where tickets are sold for a mere 50p, meaning that visitors can see a movie, have some popcorn and a drink all for under £2.00. The theatre doesn’t make a profit on these events, but they do get bums on seats, and many of those bums will be attached to people who haven’t visited before, and now know of the Albert Hall’s existence.
As I entered I noticed that some large silver helium balloons, relics of some celebration or other, had floated to the foyer’s ceiling and were stuck incongruously there.
As to my preparations, I unloaded my furniture, and placed the furniture on the stage. Unfortunately there wasn’t a hatstand available, but the guys in the theatre managed to find a small wooden table that would suffice. I had sent Ben the script marked up with my sound cues and the seven audio files, and he was well prepared for the evening ahead. I ran through the script with him, just making sure that we both knew what we were doing, and then I started running through my lines on stage. I hadn’t performed A Christmas Carol since my final 2022 performance at Leicester Guildhall, at which time I hadn’t been feeling well, and knew I had to see a doctor as soon as possible. With those negative memories in my mind, I was actually very nervous about performing this week, so the opportunity to be on an empty stage and run through the lines was a very necessary one. I had been running through the lines during the previous weeks at all, but now was the time to release them into their natural habitat.
After twenty minutes or so of rehearsing I retreated to my dressing room and listened to the gently increasing murmur from the auditorium as the audience gathered. At 7.30 Ben appeared to check that I was ready to go, and I took my place in the wings, and listened while Queen Victoria was announced, (a long tradition of the Victorian Festival). With the formalities completed, Ben brought the house lights down, and the opening music cue played…….It felt so good to back with Ebenezer and Bob and Fred, and all of the others, so natural. All of the moves and gestures came right back to me, as did the little asides to the audience and thew whole show ran very smoothly and successfully . When I took my bows the audience were cheering and whooping in a most un-Victorian manner!
I returned to my dressing room, elated, and having taken some time to reflect on the evening, started to change. I was visited by the Mayor of Llandrindod, who offered her thanks and congratulations, and posed for a selfie in the wings. Eventually I gathered all of my things together and returned to the stage, where I started to carry the furniture to the front of the theatre ready to load my car.
I was surprised to find that the theatre had chosen this moment to retrieve the large silver balloons from the lobby, and even more surprised that they had just left them lying on the pavement outside. Surprising, also, was the fact that a large group of costumed characters were kneeling around the silver mass, apparently with a sense of concern and bewilderment. It then became apparent to me that the silver was not from the balloons, but a first-aid blanket covering a figure on the floor. A member of the audience, one of the Festival’s stalwart supporters and organisers, had fallen backwards down the steps and cracked her head on the pavement, she was bleeding and an ambulance had been called. This was truly a shocking way to finish the evening, and it cast a pall over proceedings.
It has been a tradition in Llandrindod that after my show I and others from the festival are invited back to the house of my friend John,where we share a Chinese takeaway and gently wind down. It is always a fun evening, but this year it was slightly more sombre. We regularly got updates from the theatre where the patient still lay outside. There is much to celebrate about Britain’s National Health Service, but on this evening its inadequacies were shown in the most brutal way, for an ambulance would not be able to attend the scene for 4-5 hours, during which time it would be impossible to move the lady in case of spinal or head injuries. Fortunately one of our fellow guests was the Mayor, and she pulled a few strings and called a friend who had just come off shift as a first responder. We heard in due course that she was able to get the patient moved and driven to Hereford Hospital, where she could be assessed and treated overnight.
It had not been a good week for the Festival, for Rita, the lady who portrays Queen Victoria, had fallen onto her face the day before and damaged her nose!
I had time to myself on Wednesday morning, and had booked myself a round of golf at the local course, as has become tradition. I arrived at 9.00am, to be greeted by Phil Davies, the pro, who has become a friend over the past few years. As I would need to be in Victorian costume for an event that afternoon, I asked if I could use the club’s locker room to change in, and we agreed to do some quirky photos of me in costume on the course, for his social media pages (as we did last year also). The golf was my usual mix of impressive and woeful, but that was all irrelevant, considering the amazing scenery that surrounds Llandrindod and that makes a round of golf so pleasurable and restorative.
