Foreign Languages

Saturday morning, I woke as usual and wandered out the door to the bus stop just down the street from the hotel - usually, I wait either alone or with the usual silent grouping of locals who would rather die than make eye contact with a stranger. This morning, however, it was only myself and a woman who walked up carrying a map and asked, "Parlez-vous francais?" 

Oh, I know my former French teachers Madame Perkins and Beauclair must've been smiling somewhere, as I replied back, "Un peu" and we began a half-hour conversation of, I'm sure, very mangled French and English - nonetheless, I was able to discover that she was trying to find her way to Holland Park - as this particular bus stop didn't go to Holland Park and I was "en vacance" from "les Etas-Unis", I was understandably not a lot of help, but I did let her know that the bus we were at would take her to Shepherd's Bush and the one across the street to High Street Kensington, from which she could either catch the tube to Holland Park or, I was sure, catch a bus. From there, we discovered that she was visiting her daughter, who was staying at the same hotel I was - even if I wasn't sure that "ma fille" was daughter, I'd know from the fact that the first question she asked about the hotel was about "securitie" :) ("Tres bien", I assured her) We talked about our favourite tube lines (we both laughed at the Circle line, because neither of us knew the word for "bumpy", so we just mimed bouncing up and down), commiserated about London weather, and she bid me au revoir when my bus arrived (she decided to go to High Street). I found myself thinking in French for the rest of the tube journey in to London. 

I arrived at the theatre, amused to no end that I'd be spending the day in a theatre again, running two shows, and amused myself by thinking of the different languages just used between film and theatre folk (or, for that matter, the much wider gulch between the costume students and fine art students). In all the discussions and group tutorials I've had throughout this course, I kept finding myself getting more and more frustrated with this obsession of "art" as, well, almost as deity amongst the fine artists. They work out their art with fear and trembling, worrying whether this particular line or color is just right, if this really evokes the right feeling in the audience, whether what they are doing is really "art" (a question I ask myself, for a different reason - especially amongst performance artists - yikes). As the course went on, I found myself having to revert to a new vocabulary; phrases like "organic processes" which we make fun of in theatre. Upon returning to a theatre environment, I was able to give a sigh of relief, being back amongst people who... well, I was going to put "don't take this art seriously", but that's not true. Every single person in the theatre, from the costume and wardrobe department, to sets, to lights, to sound, to directing and managing, to the actors, to the person handing out programs know that there's something very intangible about the theatre - at its heart, it is not commercial, it is not base, it is a very ethereal, spiritual action 

- it is a large scale lie, but not one meant to hurt, but to heal - the audience and the actors enter into a space wherein - completely out of either's control - a truth is transmitted from heart to heart through the use of storytelling - one of the oldest and most strangely knowable and unknowable forces in the world. Fine art does the same - the transmution of ideas through color or light or texture - but theatre does so with human beings - with real/false life happening right before the audience's eyes. 

Theatre and Fine Art are so absolutely similar, yet Fine Artists are, after all, the ones stereotypically running around in a beret and arrogantly full of themselves, while theatre artists are the ones running around backstage giving each other wedgies or laughing at American Idol between scenes. We all know the supreme power of what we're working on and respect that, but we don't get so caught up in it to forget to actually *live* in the meanwhile, and have a bit of fun while doing so! :)

Okay, enough ranting about fine arts. :) The point being, I spent the day racing about, helping soldiers turn into farmers, whores into Inn customers, listening to the girls' gossip about other's in the cast (though, obviously, the dresser's code says that I will take those secrets to the grave), taking breaks upstairs and watching the EuroVision contestants, and just generally having a great time hanging out with some fun, crazy folks - all the while, the audience was engaged in the story - laughing, crying, and taking something from it to influence their lives. (In the pathway I was on, I stand backstage to help Jackie go from the Priest's sister at dinnertime into her nightgown and shawl [for when Valjean is brought back the next morning] - although the Priest, in the story, is the quintessential Good Man, pure and blameless and full of grace, Jackie would always come off laughing - the actor playing the priest would whisper something crude to her every night as she was coming off stage to try to get her to laugh)

After the last show, I helped sort laundry, then changed into a cute top and went out salsa dancing with Claire - the club was absolutely *packed* full of people, with music loud enough that your heart starts switching over to the beat of the music. I grabbed a glass of red wine from the bar, then went out into the absolute fray - I'd never been before, but salsa is actually quite easy if you have a good partner and know how to follow - and there were some *really* good dancers/leaders there. I stuck around for about two hours, until the last guy I had been dancing with was getting quite clingy and I realized that, with the tube shut down for the night, it was going to be a long couple of bus rides back to Kensington. Claire walked me to the bus stop headed for Victoria, then stuck around having a fag (hee) while we talked about London, London theatre, etc - she wrote down my last day of classes in September in her date book, and told me that she'd keep her ear to the ground for me - and that I could stay with her anytime I came back to London. A group of guys came by, saying that they were working for some company in - Sweden? Norway? who knows, I was still rather buzzed at that point - and were instructed to get artsy photos of local London sights with local London people for advertising - we pointed out that she was from Malaysia and I from the states, but "oh, that's fine". Eh, whatever. They were probably just kids out getting pictures, but if we randomly show up in major advertising somewhere Nordic, that's what it's from. :)

