A Blissful Reunion

Ahh to be back in Southampton! What larks.

My life has been the most hectic it has been in a long time (due to lack of academic involvement and easy kiosk living), as I allow Bliss to take over. What a few weeks we have had. The manic preparation of play has fully seized my life in the tightest of grips, with an average of 8 hour days, 7 days a week. Not a trifling commitment, I tell you that for free. But golly, is it worth it. The production has gone from a miss-mash of sparse lines, hummed songs and "we'll sort it later" mentality to an almost reviewably perfect performance of clarity, charm and (if I say so myself) utter excellence. I'm extremely proud.

Just a few more days now until the big night: on Friday July 30th, Bliss hits Southampton as a warm-up before the Big Scottish Smoke. I'd love it if you could be there. Our lovely directors, Ritu and Jilna have put more effort into this play than I'm likely to put into my entire degree: it is their glorious baby and their meticulous management has created a masterpiece (please excuse the alliteration, I've been acting all day - it makes me heinously wordy). Plus, to top it all off, I now have slightly more confidence in my sub-standard soprano; I accidentally told them during the audition that I could sing (with encouragement) which lead to the panicked realisation that they would actually believe me and set me the grand feat of warbling Celine Dion songs. You can imagine the anguish. But with the delightful Sophie Paterson at my side and a (very loud) cello on the other, I am feeling almost comfortable. The Calamity Jane days of slapping my thighs and sing/shouting the songs are a thing of the past and the new-wave of dulcet and sultry tones is upon me. I prey.

We will also be showcasing our other SUSU TG play, Swann and Co. on Friday 30th, which is set to be a comical experience of epic proportions, written and directed by the wonderful Alexis Forss. Not to be missed.

Edinburgh is looming: less than a week till 30ish thesps share a seven hour mini-bus ride together. I'd say that would push our friendships to the limit but to be fair, I've seen two cast members metaphorically rape a third with a pepsi bottle, so I think we're way beyond that point.

Check us out: @BlissCvenues via twitter / search BlissEdinburgh via facebook

A Roof of One's Own

What a satisfying and triumphant feeling it is to be able to hustle my meddling parents out the door, with a variation of the line held over my undeniably defeated head for almost two entire decades: "This is my house, thanks very much." Brilliant.

I have officially become a woman. I didn't know when the day would come and what seemingly momentous occasion the feeling would follow but now I know. It is moving into your own house. In the last few days, I have shamelessly ravaged the wifi of Portswood's Trago Lounge (it being literally 30 seconds from my front door) to organise banking, bills, broadband... blah blah blah. But now I am all growned upped, I mustn't complain, as this is what womanhood contains: the organising of things. How very 1950. Luckily, this actually has nothing to do with my gender; closer to the case would be to say that I'm a massive control freak and I don't want others to do such things that could be so catastrophically ballsed up. But for the sake of my revelation, we'll ignore this. So now not only can I say that I am a woman, but perhaps I'd even go so far as to say a competent woman. Ironically, I just put an 'a' in 'competent' on first attempt, but I know plenty of women who cannot spell, so again, we'll ignore that blip.

I am just the type of woman I thought I would be. Highly strung with an exceptionally expressive face. So not much has changed from my girlhood days (which, for the record, is any time before Thursday). What also remains is my rate of reading literature. I thought, as a woman, I would have to cut down on my time spent reclusively languishing in my bedroom, head firmly in fiction, due to other mature responsibilities and exciting prospects but alas, I read almost all of Michael Cunningham's The Hours in a mere single sitting. And what a book it was. I loved it: Virginia Woolf astounds and absorbs me. Girlish awe or womanly admiration? Perhaps a bit of both. I moved swiftly on to Margaret Atwood's Surfacing and have got 50 pages in already. There's nothing better than a good read. But I digress.

Just one more week of shire living and earning before the fun and frollics of the Edinburgh experience begins. Until then, I am back under their roof, playing the role of daughter/child/'stroppy teenager'/baby. Not my favourite part but I can't play the woman all the time.