I finished at around 12, and having done some shopping in town, and eaten a lunch of fish and chips in one of the hotel bars, I returned to the golf club where I changed into my costume and went to the putting green. Phil joined me, and we spent 15 minutes or so taking pictures with the magnificent scenery and moody clouds as a backdrop.
My afternoon commitment was in the centre of town, on the green. As the festival’s theme was Christmas in August, I had been asked to talk about my show – in fact the event was a perfect opportunity to give a presentation based on my new book: ‘Gerald Dickens: My Life on the Road With A Christmas Carol’, which unfortunately has yet to be printed.
As 3 o’clock neared, so all of the Victorian character started to assemble in a beautifully planted garden, complete with a raised bed of red geraniums in the centre (I mention this, as geraniums were Charles Dickens’ favourite flowers, and the beds at Gad’s Hill Place were filled with them). The various attendees looked stunning, and we all attracted a great deal of attention from various passers-by. Fresh strawberries were piled onto dishes and champagne corks popped. The news of Jan, the lady who had fallen the night before, was positive, she had been patched up and sent home, and even then was worrying about details of the festival, which was good to know. More and more guests arrived,until one gentleman started to manoeuvre his disability scooter around the path, but caught a wheel in a flower bed and the whole thing tipped over onto its side, trapping him against the earth and rose bushes: for the third time in as many days a crowd of Victorian characters were gathered around one of their own, laying prone on the ground. Fortunately on this occasion there was no injury or need for first air, and in no time the scooter and rider where upright again, but it did seem as if the 2023 festival was cursed in some way!
My talk was fun, and everyone seemed to enjoy what I had to say – Naturally the talk featured many of my old anecdotes – the Nativity cockerel, the first reading of ACC in 1993, losing my book and performing from memory in 96, and then talking about the modern show and sharing a few tricks of the trade (the new book has my complete acting notes, explaining how and why I perform in the way I do).
When I finished I bowed to generous applause and then set to signing copies of Dickens and Staplehurst, and some of the old A Christmas Carol Souvenir Brochures. It was around 4.30 by the time I said my goodbyes and climbed into the car to head for home.
As ever it had been a fun trip to mid-Wales, but I was rather relieved to depart unschathed!
Postscript
A day after I returned home I was out running in some woodland, when my foot caught a tree root, and I fell forward grazing my knee and elbow – Llandrindod ’23 had taken its latest victim!
I wish Jan a speedy recovery from her fall and hope that she will be back in costume with the rest of them as the week continues.
My first day back in the States started, as they tend to do following a flight from England, very early. I lay in bed for a few hours, trying to get back to sleep and then giving in to the inevitable and writing my blog post, as well as tackling Wordle, which I achieved in 3 attempts.
At around 7.30 I went to investigate the breakfast offerings at the Marriott and had some cereal and fruit, as well as eggs and bacon. On the wall a very large TV was showing the latest match in the football World Cup – Poland vs Saudi Arabia, which looked to be a very entertaining one.
Back in my room I decided that I may go for a short run, which I haven’t done for a long time. Back in October I completed the Oxford Half Marathon, which was quite an achievement for me, and since that day I haven’t been out on the roads again. I had packed some running gear with the thought that I might occasionally go to hotel gyms during my stay, although I absolutely detest running machines, getting my joy from being in the open air and seeing the scenery, hearing the sounds, watching nature. On Saturday morning I decided to go an explore the streets of Worcester a little more. It was a crisp morning, with a clear blue sky, and I turned left out of the hotel, left again, around a square, and then just followed my nose. I didn’t stay out for long, I don’t really know, maybe 2 miles, nothing impressive, but it felt good to be in the open air, and to see parts of the city that I didn’t know.
Back at the hotel I had a shower, changed into my corporate garb, and then began to make preparations for the day ahead – I was due to perform twice, once at 2 and the second show at 6, and both were my 2-act performances, meaning that I would need 4 shirts for the day. I checked that I had everything else (cufflinks, watch, cravat, penny pieces, red cloth, shoes and socks). I picked up both of my costumes, my top hat and cane and went to the lift.
