The Norfolk Dream

The full compliment of Sunday’s Child is currently in Norfolk, living the dream in Sophie’s majestic country house. We have renovated her ‘party barn’ into a near perfect replica of our stage. We are currently resourcefully using a sweeping brush stuck through a wooden stool as a microphone. As I type (to Destiny Child ‘s TUNE Bootilicious, love Sophie’s 90s collection) the others are in the Jane Austenesque walled garden, teaching our newest crew member Jamal, the love/hate/confusion dance.  Jamal is enthusiastic and talented (we decided yesterday that he was going to a massive celeb one day despite protests that he isn’t interested in fame. Shut up Jamal. You’re going to be famous.)


I just took a stroll through the fields and recited my lines to Fagin the shiny chestnut ripply skinned horse.  I stalled a few times, but he said he didn’t notice.


Last night we wined and dined in Sophie’s immaculately set formal dining room. We sipped prosecco and ate with spirally silver cutlery (when you twist the handles of the knives and forks its like holding an optical illusion in your hands) and her brother who had just returned form an African hunting expedition entertained us with stories of skinning rabbits and shooting Wildebeasts. He also informed us of the danger posed by immortal headless snakes. I suggested that pehaps we should discuss a more palatable topic over dinner, like say….theatre, but none of us could think of anything to say.


After the feast we we had a late night set meeting,  which involved the mathematically inclined among us pouring intelligently over figures and diagrams and sketches. I nodded, hmmmed and occasionally and wrote the draft of this blog on the back of the travel section in the Sunday times.

We are leaving Norfolk for London at 6. 30 am Tuesday, with our set being dragged behind Sophie’s land rover in a horsebox. Ahead lies a week of workshops, rehearsals, and general banter in the Pleasance Theatre London. In the mean time we are enjoying the fresh Norfolk air, home cooking, seven bathrooms,  and the slobbery canine love which Sophie’s dogs are lavishing upon us all.


I always forget, or maybe subconsciously avoid, writing directly about theatre in the blog. I suppose it’s a bit like refusing to commit your dreams to paper, incase by writing them down, you automatically jinx them. Best to keep them floating, unacknowledged in your soul, that way if they never materialise, there’s no written evidence that you failed.  I often laugh when I reflect on how, what was once just a vague idea chilling somewhere in the depths of in my brain has evolved into Kiss Me and You Will See How Important I Am, in all its gloom and glory.  But once the laughter subsides I get all serious and pensive and think to myself that actually we all worked really  f**king ( cue Sophie’s parents asking me does this play contain unnecessary swearing…eemmmm) hard to conquer the Fringe and make it to London. And it wasn’t pure luck, or copious amounts of wood touching, or the general jamminess that I so often attribute it to. We are here because theatre is what our dreams are made of. There I just wrote it down. Now I’m lolling again.

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