A Timey-Wimey Post
I think the “timey-wimey” phrase is from Doctor Who, one of my favourite television shows (about which I like to complain that the stories don’t always make sense). Time fascinates me, probably because I am so very bad at managing it.
My good time-sense is only connected to acting jobs. For me, as a performer, the half-hour dressing-room call has always been forty-five minutes and, as an audience member, I need to be in a theatre in good time to order an interval drink, buy a programme, read the programme to see who I might recognise (see prosopagnosia blog to come later this week) and also to look around the auditorium to see if there’s anyone familiar; such as my husband sitting next to me!
I am never late for auditions (a common dictum is that being on time for a casting is actually being late) and of course, I am rarely late for rehearsals.
Ah, there you have it. The word “rarely” crept in, didn’t it?
There’s no point in writing a personal blog if I am not to be honest.
I was not on time once when rehearsing in the wilds of South London in May. British Rail, or whatever it is called nowadays, (Southern?) decided not to have any information as to which platform my train to Loughborough Junction was to appear upon. I will never, ever, ever go to Elephant and Castle main-line station again. It is a totally illogical place. Up and down those dratted stairs I went until I reached screaming pitch. The destination boards were out of order and the so-called station staff obtuse.
However, I did telephone the stage manager to explain that I might not be on time.
The thing is, that as the rehearsal started at 10 am, being an optimist, I did not consider myself technically late even at 9:56 am despite being over six miles away.
I consider “late” to be when you are not there at a specific time and that I can’t be late if that time has not been reached in a clock-wise sense.
Which brings me back to wanting a timey-wimey thing.
Or is it the beam-me-up gadget thingummy they have in Star Trek that I need?
Last month there was a short story competition I intended to enter. The closing date was 31st October. I had a great idea or two and by the six weeks prior I had decided to definitely write said story. One or two things happened to distract me but the first few paragraphs were written and all I needed to do was to come up with a suitable ending. Suddenly it was two days before deadline, then one day and then five hours and the blasted thing still not finished.
Never mind, I thought, pull an all-nighter and it will be done.
Except it wasn’t and I didn’t.
The irony is that the theme was “Time” – my special subject, so to speak.
It was a great story starting off with a child saying, “How many sleeps til Daddy comes home?” It would have transpired that Daddy is “doing time”.
If only I had found the time to finish the story, trust me, you would have been very moved.