When I had arrived the night before the desk clerk had given me a ticket for the parking garage, telling me to scan it whenever I entered or exited, and I wanted to check if I needed to do that at the pay station, or the exit barrier, so I stopped by the front desk to ask. I was in a line of lots of people checking out of the hotel but had time to spare so I waited patiently. When my time came to be helped, I asked the question and the clerk confirmed that I needed to scan the ticket at the barrier, and then she said something I didn’t quite hear, but which may have been ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’ I nodded in the affirmative, ‘and your room number?’ I told her, and then she cheerily said, ‘You’re all set, have a great day.’ and off I went to the garage.
Soon I was on the freeway heading out of Worcester towards Sutton, stopping briefly at Wal-Mart to buy some laundry detergent capsules for my trip, and it was as I was getting back into my car that I had a terrible realisation that I may have just checked out from my hotel room! There I was, in line with luggage, asking how to leave the carpark, what if the inaudible question had not been ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’, but ‘Are you checking out?’ I had nodded and told her my room number, she had tapped at her keyboard and said that I was all set! Well, there was nothing that I could do about it now, I would have to see what the evening held when I returned.
My journey to Sutton, and specifically the Manchaug Mills building, is a very familiar one to me, as I have been performing for the Vaillancourt family for the last 12 years and they are not just colleagues but good friends also. As I arrived Gary was standing in the sun and seeing me pull in, directed me to a parking space close to the building. Much of the carpark was taken up with two wooden cabins selling Glühwein and German pastries respectively, for the Vaillancourts love to celebrate Christmas and all of its traditions. We greeted one another as if it had not been a year since last I drove away, but a day or so, and we went into the beautiful store from where the company sells the amazing plaster, hand-painted Santa Clause figures that they make here. We went to the intimate theatre where the stage was decorated and just awaiting a cast of 26 or so characters to bring it to life. At one end of the room was a bar, with a hot jug of Glühwein giving a rich boozy essence to the room, whilst at the far end Curtis, our sound engineer, was putting the finishing touches to the sound system. We spent some time going through the various cues, and then did a sound check, using a microphone system that clips over my ears – I warned him that I am never very successful with those units, as they tend to fall off, but he assured me that we could adjust it, so it fitted snugly, and the sound quality was far superior to a lapel mic, which may also be prone to feedback from the speakers that were right against the stage. I took his professional advice with a few misgivings and retired to the dressing room to wait for showtime.
I could hear the audience gathering, and they were a lively crowd, as the Saturday afternoon bunch usually is at Vaillancourts. Among them were, my sister-in-law and brother-in-law along with their daughter and her wife (they are not actually sister and brother-in-law, it is slightly more complicated than that, but they feel like they are, and that is good enough for Liz and me!) I wanted the show to be special for them and was delighted to hug and welcome them before start time. At 2 o’clock Gary checked that I was ready and walked up to the stage to welcome the audience to the event and to introduce me. The theatre was packed full. in fact, every performance over the weekend sold out weeks ago. When Gary had finished, Curtis started the music, and I began the show. I knew that it would be a bit of a struggle, as I was still extremely tired from my journey and the early morning, but the audience were lively, which gave me extra energy, but then the microphone started playing up – not the headset particularly, although that felt loose, which distracted me somewhat, but it sounded as if there was a loose lead somewhere and every time I moved there was a loud electrical CRACK or POP, which meant that any sense of atmosphere was lost. My attention and concentration were so lacking that I suddenly realised that I had jumped from Scrooge’s school into the scene where Belle leaves him, without even bothering to visit Mr Fezziwig! I realised the mistake I had made because the stool was in the wrong place on the stage (having not been cleared away by Dick Wilkins), and so my practical brain kicked in – I would be able to return to the Fezziwig scene, as I don’t think there are too many laws of chronology in the world of fictional time travel, and then leap forward again to Scrooge seeing the older Belle happily married, celebrating with her family. It was all a bit of a fudge, but well worth the effort for my dancing abilities got a round of applause! The continuing microphone problems were very annoying, and still that cracking and popping accompanied and disrupted Dickens’s words. I was very glad that this was a two-act show, for I only had to wait until the interval to sort something out, rather than ploughing on through the rest of the plot. Actually, the audience applauded loudly as I left the stage, but I was extremely frustrated by the whole affair.
