Fish Out Of Water

This typically characterises men at antenatal classes. Looking around the circle of about 15 pregnant women, most with their male partners, I felt a kinship with these chaps. Not that I showed it, oh no! That would have been distinctly unmale. Eye contact was kept to a minimum, and glances were generally kept to those needed to surreptitiously appraise which of these men looked more comfortable and confident than I did. A bit like the checking out that, I am told, happens in gents' toilets.

It's an odd thing. We are all there for the same reason, and presumably we have got there via the same method. But us men, of course, are notoriously bad at publicly acknowledging before strangers that such intimacy has taken place. We pretend, with our presence, that we are New Men. More in touch with our woman's needs, willing to be an active participant in all aspects of pregnancy and labour, just as we were at conception. Yet we revert to type and don't want to stand out as being either too ignorant or (perhaps worse) too knowledgeable.

So we sit quietly, noticing with subtle subtle scorn when one of our fellow males makes an accurate contribution that we would have been perfectly correct in making ourselves, thus making the rest of us look substandard. The competitiveness never abates, and neither does our squeamishness. For all our enthusiastic desire to place parts of our anatomy into various parts of someone else's anatomy, we are woefully inadequate at engaging with the human body in a mature, non-sexual way.

And then to be encouraged to join in. Oh the horror. The simple instruction to stand up to find out about good posture sent those glances darting about the room. Were we supposed to stand up? Of course, we did, because everyone else did. Are we supposed to adjust our posture? Surely we aren't experiencing the same demands on our physiology as our pregnant partners? No. We have joined them in the standing up part. They can do the standing properly part while we looking on, hopefully coming across as lamely supportive rather than voyeuristic. Some of us caught in half-hearted attempts to shift our own posture in case we are supposed to do so, but not too obviously in case we aren't.

Then comes the massage, which involves getting into a vaguely intimate position with someone who, everyone else in the room knows, we have been in far more intimate positions with before. Except these people weren't there that time (in most cases - each to his own). So it has the potential to be an embarrassing competition to see who is the best masseur. This I suppose isn't helped by the physiotherapist saying she will come around and give us marks out of ten.

Then it is over. We shuffle off in the same subdued manner in which we arrived, having watched with admiration our womenfolk engage openly and honestly with their experiences with ease. Secretly wishing we could be as forthcoming.

When all is said and done, the antenatal class was informal, informative and painless. Very glad I went, as it also gave me the opportunity for making these observations.

Men are stupid. Throw rocks at them.

London Kills Me

I know. It's been a while. The lure of a new life without the 9-to-5 had given me the false impression that I would actually have more time to do things. Like blog regularly. This hasn't been the case and I apologise.

The title of this post is part of the reason. I have, for the past three and a half weeks, been travelling up to London six days a week with our show. This four week run, which ends on Saturday, has kind of been the jewel in the crown for my new Awfully Big Adventure. The plan goes something like this:

1. Hire a decent fringe venue for a long enough run to get the attention of the movers and shakers in the theatre press.
2. Populate that venue with a tried and tested show that has already generated a profile through earlier dates.
3. Take the London fringe scene by storm with the quality of our work and earn a string of rave reviews in The Stage et al.
4. Play to packed houses every night as a result of these notices and a healthy dose of word of mouth.
5. Make a significant contribution to the company coffers to pay our actors and enhance the financial stability of the company.
6. Loudly proclaim that we have Made It.

You can see the flaws in this plan, right? I must have had the wrong specs on that day because that isn't quite how things turned out.

Now, I'm not saying the London run hasn't been a success and worth doing. Oh no. It's been incredibly worthwhile and we've learnt a lot. But London is a tougher nut to crack than even I in my usually pragmatic state had thought. Events conspire to make life difficult. Things like the climate and major sporting events. As our London host concisely expressed, we have been WWW'd - Weather, World Cup and Wimbledon.

The London theatre scene is even more crowded than I had imagined, and the first problem we had was that there were twenty other shows opening at the same time as us, all clamouring for the attention of the major theatre press. Then came weather of the sort normally to send us Brits into an apoplexy of delight. Unless you are spending the evenings wearing a monk's habit in an unventilated room and hoping that people would prefer to join you in said stuffiness rather than sit outside with a cold beer.

In the face of this adversity, I think we have actually done pretty well. We did get some big hitters in The Stage and The British Theatre Guide coming to see us, as well as some smaller online review sites. None of which slated us in the way I have seen other plays destroyed. At the same time they weren't falling over themselves to lavish praise upon us. I don't think we received a single review that would have said to readers "Go and see this if it's the only thing you do in your life." Disappointed much. But they have said some nice things about our stagecraft, which has been a major validation. Much more fulsome with praise, in actual fact, have been the audience members. We have been handing out feedback forms and have received a large number back, all overwhelmingly positive. So it seems that the general public are very open to what we are doing, whereas we have detected a certain sniffiness and closed-mindedness from the critics. Devised seems to be a dirty word, and unless the play has a proper plot and deals with some actual issues, they don't seem to find it worth their time.

Thank goodness then, for the audiences. Which as well as being generous, have been relatively healthy. As a rough estimate, our average house can been in excess of 15, which is actually pretty astonishing given the other distractions and our unknown status. With only four shows left, we have yet to cancel a show because no-one turned up (famous last words?) and the general feeling is that any house in the fringe that exceeds double figures is a good turnout. Not enough to break even, but this was always a loss-leading enterprise. Would have been nice though. In truth, our second week was the most demoralising in terms of both numbers and audience response. But we got through it and kept our chins up, and I think we can walk away with our heads held high.

So, why does London kill me?

Well, as well as the up-and-downiness of the run, I think it's the toll it has taken on my lifestyle. I had stupidly thought that a couple of hours of theatre most nights would not be a massive deal. I had failed to factor in the travel. I spent the last few weeks feeling guilty that, having had most of the daytime hours free, I haven't been as productive as I would have liked. Then I did the maths - I leave the house at about 3.30 and get back, at the earliest, at 11.30 (and often closer to 1am). That's a normal eight hour working day. Six days a week. With late nights. I started to feel less bad about having to rest more during the day. The I realised that on many occasions I have been putting in extra hours with flyering, running workshops, meetings in London and checking out future venues, plus writing proposals and successfully securing future projects for the company.

So I don't feel so bad now. I am still frustrated that I haven't been able to support (or even see) Zoe as much as I'd like. But I was beginning to feel very bad, like I was a lazy slacker wasting my time. I think I have been overly harsh on myself here, having been thrown by my routine being turned on its head. You are, of course, free to disagree and tell me to get my arse into gear.

And then there's diet. I long for a proper, sit down meal that has been properly home-cooked, and to eat it with someone. Any weight I might have sweated off has been wiped out by grabbing convenience foods when I can, at weird times of the day.

Thank goodness for Zoe, who as well as being supportive and understanding throughout, is also vying for the prize of Most Straightforward Pregnancy. We have had a tumultuous time in other ways, and I am so very thankful that neither of us have had to contend with any complications related to the other Awfully Big Adventure.

Does this post sound whiny? I hope not. It's meant to be honest, and just in case I've set the wrong tone, here we go...

When it has been less than shiny, I have reminded myself about what I could be doing instead. I am lucky. I am chasing the dream. And it isn't getting away from me.

Hey-diddley-dee. An actor's life for me...