I caught the train to Victoria, but - upon arriving - only found the bus stop to Shepherd's Bush after much wandering, discovered that there was only one night bus headed there and - frankly - was tired, buzzed, very cold (all the sweat was now just felt like cold water all over), and really, really needed to pee. :) I hailed a cab, which ended up being driven by an absolutely adorable old man, who chatted with me about Seattle, costuming, vintage clothing, and London theatre. He knocked five quid off the fare, since it ended up being more than he had originally quoted at Victoria, and I wandered up to my room where I headed straight to bed and slept fantastically. 

 

It's a World of Friendship

Let's see if I can get the song stuck in your head... (mwu-ha-ha)

(I realized that I start most of these posts with an introductory "So,..." and, as I've already long since broken my New Years resolution to cook/bake more (rather than reverting back to student eating ways - [though, to be fair, my fridge is broken and will - knowing James - probably not be fixed until 2012, and I currently have just a "mini-fridge" in the room, which hardly holds anything] ... again, I've confused myself with parenthesis, so just pretend I haven't used any up to this point. I was attempting to lead up to saying that my new New Years resolution would be not to start posts with "So...", but I think I should probably resolve, instead, to actually de-clutter my parenthesizes. And yes, I had to look up the plural of parenthesis. 

Ages ago, (by which I mean, probably back in late summer) I received in the mail a mailer from SCS, my old high school, keeping me informed on what the school and its students were up to. I read it for kicks, laughing as I remember myself at that age. (Well, I say "laughing", but remembering high school... eeehh) In that one, however, I saw an article submitted by an alumni of 2003 - hey, that was my graduating year and, lo and behold, I know him! (Not surprising, since we were a class of, what, 40?) Ben talked about how he was headed to London through an international charity organization, and I quickly looked him up on facebook - this morning, since I was finally in his neck of the woods, we met up for coffee and had a lovely catch-up chat. 

One of the first questions people would ask before I left (and, to a certain extent, when I arrived) was, "Who do you know over there/here?" - it was both thrilling and terrifying to be moving to an entirely new place without any backbone/crutch of friends coming along/already being there. I've always tended to be rather shy and reserved when thrust into a new situation with total strangers - it was important and very helpful for me to face this one by myself, leaving the familiar behind and flying 5,000 miles away without a safety net.

That said, it was a perfect timing of seeing a familiar face here in London - I got to see family and friends at Christmas, but that was back on their turf. Here on "my" turf, it was great to catch up with an old friend, compare notes of how life has twisted and turned since age 18, etc. The real kicker, though, was the odd thrill of talking to someone with an American accent. :) I'm not going to lie, despite spending almost four months here in the UK, especially down in Bournemouth which is nowhere near as culturally diverse as in London, I still "hear" the various British accents (and they still made me warm and smiley inside) - the only difference is that I now "hear" the American accent in my voice - I still talk the same (apart from an expanded vocabulary), but I don't hear myself as talking "normally", but as talking "American", if that makes sense. So, to come up to London where - it feels - the British accents are in the minority (I went to see Les Mis on Monday, and was surrounded by three rows of American tourists in front of me, and a couple of Americans behind me - as this was still early on in the week, I couldn't help watching and listening to them with a giggle both pre and post show) I can "hear" the accent now, and - seriously guys - we sound so funny. :)

PS Must remember to add - retraction: I have been corrected today that Philip has NOT, in fact, been wardrobe master for 20 years, but has been with the show for that time, and wardrobe master since the show moved to the Queen's Theatre, about five years ago. Also, Kieron contends that he is not, in fact, "adorable". Many apologies. :)

Hobnobbing Here, Amongst the Elite

Just in case anyone hasn't seen this...

Oh, where to begin...

So, several weeks back, I talked to Nigel and Rebecca about getting to do more practical side projects while here in England - they set me up a "work study" opportunity in London - basically, go to London and work in the West End for a week. Well... I *suppose* I could do that.... :) I found myself a dirt cheap hotel in Kensington through an expedia.co.uk deal (don't worry, mums, it's not a "dodgy" area, and - in fact - everyone gives me an "ooh... poshie" look when I tell them where I am - little do they know I am literally in a shoebox room (although I don't have a measuring tape with me, the room (minus the bathroom) is probably about 6 1/2 feet by 4 1/2 feet... yeah, that looks about right) - that said, it's a room, it's a comfy bed, my own

shower, breakfast, and really friendly staff (you have to pass by the front desk [which is always manned, even when I get home after 11PM], and the guy behind the desk always greets me by name, and all for only £15 a night); bought a one week tube/bus pass (one of the downsides of the hotel - to get in to the theatre, it's a fifteen minute walk to the tube station [or I catch the bus - quicker, when the bus is on time], then I take the central line several stops to Tottenham, then transfer to the Northern line, where I head south one stop to Leicester, then walk five minutes to the theatre - doesn't sound like much, but when you factor in all the stops, the treking across the stations, the escalators and stairs, it takes me about 40-45 minutes to get in to work)... I'm not sure where I was with this thought or with my parenthesis, so I'll just start afresh.