Curtis was soon with me in the dressing room, and we checked all of the leads, which seemed tight and secure, but he replaced the pack anyway, in case that would improve matters. It was rather like a panicked pitstop in the middle of a Formula 1 race, and as I got changed for the second half, I put my waistcoat on before the microphone, meaning that the lead from headset to pack was held under my frock coat only.
Back onto the stage and I picked up the story, and the audience continued to respond enthusiastically, although I was struggling to maintain my energy and concentration a little. They were plenty who had been to the show before, and when I gasped at the stuffing issuing forth from the Cratchit’s goose, they all instantly joined in, meaning that I couldn’t go to the oppose side of the audience, and that I had to rearrange all of my blocking for the rest of the show!
But the really annoying moment came when I was in the very moving scene as Bob Cratchit returns to his house alone and takes off his coat. I did that, as usual, but of course now the long microphone lead was free and flapping everywhere, getting caught in my arm, as I made gestures and pulling the headset from my ears again. It was not a good moment.
In and around all of this confusion, the actual show was going well and there was lots of laughter, especially as Topper did his thing, and old Joe spread his mucus over an unsuspecting arm
I got to the final scenes of the show, and to the point when I could get my coat back on, thereby securing the errant microphone somewhat, and delivered the final narrative before leaving the stage to loud applause and shouting. I returned to take my bows and the audience stood, which was wonderful, but I was angry with myself and circumstances. I was particularly upset for I had wanted the show to be really special for David, Sue, Amy and Tara.
I changed quickly and went up into the store, where I was due to meet and greet and sign books, and the response was positive ‘Best ever!’ ‘You are a true artist!’ ‘Simply amazing’ all bandied about, and I relaxed a little as I posed and signed. At the very end of the line my family members waited, and we hugged again and exchanged news and chatted for a while, which was really nice.
When the signing time was over, I went back to the theatre to talk things through with Curtis, but he was nowhere to be seen. I changed into my normal clothes and went back to the shop where a lunch/dinner of sandwiches and salad had been laid out for everyone to enjoy, I chatted with Judi Vaillnocurt, who’s artistic vision lies behind the entire company, and Luke who is increasingly taking the company into a new future.
The second show was at 6, and having finished lunch, I rested for a while in the dressing room, preserving my energy. There was a knock at the door, and it was Curtis who had returned to his store and picked up a different type of headset, ‘better for the more active performer,’ he said in the way in which a tailor might offer a suit to a client:’ If I may say so, sir, the looser cut is appropriate for the more sporting gentleman’. Certainly, when I slipped it on (the microphone, not the suit), it felt tighter and much more secure. All that I needed to do was to remember to put the lead UNDER my waistcoat.
The second show was much better, and I was able to concentrate on the words and atmosphere – I even managed to get all of the scenes in the correct order this time. Unfortunately, during the second act the electronic cracking and popping returned, but almost instantly Curtis took the decision to turn the unit off, meaning that I was unplugged for the final scenes, but it is a small room and actually it all worked fine – maybe tomorrow I will just not use the microphone at all. The audience were as enthusiastic as the first and joined in at every opportunity, many having seen me many times before. At the final scene, as the narrator says that ‘Scrooge knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed that knowledge’ I carefully picked up one of the Vaillancourt Santas and placed it on my top hat, which in turn was sitting on the stool. I regarded it for a moment and then said, in Scrooge’s voice, ‘I wonder where I can order more of these?’ which got a huge laugh. It had been a lovely show, one which restored my positivity, which had waned somewhat earlier in the day.
Again, I signed in the shop, and received plenty of praise, which is a nice way to end the day. Changing was quick, as I had no need to pack up my costumes and props, they could stay in the dressing room, and soon was driving back to Worcester, where I would meet up with Gary, Judi and Luke for a wind-down dessert and glass of wine in the restaurant next my hotel. Before heading to the bar, I went up to my room to drop a bag with costume shirts off and was relieved to discover that my keys still worked, and that I was still checked in as a guest of Mr Marriott!
