The Hearse in Rehearsal

Week 39 has me struggling to find hope in foiled plans, only to find it in an alternative meaning to ‘foil’…

To see how Sam Pepys spent this week 364 years ago, follow this link.

By Thursday, I was worrying that this would be the week I’d feared since beginning this public journal: a week where my mood was utterly trampled.

That’s apparently the original meaning of “to foil”, by the way: “to trample cloth”, hence “foiled plans”. But the word can also be a noun, of course, meaning “flattened metal” – a meaning which aptly links to how the week began.

Amy, Ermma, and me searching for Sam’s lost gold in the Pepys House gardens, with Rev Robinson behind the camera.

My original storytelling partner, Amy Scott Robinson, visited Pepys House for the first time, along with her hubbie, Reverend Tiffer. Knowing Sam’s wife and father may have lost some gold pieces in the gardens here, they brought with them a metal detector. (You’ll have to wait another 7 years before Sam’s blog catches up with the how, why, and potential other explanation for his missing wealth…)

Alas, we didn’t find any gold. We found a hinge, though, which begs the question: Why would someone construct a gate one foot under soil?!

It was a lovely start to the week with two wonderful friends. Little did I know, though, that searching for gold and finding iron instead would be an apt metaphor for the week ahead…

Y’see, the week before, I’d auditioned for a community theatre musical. After playing Danny Zuko in Grease back in 2021, I decided that would be a great role with which to end my musical theatre career, at least at the amateur level. But having broken that commitment by accepting a small part in Made In Dagenham earlier this year, I felt like getting involved again if the right show came up.

I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. Little Shop of Horrors isn’t just one of my favourite shows. It’s the show that got me loving musicals in the first place, ever since Mummy Rose shared it with me – it’s one of her all-time favourites too. So when a Cambridge amdram group announced auditions for it, I was literally the first to book a slot.

My first audition was terrible. Auditions always are, though it didn’t help that I’d had a busy week with little preparation time – and in my defence, there wasn’t much of a gap between the auditions and their announcement.

But that’s why, when I was offered a recall for the part I wanted more than any other, I blocked out time in my diary to rehearse for it fully. I honed every note, syllable, and intonation.

Sure, my recall didn’t go perfectly as planned – I misjudged my breath at one moment. But the panel asked me to give it another go, and this time I held the note for exactly the right length. The assistant MD even commented that my rhythm was spot on.

I responded well to the direction I was given. I got on well with the other auditionees I was asked to play opposite. Some of my acting choices got giggles of delight from the panel.

So I was gutted when the news came that I hadn’t got the part. How much of a failure was I to not get the role I wanted more than any other ever?!

I was stuffed then gutted again by being offered a role in the Ensemble. Knowing the show like I do, I knew the Ensemble had barely minutes on stage. But in amdram, you typically pay to be in the show, and this society’s fees totalled almost £100. Would it be worth it? Maybe, if we lived closer to Cambridge – but add to that the travel time from Brampton…

I loathed the feeling of being perceived as a ‘diva’, but I really couldn’t justify the time and money. I could actually enjoy more of my favourite show by being in the audience, from where I could still support my friends within it. But, ukh… My insides were a mess.

Maybe that’s why I had a horribly unproductive start to the week, beyond only finding iron in the garden. Usually I can create entire storytelling programmes for schools in seconds, but one afternoon this week I just couldn’t get my creative mind into gear.

That was beyond gutting: now I felt deboned.

All this threatened to twist the best experience of the week. On Thursday evening, we went to support a young friend of ours in an amateur production of the one-act musical Fun Home. I hadn’t realised just how huge her role was, and wow – I knew she was supremely talented, but hadn’t known how stratospherically so.

Her performance was so uplifting, so inspiring – as was that of everyone in the show, in fact, along with the show itself and its music. I felt pulled back in the direction of hope…

…except for the fact that one of the show’s major themes is living up to your parents’ beliefs in you. Not only could I imagine Gaggy being disappointed at my low productivity for the week, but I felt I’d let Mummy Rose down by failing to get a role in one of our greatest shared loves.

And on top of that, yes: I felt kinda jealous of the talent possessed by a 10-year-old girl.

Had that been how the evening ended, I’m not sure I would’ve survived the weekend. But just as we left the theatre, the young starlet’s mum caught my arm to offer me an apology.

I hadn’t interacted with her daughter much during Dagenham, but meeting her had made me think: this was my chance to give my current novel-in-progress to a reader of the right age who didn’t really know me. That would allow me to check if my writing could be understood by someone who hasn’t had a chance to become familiar with my way of phrasing things.

So I asked her and her mother if they’d be my ‘beta readers’, and they delightedly accepted. Yet although I received a positive critique on the first chapter about a month ago, since then I’d heard nothing.

But here was the mother now, apologising to me for the radio silence, explaining that rehearsals for Fun Home had been all-consuming.

I genuinely couldn’t accept her apology – there was no need for it. Of course rehearsals had been the main thing on her daughter’s mind – she’d clearly put everything into that role in that show, and 200+ faces were streaked with tears proving the power of her performance.

Instead, I was flooded with gratitude. Here was a woman and her daughter, on a night when the spotlight was tightly on them… caring about my work?

That example of humanity rocketed me out from my doldrums. The next day, I went on to deliver an online storytelling seminar for an Indian cohort, that ended with them offering to pay me to visit them in person… I secured professional performers I admire to perform alongside me at this year’s Carols & Christmas Tales at Pepys House… and I confirmed Korky Paul’s illustrations for the next few short stories I’m writing…

Oh – and I finally topped the list for some long-awaited surgery, meaning I’ll be out of action for a week in November.

So it’s probably a good thing I didn’t get into Little Shop – I might’ve struggled to make all the rehearsals…

To round it all off, Mum and DadDad took Ermma and me for a meal at The Lamb in Ely. Thanks to them, the week ended as warmly as it had begun with the Robinsons.

And so I ended with an alternative meaning to my “foiled plans” – ‘coz of course, another meaning of “foil” is “a contrast that enhances the qualities of each contrasting party”. My failure to play in Little Shop had enhanced the qualities of everything I’d be doing instead.

Or, to put it another way, after taking the dead weight of the “hears” out of “rehearsal”, I’d been left with “real” life.

Yeah, baby: the creativity is back. $;-)

(Maybe not quite at the top of its game, but still: it’s back.

Our find: an iron hinge. Opening gates of hope for the future, perhaps?

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In return for the smiles you got from these words, you can support my time spent writing them for about the same you’d spend in a bookshop

Plus you’ll receive the warm glow that comes from knowing you’re supporting creative freedom. $;-)

Weekly Productivity Score: 56%

Quarterly Best: 74%
Annual Best: 74%