Monday afternoon (I was called at 2PM), I wandered over to the Queen's Theatre, right in the center of Soho, and next door to the Gielgud, where Bill Bailey has his one-man show, and where James McAvoy is apparently beginning to rehearse for the new show he's in - I haven't seen him yet, but not for want of looking :) I got a massive thrill out of walking back to the stage door, checking in with the porter, and wandering up all *5* storeys of steps to the wardrobe shop. I met the gang - Kieron (basically, the British Lewis Bellamy - adorably hilarious gay guy), Jennifer (the British Rebecca Gough - sweetest thing), and Claire (not sure who to compare her too, but just fun and giggly [and fun-crazy as the night wears on]), all headed up by Philip, a ridiculously fun and hilarious guy who's been wardrobe master for Les Miserables for - wait for it - over *20 years*!!! 

I realized almost instantly how much I missed being in a shop - even if, in the case of this shop, there wasn't much hustle and bustle to get work done. I'm coming from a perspective where you're hired on to get the show done in six weeks - rush rush rush, then you're out the door. If a show runs longer than 8 weeks, it's bizarre. To have a show that's absolutely clockwork like this, basically everyone shows up, we get the MASSIVE amounts of laundry done and sorted and back in their pouches, take tea, do some notes, eat some biscuits, make a pair of bloomers whilst watching telly. Philip explained that, generally, the schedule for work study kids is that, basically, they show up and spend the "days" (called at 2Pm...) during the week cutting, building, decorating, and distressing a pair of bloomers, then in the evenings shadowing a dresser. When, by the end of the first day, I'd done everything for the bloomers and moved on to a camisole, he asked if I'd be willing to stay upstairs and work with them - shadowing a dresser is, frankly, rather pointless (especially when you've already done it professionally back home), and "we could use you much more up here". (eee!)

Tuesday, I showed up at 2PM again, finished the camisole, worked on notes and laundry, but at 3:30, we stopped work, made tea and biscuits, and put on the BBC's coverage of the inauguration. (I had felt bad, having to work during it, but promised myself I'd come home and watch it on youtube - instead, I showed up and Philip asked nervously, "You *did* vote for Obama, right? Because I'm rather a huge fan...") Bless his sweet little heart, he cried when Obama was sworn in, and we all let out massive cheers for his speech. We then took dinner break (after not *really* doing any work all day!), waited around a bit for the show to start, then headed off home.

Today, I went in at 11AM (two show day) and - true to my training - hung up my coat, checked the notes list, and went right to work on Combeferre's vest. Kieron giggled and said, "Oh, *you* can come back anytime" - they get kids who just sit around and wait to be told what to do. (Huzzah for brownie points) By the time Philip came in, the notes were done, and we had moved on to building cravats, we shared embarrassing theatre stories, the girls and I took a jaunt during lunch tea down to a local patisserie, we watched "The Birds" on BBC4. In the afternoon, Philip had a bunch of stuff that needed to go back to "storage", and told Kieron to take me along. We grabbed a cab, and headed off to storage, which turned out to be a honest-to-goodness MASSIVE warehouse, wherein all the "extra" costumes for the West End's Les Mis, Phantom of the Opera, Miss Saigon, Mary Poppins, and Oliver are kept. Rows upon rows upon rows upon ROWS of these immediately recognizable costumes in tens, fifteens in a row - gorgeous fabrics, trims, all well loved and lived in - it was AMAZING. I seriously just wandered the rows whilst Kieron put things back, almost crying a little at the sheer amazingness that was it. :)

We got back to the theatre (after Kieron spent the cab ride gossiping about the local theatres and shows and actors), and I went back to cravats. Philip got a phone call, then informed the others in the room that Ebony would be out for the week - so they were down a dresser (the swing dressers were already all booked in for the weekend) They would have to rearrange the schedule and someone would have to fill in. 

I've always rather thought that life is 50% being in the right place at the right time and 50% knowing / having the guts to stick your neck out when that time/place comes around. I, in the corner ironing, meekly put forth into the room, "Umm... I'm a dresser". Almost like a slapstick comedy, all the heads wheeled round to face me and smiled. 