The evening was nice and relaxed, but I was tired by now, so we all said our goodbyes. I headed to the lift and they to the parking garage and back to Sutton.
The day had arrived. The 16th October has loomed in the far distance for many months and as you know I have been posting updates about my training and fundraising throughout that time. But when the day became a reality, I seemed to be living in a parallel universe – it didn’t seem possible that by the end of the day I would have (hopefully) completed my challenge. In fact, the16th arrived rather earlier than was appreciated, for sleep left me in the very early hours as my mind was spinning about the realities of the event – not the running specifically for I would either manage that or not, but I was still suffering from a sense of Imposter Syndrome and fearing that when I arrived among the dreaming spires of Oxford I would simply not fit in or know where to go and what to do. I had been reassured by a number of runners that they had all felt the same way in their first big events, but that everything had been fine, and the atmosphere was nothing but friendly and supportive. I had packed a bag the night before and eaten the requisite meal of pasta, so on getting up at 7am on Sunday morning I had little to do. I ate a breakfast of porridge and fruit, followed by some toast and honey (all on advice of my running friends) and changed into my kit: black shorts, a yellow shirt and my Brain Tumour Trust vest proudly over the top, with the number 1391 pinned to it.
It was a slight struggle for Liz and me to encourage our daughters to leave the house at 7.45 on a Sunday morning, but I needed to be in the centre of Oxford by around 8.15 and with the many road closures around the city it may not be easy to achieve. We had devised a route that should get me close to the University Parks, where the race village was situated and indeed Liz was able to pull to the side of the road give me a quick kiss of good luck, and I joined the procession of runners who, like salmon, appeared to be swimming upstream towards a common destination. Some were in groups chatting happily, some seriously adjusted their attire and occasionally stopped at a lamp post to do some more stretches (these reminded me of pet dogs, but it would be unfair to mention that observation outside brackets). On entering the park, the atmosphere was everything that had been promised, it was alive with energy and expectation and huge signs guided me to wherever I needed to go.
I noticed that there was one banner which said ‘Oxford Half Marathon’ and there was quite a crowd around it, which seemed slightly unnecessary as I assumed we all knew why we were here, but drawing closer I realised that it was made up from the names of every participant in the race, so I dutifully found mine, just under the cross bar of the ‘F’ in half (‘the Effin ‘Arf’ doesn’t sound a polite way to describe this fine race), and photographed it.
The next job was to drop my bag off, ready to collect at the end of the race. I took a long drink of water from my bottle, and made for the tent taking belongings from runners with numbers between 1,000 and 1,500. In one corner of the park music was belting out for a ‘warm up’ session, but with a fear that I might pull something or damage something before I’d even started, I decided to give that a miss. Instead, I followed hundreds, maybe thousands, of others to join a series of long queues which culminated in the toilet facilities.
We all had a couple of hours ahead of us, and everyone was drinking lots of water, so this was an essential part of the day. There was much talk throughout the crowds of not wanting to ‘do a Paula Radcliffe’ during the race. I was hopping a little by the time I reached the front of the line, so was glad that I had followed the herd when I had.
The start of the race was carefully controlled, and the runners were divided into separate pens, with the elite runners in A and the novices (of which I was one), in F. Groups A – D had been called already, but in no time the energetic announcer on the PA system announced that groups E and F should make their way to the start – actually this was quite a route march, maybe a mile, but soon we were gathered in Holywell Street waiting for our turn to go over the top.
At first the crowd remained still, but little by little we started to edge forward, emerged into Broad Street with the magnificent Sheldonian Theatre to our left and the gardens of Trinity College to our right. Ahead an arch marked the start, and another energetic announcer sent us all on our way, commenting on various participants, including a yellow submarine, a giraffe and, yes, two men carrying washing machines on their backs. I assumed that these gents had constructed some clever costumes, but it wouldn’t be long before I discovered otherwise.
