A Fringey Farewell

And so we face our final curtain.

Last performance of Bliss yesterday. I am infinitely depressed. *Sob sob*. Luckily, it may have been our last but also one of our best - we acted/ sang/ celloed/ abused our little hearts out and were rewarded with a tantalised audience. As a character who is more metaphorical than physical (or something), I get the treat of looking out into the audience at various stages in the play, to creep people out, 'break the fourth wall' and what not. You know how it is. And looking into their faces, I could tell that people were genuinely repulsed. Success! One woman was actually watching through her splayed fingers, as if we were presenting her with a grotesque horror film. I mean, I know paedophilia and miscarrying is unpleasant but come along now, woman up! I doubt I'll ever be in such a play again, such obscene theatre rarely proves to be wholly popular. Bliss is hardly a crowd-pleaser. But in a strangely disquieting way, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. What this says about me, I'm unwilling to recognise.

You'll never guess who I met yesterday. Only one of my favourite three women ever! That's right, you've guessed it - Carol Ann Duffy! Good grief, was I excited. The lovely Miss Cutting and I went to see her show, assuming that Cazza had just written the poetry for it and wouldn't actually be there, but alas! Turns out she is quite the thesp. It was a charming children's show called The Princess' Blanket, incorporating art, poetry, narrative, music and a Scotsman playing a bizarre array of medieval wooden instruments to a hilariously good standard. Laughs ahoy. I practically bent poor Hannah's ear off with my incessant twitters of apprehension and excitement over our impending one on one. After the show, I bought a poetry collection of hers (I already have most of the material but I like to consolidate) and waited in the queue for her to sign it for me, practising all the uber cool and casual ways I could tell her I loved her without sounding like a psycho. But nay, alas, at the crucial moment, my emotions got the better of me and I ended up just blurting those dangerous three words to the unsuspecting poet. She considered me, this ridiculous rosy-cheeked teenage girl in a purple tatty cardigan, and said what nobody wants to hear having just announced to someone that they love them: "thank you". Personally, I thought it was an apt response. She could have told me to fuck off, after all, and I wouldn't have been remotely surprised. We actually managed to have a relatively casual conversation after that initial verbal catastrophe and I invited her to Southampton to speak for us (FemSoc/EngSoc - the perfect combination). And she was well up for it! Hurrah! Note to self: actually attempt to prepare something sophisticated to say. I have approximately five months to do so, if all goes to plan, so I may just about manage it.

Of my favourite three I now have just one to go. If anyone knows of Emma Thompson's whereabouts, I'd be much obliged. Unfortunately I'll never have the complete set - R.I.P Virginia.


Back to Southampton at silly o' clock tomorrow. Hello another 12 hours on a mini-bus. Back to life, back to reality. Lame.