Moments later, they were pulling out dressing lists, explaining that this was the easy pathway, I'd be pretty much entirely in one of the girl's dressing rooms, that they still had tonight and tomorrow night for me to shadow before Friday and the two shows on Saturday. I was grinning ear-to-ear, even before someone said, "Well, we'll have to pay her" and Philip replied, "Well, of *course* we'll pay her!" I started filling out employment forms (curses that I left my passport at home in Bournemouth!) and looking over the dressing list, realizing that - seriously - it was actually less difficult than dressing ACT's Christmas Carol. (At least, the pathway I'd be taking, obviously) 

I was partnered with ... I feel really bad now, because I don't remember her name, but she was an absolutely adorable very short, VERY Scottish blonde girl who led me around and walked me through the pathway - the major changes are really only up to Paris, then we head upstairs and watch Big Brother with the wardrobe crew (hee) until prep for the Wedding. While I'm a little disappointed to not be hanging out with the guys (seriously, some really attractive guys in this cast - including the guy who played Princeton when Kristi and I went to see Avenue Q back on the Study Abroad!), while doing a quick change for Mark, John Joe came barrelling down the hallway, noticed me, "Hullo dahling, I'm John Joe, lovely to meet you" gave me a kiss on the cheek, and raced on down the other direction. :) Ah, I miss actors...

Jon Robyns - looking, for some reason, a lot like Jim Halpert.

A few minutes later, I found myself backstage, ready to watch as the priest's sister would come offstage to change into a nightgown and shawl. It was really only here, standing backstage right in the wings, watching Valjean trek across the turntable to the priest's home, that was standing BACKSTAGE in the WEST END dressing a show. This wasn't backstage at the Hi-Liners of Burien, this wasn't backstage at Taproot, this wasn't even backstage at the Intiman or the Rep or the Paramount - this was the Queen's Theatre in London, heart of Soho, working on a show that's - officially - surpassed Cats as the longest running musical, ever. Seriously, chills. 

But yes, after we safely got Helen, Tabby, Brenda, and ... the fourth one... to Paris, we headed back up all five flights of stairs to watch Big Brother (hee) and do crossword puzzles. 

We got the girls into their wedding gowns, though we were a little late and the boys came crowding into the room - it should be mentioned here, that - although the building is five storeys, there is very little room. (Substage, "large" dressing room, stage level, dressing rooms floors 1-3, wig maintenance and children dressing room 4, wardrobe 5), the rooms are all absolutely tiny and oddly shaped. Stairs aren't any kind of regulation height (the one onto the stage is probably about 10" high, and I very nearly kill myself on it, one of the staircases down to the substage is this tiny, rickety old metal circular staircase, etc) The building definitely has "character", but I'd get a kick out of seeing what Seattle building inspectors would think of it.

Anyway, the show ended - (spoiler alert) Javert kicked the bucket, Valjean found salvation, everyone cried - we lugged the laundry upstairs, then we headed home (back down the staircase). I had another moment of "Oh yeah" when I walked out the stage door - and into a small crowd of fans hanging out waiting for autographs. I smiled smugly, adjusted my bag on my shoulder, and walked through the plebs - I was done with *work* and was heading home. :)

hee.  

With Friends Like These...

I knew it must be the week that something was due - even if I hadn't been told that the undergrads all had a massive project (ie something they were supposed to have been working on all along and now should be a massive journal of essays and responses) due on Monday, I probably could've figured it out on my own. Why? Because every night people would knock, come in, and just hang out in that I-have-something-I-REALLY-should-be-working-on-but-I-really-REALLY-don't-want-to-face-it kind of way. The boys built a massive "fort" in the top floor common room out of the couches, chairs, curtains, cardboard, etc - basically whatever they could drag in. (I won't even begin to mention what all we discovered was living underneath said couch...) Everyone who came in had to try on Mione's corset for the film shoot. 

Lars built a trebuchet out of my slide rule and some cardboard. We watched countless movies. To be honest, this worked out great for me, as I'd had crits the week before, and thus only had to get the costumes for the film shoot done - so all I needed was some entertainment and my thread and needle. (Lars chucking bits of paper across the room while Julia pulls Patrick into a corset, it turns out, is quite a bit of entertainment) :)

This week, however, the film shoot finished, the Wider Picture project was turned in, I went to Bath, and basically we spent the first half of the week with everyone finally being able to breathe again, sleeping for most of the start of the week, and vowing never again to procrastinate. Which, naturally, meant that Ciaran and Lars would come knocking thursday night with A Plan. (Lars laughing heartily while clutching his whiskey bottle, Ciaran giggling like a schoolgirl) They were going to make a short film for fun, and wanted to know if I'd be in it / help with costumes. 

I hate to spoil it before being able to provide a link to it, but as they're quite serious about their editing (Lars assembled four different versions today, tonight they're going to be working on color editing, tomorrow on sound design), so here's the plot (so as to illuminate the last line of my last post, and explain why I currently have a headache): A girl is sitting on the beach, lonely and sad, writing a letter which she places in a bottle and places into the waves, which gently take it away. Elsewhere, a guy (Will - also looking sad and lonely) notices said bottle lying on the beach, picks it up, opens it, reads the message inside and smiles quite sweetly. He turns the note over, and writes a reply message, sticks it into the bottle, and with a very hearty throw chucks it back into the ocean. The shot cuts to the girl, staring thoughtfully out to sea, awaiting a return message ... until the bottle flies in and smacks her across the forehead - shattering - and she drops down unconscious. The credits roll over a shot of her feet lying motionless in the surf. What they have edited thus far is absolutely beautifully shot, with the punchline shot absolutely hilarious. :)

So, the boys descended on Thursday night and pitched this - as you may have guessed, my first question was, "Umm... you really want to break a bottle across my forehead?!" After a brief discussion of shooting it so the camera goes *past* my forehead, we looked up the recipe for sugar glass online and, well, thus began the two day period of my room smelling thickly of sugar. :) Sugar glass is a special effect prop, made simply of sugar, water, and gold syrup brought slowly to a boil, then poured into a form where it solidifies, is bendable for a short time, then becomes quite brittle and shatters easily, all while being a nice semi-opaque color. We experimented with a couple different recipes, creating a bunch of pieces, then larger pieces we molded around wine bottles wrapped with tinfoil. (The first night, Ciaran went to bed while we were still waiting for the pieces to finish cooling - a few minutes after he left, Patrick, Lars, and I pulled a large piece off of the tinfoil, went up to his room, knocked on the door, and smashed it over his head when he answered) We ended up with two pretty decent "bottles" of sugar glass - one as a safety close-up (because it was very thin and shattered as we were taking it off of the bottle) and one as a long-shot (much more intact). We gave both a light tint of green watercolor, and huzzah! 

That said, what was my first concern really wasn't anywhere near the real "horror" of the shoot. While I should preface this with the fact that I really did have a great time, I nonetheless should recount that, after staying up 'til nearly 6AM with a whole gaggle of people watching Eddie Izzard and making the bottles, we were up and rolling at 8AM. We wandered down to the beach, everyone wrapped up warmly (please remember that we are still hovering around freezing DURING THE DAY around here, and especially on the beach where the wind chill makes it worse...) I was dressed in cargo pants and a short-sleeved, light-weight cotton top. And barefoot. Lars, bless him, was quick to race over with the fleece blanket between shots, but I nonetheless, after filming the first shot, found myself wading thigh-deep into the channel to deposit the bottle into the waves. A few minutes later, I was having bottles thrown at my head (which I barely felt) and falling with a thud to the ground (which I absolutely did feel, as my head smacked the sand each time rather harshly). After this, Ciaran walked up and asked if he could get a shot of me lying down, with the tide rushing over my feet. I stared him down for a moment, wondering if I really valued my friendship with these guys enough... :) But I did - down onto the sand, "knocked unconscious"... unfortunately, we underestimated the tide line, and the surf ended up coming up past my shoulders, completely drenching my back and filling every clothing item with ten tons of sand. (Which is all currently in my shower - heee)

After this, I was pretty much covered in every piece of clothing the guys had brought, wrapped up in the blanket and towel, and set down to "warm up" in the sun while they filmed Will's bits further on down the beach. They fortunately filmed him throwing the bottle into the surf last, because on the last shot, the mouth of the bottle broke off - losing us the cork and completely destroying the note. (whoops) We hiked back home, where I changed into dry clothes, stuck my feet into warm water in the sink, and noticed red blots all along my hairline - where the sugar glass had actually cut me. (double whoops) To be fair, they had brought along a first aid kit - I just hadn't even felt anything. 

Flat 4 becoming the film production room, as Lars went about editing the footage while Ciaran popped in and out to check in - and I went about "reading" in my easy chair for a few minutes, before saying screw it, and taking a nap. :)

For now, I need to pack and plan my transport into London tomorrow - from the 19th through the 25th, I'll be in London, dressing "Les Miserables" on the West End. (Woot!) 

300 Year Old Waistcoats and Very Tasty Buns

I'd been to Bath before - back on the study abroad to the UK I did with Seattle Pacific, we stopped in Bath for... a week? Probably less... between Cambridge and Stratford. We stayed at Belushi's / St Christopher's Inn (part of the hostel chain we had also stayed at in Edinburgh), visited the Baths, the Jane Austen Centre, the Assembly Rooms, the Abbey, Sally Lunn's, etc - all the fun touristy things that you have to see whilst staying in a touristy town. However, I also visited the Museum of Costume, and realized sadly that they had the option to book a study table to examine the historical garments in person - unfortunately, I hadn't booked it early enough, and missed my chance.

Not this time, though. I emailed Elaine Uttley, and booked myself a study table for 11-1 on Thursday the 15th, then bought a train ticket and mapped out Bath, to help avoid getting miserably lost. The night before I kicked everyone out of my room at a decent hour, packed my bag full of the required pencils (no pens!), sketchbooks, and camera, then went to bed. Far too early in the morning, I headed out the door to grab the bus to the coach station, a train to Southampton, then another train to Bath. I had to hustle a bit to get up to the Museum in time, but ended up getting there about five minutes early: enough time to pop my head into the Assembly Rooms and once more gawp and gawk at the majesty.

At 11, Elaine came down to fetch us (there was another girl booked for the same time slot, studying the New Look style) We had to leave our coats and bags in lockers in the hallway, sign release forms, don gloves, and then - voila! Elaine pulled a sheet off of the table I was working at, revealing an amazing stash of Victorian undergarments - corsets, bustles, crinolines - drool. I sketched, I photographed, I carefully examined from all angles (I went to put one of the crinolines back, only to have the waistband tape fall to the other side and reveal the advertising tags - I gasped aloud. :) 

By the time I was done going through the underwear, I looked up to realize it was already 12:15 - I quickly called Elaine back, and was able to access the rolling rack of actual garments she had pulled for me - menswear from the 1700's and women's riding habits from the 1800's. Absolute heaven. The garments were all in amazing shape for being 200-300 years old, and the level of workmanship on them was absolutely exquisite. 

All the pockets were fully functioning, the lining was twisted to the outside, then handstitched over to create a lovely little binding to the outside, the collars all had two rows of (hand)stitching - and I should point out that this handstitching was pedantically straight, even, and uniformly 9 stitches to the inch. Crazy! All too soon it was 1PM, and everything was put back on hangers padded in muslin, copyright forms were completed and signed, and we were back out in the hallway collecting our coats.

It was scheduled to rain that day, so I had taken a bit of a chance scheduling my return journey for 5:30PM - if it had been nasty weather, I didn't have a whole lot of options to wile away four and a half hours with. Happily, despite being freezing cold and with a biting wind, the sun came out and made the city - nearly all Georgian buildings of golden sandstone - glow. As I was walking back towards the town centre, I found myself in a familiar street, and nearly started giggling aloud when I realized I was walking past good ol' Belushi's. I took a quick picture and went to walk away, but paused for a moment, looking at the windows of the pub. I remembered, suddenly, very distinctly sitting in that pub as I waited to meet up with a gaggle of people - I had a strongbow and some Shakespeare to read, and had stopped reading for a moment to glory in the moment, and to wonder what the future would hold. I people-watched through the window, wondering about their lives and what it must be like to live in the UK, rather than touring around, visiting a new spot every week. (Don't get me wrong - I loved that we got to see so many locations and I wouldn't change that for the world, but it was sad to always feel like a tourist, rather than someone actually living there) It felt like an oddly important moment, at the time, so I took a picture of the Strongbow on the window to remember that feeling. Standing there now felt like such a fascinating circle - living with film students, I imagined the scene as it would play out in a movie - me, standing in the middle of the street, looking in at the girl I was three years ago.

I went back to the Abbey, taking the tour inside (smiling at the ancient American flag hanging alongside the UK one, glorying as the sunshine came streaming in one of the stained glass windows, being creeped out by the vaults beneath the church, etc. 

I popped 'round to Sally Lunn's bun shop, because - even three years later - I remembered how fantastically delicious they were. I grabbed a corner table, ordered a sweet bun with butter, clotted cream, and fresh strawberry jam and a hot chocolate, and propped up my latest read which I had brought with me for the train (even though I ended up sleeping nearly the whole journey to Bath) - "Stigmata" by Helene Cixous. (A collection of her essays - don't let the classification of "Feminism / Gender Studies" scare you away - this is a lovely read. I wandered the Victoria Art Gallery, which was disappointingly small, but had some truly lovely oil paintings upstairs. I also picked up a flyer on the plays coming to Bath in the new year, including "Waiting for Godot" with Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen. Definitely going to that one.

The train was twenty minutes late picking us up at Bath Spa Station - very unusual, but very frustrating. Fortunately, there was a train connecting Southampton to Bournemouth that left only about ten minutes after we arrived, so I didn't get home too terribly late. And good thing, that - as I was, shortly after arriving home, invited to catch hypothermia and get smashed in the head with a bottle - an offer I simply couldn't refuse...

I've seen detergents leave a better film than this

Yesterday I took my first foray into costuming for film - and, unfortunately, failed to take any pictures. :( Taneka, however, was taking stills throughout the process, so I hope I can steal some from her. 

The aforementioned film was a second-year film student project - a ten minute scene from Ibsen's A Doll's House. We were in a black-box studio, shooting from 12:30-7PM. After the original actors bailed on the director, I got Louis to cast Mione and Ciaran - fantastic for me, as I got to do fittings in the Halls, much more convenient than its been for Sally and Aleks, who are just getting started and just about ready to pull their hair out over actors in lectures all day. 

Both dress and suit were pulled from costume storage - I simply had to go shopping for shirt, vest, and tie for Korgstaad and did some heavy alteration on the bodice and skirt for Nora (while the various skirts/underskirts/petticoats had to be taken up 6 inches, the bodice needed some interesting alterations to accommodate Mione's short-waist-edness.

 I then built a bonnet with false hair built right in - the original bonnet, complete with blonde braids and flapping corners, ended up placing me dead square in Holland, rather than the intended Norway. Whoops.

I got rather a kick out of the filming process - it was nothing more than tech week in the theatre, only instead of coming out of this "tech week" with a finished show, ready for an audience, you come out and go home, dropping the footage off with editing. We (actors and I) showed up a little after noon, I proceeded to get them into costume, hair, and make-up, then let them loose onto the "stage". I stood around a lot, occasionally popping in to poke hair either back up into the bun or back into a center part, but mostly just stood around watching and each digestives out in the hallway. The actors would be put into position, fed their lines, the lights would be adjusted, everyone would get back of the camera. "Sound ready?", "Ready", "Camera ready?", "Camera ready", "Sound rolling", "Check", "Camera rolling?" "Camera rolling" ... (a pause as we waited for the room to become completely silent) "Action". The scene would roll until the director would call cut, at which point everyone would scurry about - AD would check lines with the actors, Louis the director would start talking with the cinematographer in Portuguese, while I'd either go fix hair/hemlines/etc or chat with someone else on the crew. Lots and lots of hanging around, talking, and the general rule of tech week - 40 minutes of boredom, for every 2 minutes of sheer panic and frantic runaround. 

Around 1500, Mione had to go to a class, so we had to race her out the door (as we had filmed up to nearly the last minute before she had to leave) still in costume; as it was raining, she held an umbrella aloft, while I followed behind her, holding up her train. A short bit later, we broke for lunch and the group of us wandered over to the canteen, Ciaran still in late Victorian wear, which simply made him look more dressed up than normal. 

By the end of the day, I remembered the strain hell weeks put on the body - despite the fact that it hadn't even been a full day by any standards and despite the fact that I hadn't really done anything, I bundled up the costumes and hauled them home, absolutely exhausted. I think the film will turn out quite nice, but I will be so glad to hand the costumes back in tomorrow - I've been hanging them on the outer hook of my closet, meaning I have to heave them up and off the hook, then throw them over onto my bed if I want to get into my closet. I have bobby pins, plastic stands of blonde hair, and hangers lying about everywhere, and - while I'm excited to see the final product - I'm glad to move on to the next project. :)

"You can't take a guess for another two hours?"

My number one clue should've been the ridiculous number of screaming, coughing, completely unsupervised children racing around the plane. No really, I don't mind your child running up and down the aisle of the plane, slamming into my elbow and hacking as s/he races past. Whatever gave you that impression? Thankfully, I had my headphones, plenty of decent time-waster movies on the personal video player, and a smart-ass old Scottish man sitting next to me who grumbled as much as I did. :) 

Since I obviously wasn't getting the hint: "You WILL be sick because of this plane ride!", I got a much more obvious one: about three-quarters of the way into the plane ride, the lead stewardess came over the intercom, asking if there were any doctors or trained medics on board the plane. I started giggling, because I desperately wanted to call her over and say, "Oh stewardess, I think the man sitting next to me is a doctor." Of course, he would've had to have been wearing a stethoscope while sleeping, and he wasn't. As I heard a few different seats ding their call buttons (either they were doctors themselves or, lucky them, were in fact seated next to Doctor Rumack), I started remembering instead the episode of House where House and Cuddy have to treat what looks to be an outbreak of SARS on a flight overseas. Of course, since that was simply a case of the bends (geezes, spoiler alert!), I calmed myself and instead went back to imagining multiple eggs coming out of a woman's mouth or having to calm a panicking woman with a crowbar. 

As odd coincidence would have it, the family that I was seated next to on the flight from London to Seattle was sitting right in front of me on this flight, and we ended up walking together to the gate for the Amsterdam-London portion of the trip. It was an adorable little plane - we had to walk out onto the tarmac to board (as I was still a little high on my anti-anxiety meds, I started giggling again, imagining Eddie Izzard's take on it, complete with squirrels screaming your name); the flight was less than an hour long (which absolutely whizzed by, compared to the previous nine and a half hour ride [please to note: I was about to put "absolutely flew by", but realized that it might be construed as an attempt at an awful pun, and thus changed my wording. You're welcome] ), but we were still offered a snack of some sort - maybe it was just the travel fatigue, maybe I was already sick, but I quickly turned it down, thinking it looked like the worst bit of "food" I've ever seen. 

Upon landing, I wandered my way through customs, picked up my luggage, walked right on through the 'nothing to declare' hallway, and found my way up to the DLR (Domestic Light Rail) platform that shot me along to Waterloo Station, where I found a train waiting to depart straight to Bournemouth in only ten minutes. What service. By the time I wedged my luggage in front of the seat next to me and set the tickets in my lap, I was fast asleep. In between train stops, I kept dreaming that I was somewhere completely different - one time I'd be at SPU in the loop, another time wandering backstage at ACT's Christmas Carol, a few times in the old house, and at each stop the announcer's voice would jerk me violently out of sleep - while it was nice of her to inform me where I was each time, she could've turned down the volume a bit. During one of the naps, I woke to discover that the ticket officer had punched my ticket without waking me up. He gets massive karma points for that. 

I hopped in a cab once I reached the station and, arriving back at Bourne Chambers, quickly unpacked and - despite it being about 1PM, fell into bed. I think I posted on facebook that the room was spinning, but it would be more accurate to say that I had an approximation of sea legs - that feeling you get when you've been on a boat for some time and, even once you're back on solid ground, feel that you're slowly bobbing up and down. Sometime around midnight I woke up and paid an unfortunate visit to the loo - thankfully, I was still too tired to remember anything beyond "I vomited copiously" - the memory details are quite vague, though. I stayed up for a few more hours, too exhausted to actually sleep. 

I woke up around 6PM New Years Eve, and took the rest of the day easy - I still felt feverish and dizzy, but I kept a bowl of noodles with olive oil down, drank all the water I could stand, and watched the rest of Mad Men season two. Oooohh... sooo good. A little before midnight, I bundled up in as many layers of clothing as I could reasonably fit onto my body and made my way down to the pier. I passed on the way multiple clubs filled to capacity, and chuckled that my goal for the New Year would be the same as many peoples': to not throw up on oneself. 

There was a very strong, very cold Westerly wind (westerly meaning going towards the west, right?) and a slight hazy fog through the lower gardens, but the water and the pier itself were crystal clear - you could see quite a ways in either direction along the shoreline, the stars clear as day, and the water gently reflecting back the lights of the city in undulating, dreamlike swirls. The countdown began - I couldn't quite hear the numbers being shouted by those on the beach, but I'm pretty certain they weren't always going in sequence, as one person would be shouting a countdown, to be drowned out by someone obviously trying to correct him. There was no big signifying "boom" to mark it definitively, but eventually everyone with a watch decided that it was near enough to a unified "one", and began shooting off fireworks - all along the coast you could watch the flights flash across the sky, as each group struggled to out do each other. 

To properly delight my inner English major, I stood on the eastern side of the pier to bid farewell to 2008 and watch fireworks, then walked around the edge to the western side and watched from there for a bit. For whatever reason, the fireworks were going on the eastern beach, but not from the western (well, further down the coast yes, just not right next to the pier) - here families were... well, I overheard a family explaining what they were doing, but thinking it over later, I'm a bit confused. "They put "fire" in a "carrier bag" (plastic grocery bag), then let the wind blow it away." I'm not sure how the fire didn't just destroy the plastic bag instantly, and it's not like it was in a votive or something like that, as the wind picked these up and let them float away on the breeze over the water. That said, they were a beautifully eerie and almost supernaturally spiritual sight - a small flicker of light, like a candle in a distant window, borne aloft on the wind, drifting and gliding aimlessly this way and that over the water in the inky blackness. It was one of those sights that feels like a metaphor, but one so big that you don't want to destroy it by thinking it through - you much rather simply feel the enormity in the miniscule and watch it go on its way. I returned home, tired and quiet, and ready for bed once again. 

Since then, I've been feeling much better, but on an unfortunately truly bizarre sleep schedule that despite my best efforts I can't seem to get turned around. Also unfortunately, I've been dealing - most crankily - with my not-dead-but-useless refrigerator. Sometime while I was gone for Christmas break, the whole unit decided that it didn't want to keep things cold anymore. Upon first opening it, I discovered that the upper freezer area had completely thawed, dripping all its thawed water onto my previously frozen and now also thawed and moldy meat - which had, in turned, found a way to leak onto into the fridge below, covering everything in the somehow-now-warmer-than-my-flat fridge with a layer of moldy-germy-thaw-water. Everything that needed to stay cold to be viable as food had to be tossed. Anything that could possibly have had water leak in had to be tossed. Anything with a paper label had to have the label (now soaked with the water) peeled off, and thoroughly wiped down with disinfectant. The small amount that hadn't been tossed was moved to my larger freezer unit which, even on the warmest setting, has managed to freeze ice chunks into my milk carton and make the ketchup non-moving. On top of this, despite four thorough washings with disinfectant spray, two with a baking soda solution, and a tray of baking soda left in the fridge for a day now, the fridge still REEKS of death and decay - each time I open it, I half expect to see animated skull-and-crossbones come flying out, moaning aloud in despair. The odd thing is that it's still plugged in, the outlet switch is still set to "on", the circuit breaker isn't popped (and, perhaps more to the point, the light still comes on when you open the door), yet it is nowhere near cold, nor does the temperature change at all when you change the coldness switch in either direction and leave it for a few hours. I tried calling James, only to find - surprise, surprise - he's still off on holiday, and won't be back 'til Monday. I've tried to work out what the problem could be beyond, "It's very old and probably just dead", as the thought of having to wait for James to haul it away and bring in a new one fills me with dread, as the stench has already begun to filter out of the fridge - I can faintly smell it even across the room with the fridge door shut and absolutely nothing inside it save a plate covered in baking soda. (grumble)