More useful advice from my various running chums was not to go off too quickly at the start, and this was something that I had worried about, but the crowd was so thick that it was impossible to go off at a great pace, until we left Broad Street and turned into the even broader street of St Giles, by this time I could settle into my normal pace and found that I overtook some runners and was overtaken by others as we all found our natural place in the order of things.
Liz and the girls had found a clever spot to watch from, for the route came off St Giles and double backed towards The Parks, before making another loop to return to St Giles once more, meaning that they could see me pass by twice in quite a short space of time. I gave them all a quick (and rather sweaty) kiss first time past, and then a high five each on the second, before I headed onto the long stretch of the Banbury Road towards North Oxford. It was on this stretch that I saw the reality of the washing machines, the intrepid runners were indeed lugging proper, full-sized metal washing machines on their backs. As everyone ran past, we all shouted encouragement to them as they lumbered on. The expression on their faces suggested that they were somewhat regretting their fundraising decision!
Up to Summertown and past the first drinks station where I took the advice of my good friends Chris, ‘drink whenever it is offered’. Just past the drinks tables was a small battery of loos….and a long queue.
Towards the top of The Banbury Road the field looped round and came back down again, meaning that the elite frontrunners were on the other side of the road. They were going through 5 miles as we passed the 3-mile marker, and their pace and strength was truly impressive, if somewhat disheartening, but on we went.
Having made the u-turn and run half-way back down the Banbury Road, we then turned left and headed off down a very long and uninspiring road towards the little village of Marston and this was where the field began to spread out more. A strange phenomenon occurred in Marston, for instead of a water station there was an energy drink one and everyone eagerly sloshed the red liquid into their mouths and tossed the little cups into the large recycling bins provided. Unfortunately, quite a lot of the drink spilled onto the road, which meant that rather than running becoming easier (with a shot of isotonic drink), it became more difficult because the road became tacky and everyone’s shoes stuck to it, peeling off with the sound of a hundred strips of Velcro ripping apart.
Back up the dull road and towards Oxford again, and into the last few miles. I admit that I began to struggle a little now and, on a few occasions, lapsed back to a walk, as most people around me did at various times too, meaning that the bunch of people with whom I had shared the journey maintained their relative positions to each other. Back to the Parks, back into Holywell Street, around the Sheldonian and Bodleian, turn left and there were two signs in front of me. One said, ’13 Miles’ and just past that (.1 of a mile past it, to be precise), was a large arch saying FINISH!
Maybe in my imagination I had pictured myself bursting across the finish line, arms aloft, feeling a huge surge of satisfaction and pride, but in reality, I just sort of stopped with a sense of relief! I was given a medal and told to keep moving so that those behind me could finish too. I had been running with my phone strapped to my arm and as I checked my time, I saw that I had completed the course in 2 hrs and 18 minutes. Alongside the official notifications were messages of congratulation from family and friends, many of whom had been following my progress on the event’s tracker app.
I made my way back to the Event Village and retrieved my bag, before setting off to find Liz and the girls. Everywhere families were reuniting and hugging, tales were being told, tired limbs were being stretched, water drunk, and energy bars being consumed. Gradually the competitors drifted away to their various homes, where real life would resume, and I did the same.
Although the entire day, in fact the entire 6-month process, had been one of personal challenge, discovery and achievement, the main motivation of my run had been in memory of my sister-in-law, Liz’s sister, Sheila, who died on 16th April as a result of a brain tumour. It was to further aid the struggle to research the terrible disease that my family and friends around the world have been donating so generously to my fund. Towards the very end of the event, as I came back into the University Parks, there was a lady standing at a corner, just a regular spectator shouting encouragement. She was short, had white shoulder length hair and had a beaming smile on her face. I am not going all spooky-ghostly here, but she had something of the look of Sheila about her, and as I ran by, she made eye contact and called out simply ‘Well Done!’ And that was the moment that all of the effort and toil, the worries about injury, the fears about acceptance into the world of running, the fundraising and the eventual success in completing 13.1 miles around the city of Oxford, really made sense.
So, this is my final account of the running, and the last opportunity to donate to the cause. Including the proceeds from my show, the fund is now over £2,000 which is incredibly generous, thank you all so much, and if anyone is reading this who like to add to that figure, then we will all be profoundly grateful.
The week before my very first attempt at a long-distance running event is slowly passing and now, on Wednesday, the week is half over, and the weekend is looming large. Yesterday Liz and I drove into Oxford to do some shopping, and at the sight of someone running through the streets a wave of nerves ran through me.
My journey to this point began way back in 2020 with the arrival of Covid 19 in the UK. With lockdown conditions becoming ever more severe it became necessary, indeed essential, to get out into the open air whenever possible. Our eldest daughter had said that she wanted to run, because one of her best friends did, so together we started using a Couch-2-5K app to help us along. My target, if I had one, was to complete a Park Run event at some stage, as my sister Nicky and brother Ian had done previously, but the thought of running a distance of 5k seemed completely out of my league as I struggled to keep going for the minute or so that the app suggested at the beginning of the programme. Little by little, however, things began to get easier and there was a moment of supreme pride when I managed to run the 5k, a little over three miles, without stopping, for the first time (I never did attend a park run, but at least the distance was achieved).
And so, it continued, and the distances that I was able to achieve went up, and the exhaustion went down. I ran 5 miles, then 6, then 8 and 10, and I began to feel a bit like a runner, although I never felt that I truly compared to those committed folk that pound the pavements every day in their expensive shoes and reflective glasses, and who stop their watches as they pause for cars to pass at an intersection, so as not to skew a potential PB.
In April my sister-in-law Sheila died as a result of a brain tumour, and I really wanted to do something to help the cause of other families in the same situation and try to raise some money towards the ongoing research into the condition. Sheila’s husband Martin had undertaken a charity cycle ride on behalf of Brain Tumour Research so I decided to donate to the same cause, except I didn’t have an event in mind. In a moment of perfect synchronicity, it was at this time that I happened to receive a Facebook notification suggesting that I enter the Oxford Half Marathon, and I followed the link to be told that I would have to enter a ballot. Well, this was perfect! I could tell all and sundry that I had entered and would be fundraising, and then sorrowfully inform everyone that I hadn’t been selected and I would try again next year – then I got the notification that the buggers had accepted me! I was committed.
In life I always need a strong motivation to spur me into action, for example I will often take a booking for a show that I have not yet written, which forces me to get on and create it before the deadline of walking onto an empty stage and facing an audience of expectant people – the thought of being unprepared for them focusses the mind wonderfully. So it was with my running, I somehow had to get myself to a level to run 13.1 miles.
Regular readers will know that I have been training over the last few weeks, and apart from a few niggling injury worries, I have managed to complete my goal…almost…in that on my last long run I stopped at 13 miles, meaning that when I complete the event itself (0.1 of a mile longer), I am assured of a personal best time.
Why am I nervous? It is not about the running, because I know that I can do that. Of course, on Sunday I might pull a muscle. turn an ankle or feel unwell, but I know that I CAN do it. My nerves are much more to do with never having done an event like this before and not knowing how it all works – what do I do on the day, how will it feel mingling with all of the other competitors? Will it be obvious where to leave my bag, and how will the run feel with crowds lining the route? I am used to running alone and being able to control my pace, so will I be able to restrain myself in a crowd of other runners? How will I feel seeing large signs and banners marking the miles, will seeing a 7- mile board create negative feelings as I realise that I still have 6.1 miles still to go? The answer to all of this is ‘I don’t know’, but in less than a week I will have all of the answers for you.
The event organisers have sent a comprehensive pack with all of the details of the day in it, so some of the logistics are clearer to me now and I have no doubt that the other runners will be helpful and encouraging. I have my number (1391) and have details of an app that tracks my progress, so everyone can follow along. There are also photographers along the route and their pictures will be published in real time – again there is a website that anyone can log onto, to view the images.
It is now down to me. On Sunday. At 9.30 am. There is only one thing left to do: to run.
To donate to my sponsorship Brain Tumour Research fund please visit my JustGiving Page at: