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Amy MaidenJuly 08 we could be heroes... for ever and ever.Ok… I know I don't admit to this often… but I am a geek. A complete and utter geek. Yup, Mac loving, Harry Potter reading, Shakespeare sonnet memorising geek. But not just any old breed of geek – I am the worst kind. I actually specialise my geek-ness to one particular area. One usually reserved for old gay men.
My dirty secret is… I am self-confessed music theatre geek.
I blame my parents. A childhood listening the Andrew sisters, singing the tunes of "Joseph" and painting the sets of "little shop of horrors." Ten years of musical tuition, three years of musical theatre training… all supported by my loving parents. Yeah… I am a geek and although I manage to keep a lid on it most of the time… this week… it had no choice but to come out.
To get the build up to the events of the past two days, we need to go back a few years… lets say to the early nineties where I was a tall, awkward girl. Helping her dad paint the sets of the high school musical he was directing. Dad had the CD player, playing the soundtrack to a show I had never heard. It sounded different. You couldn't dance to it; there were no chorus girls and the music made you feel… well… different.
"Daddy, why are these people singing about shooting presidents in the head?" I asked…
"Well – this show is called Assassins. It's a non-linear musical piece about the disillusionment of the American dream and the power of the global media on the masses, manifesting it's self in people who assassinate American Presidents."
"Oh... so its not like cats?"
"No honey… its written by a man called Stephen Sondheim. That Cats show is a piece of crap."
And so… one conversation was to shape my theatrical tastes for the rest of my life.
Over the years, as I grew to learn more and more of the works of this man Sondheim, I became a more and more obsessive fan. The intelligence of his work not only fascinated but also inspired me and I bashfully admit that for a while there…I was what I now laughingly call a "Sondheim freak." Fat girl in high school, obsessing over obscure music… no wonder I never had a boyfriend.
Short story long… I love, admire and have an embarrassingly encyclopaedic knowledge of the man and his work. There is no way to fully explain it… unless you too are a music theatre geek – you just wont get it…
This kind of obsession does not leave you – no matter how hard you try. Fast forward to my mid twenties… there I was well and truly over the glamour and the romance of the industry and rather disillusioned by the music theatre genre as a whole. I had taken a long hiatus from my obsession, sold my soul to a giant mouse and put all of that passion for music theatre and particularly the works of Sondheim on the dusty back shelf of my mind. But it was still there… simmering away - waiting for a moment to boil over once more. Perhaps all those years distilled it in some way… the appreciation became less bubbly and a little more reserved… easier to bottle. But it was still there.
So… a month ago when my best friend Mccat (this is her nick name and how she will be referred to from now on…) called me to tell me that Sondheim was going to be in Sydney, doing a live question and answer and would I like to go… I immediately screamed YES down the phone and started booking flights I knew I could not afford.
To also add another dimension to this – earlier this year I had proclaimed loudly that (among other things) this would be the year I would meet Sondheim. At the time, my assumption was that this would happen through my then boyfriend who happens to know him… but with the demise of that relationship, the dream faded ever so slightly and I distracted my thoughts by drinking several bottles of Moet. (Remember my birthday anyone? I certainly don't)
However, many sober weeks later all it took one phone call from Mccat and my brain was working over time with images of not only meeting the man, but getting a photograph of us that I could then email to certain people (well... a certain person) in an insanely terrifying psychotic female statement of:
"Don't I make you proud look what I can do without you look at what you've lost I bet you're sorry now I don't want to be with you anyway I still love you but am glad we are apart and hope we can be friends but if I see you dating someone else I will rip her fucking heart out like you did to me sorry I am a psycho by the way I am not a stalker for the record my friends say I was right"
Yup… hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned… (AKA – when the hell did I become psychotic)
So… combining years of adulation with a ridiculous need for redemption and approval… I was going to meet Stephen Sondheim and get closure on a relationship all in one foul swoop.
Again… when did I become psychotic?
By a series of fortuitous events, I managed to score myself a ticket and after party pass to the opening night of "company" the show Sondheim was actually out here to support. It was here I was going to get to meet him... I was going with a very old friend Beautiful Amanda, we both knew people in the cast and it was set to be a cracking night. I was very excited about the entire thing, good show, good company and perhaps the chance to meet a living theatrical legend. I had my opening night game face on and I was ready.
For people who don't know the circus that is a theatrical opening night... I will try to sum it up as concisely as possible…
Um… hype… noise… show… hype… noise… party… networking… drink… noise… hype… party… show… hype… taxi… bed.
Now… once you get the hang of it, these things are fun. For me the rules are simple – take everything everyone says with a very large grain of salt, laugh loudly at jokes you think are lame, make sure you eat before you drink, tell everyone involved you thought it was fabulous and wait until you are well out of earshot before you say what you actually think.
Oh… and never… never ever… take yourself or anyone else in the room too seriously. It is an industry of make believe after all.
So there we were… paparazzi snapping away (again... not at us… see my previous blog for my long history of that) drinking and laughing with the young beautiful industry types of Sydney, having a grand old time. I have to admit… I was feeling rather fabulous. We had been to the show, made it to the party, scoffed the free food and took advantage of the free booze. The room was shoulder to shoulder with Australian glitterati… and all I could think is… where is he… where is the big S… and do I actually have the balls to do this?
We did a couple of circuits of the room, all dimly lit, filled with mirrors, couches and drunk Australian celebrities (Bob Hawke was my favourite spot of the night…) and finally… in the corner of my eye I saw a quaff of familiar silvery hair… there he was.
Ten meters away… and completely surrounded.
Wave after wave of people crashed around him – staring like they were looking into the face of god. The outer circle was hilarious. Hysterical music theatre FREAKS who circled him like he was some ice sculpture centrepiece, afraid to get too close in case they damage it, but crying (yes… literally crying) because it's beauty was all too impossible to grasp. Beneath them were the actors... the ones who were actually in this show… trying desperately to seem nonchalant about the fact they were chatting to an industry icon… making jokes and comments to him like they were old friends… all the while their faces screaming silently OH DEAR GOD PLEASE LOVE ME. Then, the closest ones to this Elvis of musical theatre were his friends… a couple of people who actually knew him and seemed to bring him some kind of solace in what seemed to be an exhausting and embarrassing parade of adoration. He looked exhausted, it was after midnight, he was working all day the next day and seemed to simply want to go home to do the crossword in bed.
I caught my reflection in the mirror. What the hell was I doing? Leave the man alone. He is famously shy and private and has flown from New York, apparently has the flu and has no need for yet another random girl to speak to him about nothing in particular, so she could brag to her friends… I met the big man. I started backing away. I was better than this… I did not need this validation. Be more than some crazy fan Amy, I thought. Leave this man in peace – lord knows he deserves it.
And then the speeches started… the artistic director of the theatre company up there bla bla bla-ing about the importance of musical theatre in the world (how singing and dancing save the energy crisis I do not know…) but as people milled and the crowd shifted… I started a conversation with the girl next to me. The two of us chuckling away about the freaks and the speeches… she was young, Australian and really nice. An island of normal in the sea of crazy that was becoming this evening. I asked what she was doing there and she said "I'm looking after Stephen… do you want to meet him? You seem normal…"
(That's the first time I had been called THAT in a while)
Did I want to meet him…. Did I want to meet him? I had been dreaming of this moment since I was twelve… but now… as it is offered to me on a platter… did I say no to appear normal? Did I walk away in the name of all things chic and cool?
HELL NO.
The speeches ended, he turned around to look at me and the nice girl said, "Stephen this is Amy… lives in London, lovely person, knows your producer…"
He looked at me… I looked at him...
I shook his hand and said "Hi… it's a pleasure to meet you…"
And he paused and said…
"I am really sorry I am exhausted and I have to go"
Yes folks… sometimes when you meet your hero they inspire you, they make you strive to be a person… or they excuse themselves to leave.
We are all – at the end of the day – fabulously human.
A
x June 19 a first class ticket to nowhereSo… here I am…. Sitting in the PJ O'Brien's at Tullamarine airport, Melbourne. It's around 2pm and about now… I was supposed to be getting on a flight to Sydney.
Sydney…. City of the stars, the harbour, the bridge… and many other… things.
"Why are you sitting in a bar Amy?" I hear you ask? "Why are you not jetting your way off to this fabulous place to be fabulous with the fabulous people all the live long fabulous day!!?? Is it because they cancelled your flight…" No. "Is it because there are domestic delays today?" Nup. "Is it because you met your soul mate in the departure lounge and the two of you are running away to Barbados together to live in luxury and laugh at the silly people still so poor they have to work for a living?"
Sadly…. Again… No.
Today friends I have learnt a very valuable lesson.
NEVER TRUST ASHLEIGH FLANDERS TO MAKE YOUR TRAVEL ARANGEMENTS.
Lets back track a little…
After many days in Ballarat doing little more than, eating, sleeping, walking the dog and surfing the Internet… I was busting to get out of the Western Victorian hotbed I once called home. Don't get me wrong… there is nothing about Ballarat that is specifically bad… (Except perhaps for the bogans and the matching lime green tracksuits that seem to populate a large amount of the city) but I have spent the past two years in London. The city where you go a million miles an hour... or you don't go at all. And you get trampled to death by the crowd coming up behind you.
It was quite a big gear change to go home to the town who's national emblem is a giant flower called the begonia. Yep. Quiet days and quiet nights… being at one with my thoughts…
I was slowly going mad.
So… I woke up this morning a little excited about my imminent trip to the big smoke… I got up early, packed my bags, cleaned my room (on pain of death from my mother) and hopped the Ballarat shuttle bus to the Airport. Armed with my latest copy of "Ok! Australia" (appropriately celebrating the Olsen twin's 21st birthday… god bless them everyone…) I was ready to pop in the I-pod, listen to some tunes and disappear to the land of my imagination for the hour and a half ride… (for those of you wishing to know… the land of my imagination involves a Lindsay Lohan, the Olsen Twins and giant padded cell in rehab… no mum I am not a lesbian…) but to my dismay, the shuttle was deserted and was forced to make inane small talk with the driver who told me about seventy five times that there was lots of fog today, that he is from Minnesota, his sons live in Melbourne and Florida and he used to be the deputy head master of Colac primary school… why his career has turned the dramatic corner to Shuttle Bus driver… I will never know.
Anyway… got to the airport and met ash… my currently albino like friend with bleached hair and Macaulay Culkin like features who I met at university. Ash and I had planned this trip a while back… when I was still in London. He rang me up while I was at work one day and stated quite plainly "you and I are going to Sydney to visit Tanya on the fifteenth that's ok yeah?" "yeah" I replied… I have lots of old mates in Sydney… many places and people to see and do and would love to get up to the town I once called home and left six months later calling it the city of shattered dreams… "book it will ya? I'm busy" I said… and so he did.
Apparently.
Fast forward to the polite blonde ladies at the virgin terminal pointing us in the direction of the check in desk, visualise if you will, the normal "baggage" and "extra weight" jokes to be made whilst standing in line… the checking out of the male flight attendants and the obligatory mullet sighting... and of course they were taking that mullet to Dubbo.
Then… in your mind's eye visualise Irene. Polite, brunette, funky glasses Irene… just going about her day… calling up two adorable chums laughing all the way to the big smoke to check in and having to tell us in her sunny voice
"I'm sorry… I cant seem to find your booking for today"
Uncomfortable silence.
Confused stare at each other.
More uncomfortable silence.
"I'm sorry… you can't find what?" I said.
"It has to be there… I booked it, I have the confirmation right here…" said Ash
"I'm terribly sorry… but neither of you are in the system for today…"
"Flanders?" I said "make the mean lady stop lying… why is she lying to us Ash… ASH!"
Now… for the full effect of this story you need to understand that, much like myself, in times of pressure and stress, Albino Ash tends to get a little loud and a little fast… without realising.
"COME ON IRENE (ha ha) I BOOKED THIS I HAVE THE CONFIRMATION RIGHT HERE HANG ON I BOOKED THIS FOR THE 20TH WHICH IS THE DAY WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE LEAVING I BOOKED THREE FLIGHTS TO AND FROM SYDNEY ALL ON THE WRONG DAY HOW CAN I GET A FLIGHT FOR TODAY FOR THE TWO OF US TO GET THE HELL TO SYDNEY TO SEE OUR FRIEND TANYA EAT THAI FOOD AND GET DRUNK WHERE IS THE INFORMATION DESK OH IS IT OVER THERE OK I AM GOING TO GO OVER THERE AND CHANGE THE BOOKING I HOPE IT DOESN'T COST TOO MUCH BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER BECAUSE I WILL PAY THE DIFFERENCE BECAUSE I WAS THE ONE WHO MESSED UP THE BOOKING I AM REALLY SORRY AMY OH MY GOD THIS IS HILAROUS WE MUST WRITE A BLOG ABOUT IT IN THE BAR WHEN THIS IS DONE."
Now… lets pan across the terminal to James. In fact… zoom in for a close up on James. James works at the Virgin information desk and is having a rather banal day talking to businessmen about red eye flights until he sees an Albino Ash and International Amy (that's what ash calls me in his blogs) approaching his booth. You could see the look of fear in his eyes. Admittedly he hid it well.
"James… we need you to help us out… we need you to get us quickly and cheaply on a flight to Sydney…" I said… flashing a smile and leaning over the desk. I saw it straight away. James wasn't interested in helping me…but he WAS interested in helping Ash.
So… while I was on the phone explaining to Tanya why we were now going to be one… no two… no four hours late into Sydney… Ash was in hyper drive "lets see what a little flirting get us" mode…
Apparently, a little flirting could get us extra $280 bunged onto the price of our ticket to get us the hell out of this airport.
Lesson two of today… never leave Ash in hyper drive alone for too long… because as I hung up the phone and turned back to the counter, Ash had some how gone from a flirty moment to one of international security. Yes… as I walked back to our friends at the info counter Ash was actually saying… out loud… to an airport staff member… "cant we just get a Qantas plane to shoot a Virgin plane out of the sky so we can leave earlier?"
James was not amused. He stared coldly at Ash and shook his head. Quietly muttering "no… don't…" before the SAS came to sucker punch him in the head and claim his first-born child. (don't tell them but they'll be waiting a while…)
So… terrorist jokes put to one side and excess costs paid… we went to check in our bags… THREE HOURS EARLY. Brunette Irene gave us a sympathetic look and tried to make us feel somewhat better by regaling us of tales of other stupid travellers booking themselves in on the wrong day, week, year…
Cold comforts Irene. Cold comforts.
And so… here I sit dear friends… in a P.J O'Brien's… drinking in the airport prices, watching the little hand move past the big hand and writing to all you good people to pass the time… and quite sadly… ash is doing the same thing.
To read his account of events… go to www.myspace.com/one_step_out
If you need me… I'll be at the airport.
A
x April 16 There's kid inside... and i have her with me always.okay.... April 25th this year marks my 27th year of life. 27 years... I am now staring directly down the barrel of thirty. This is not something that scares me. Infact, after squeezing every last drop out of my twenties, (albeit three years early) I am quite looking forward to being re-booted with the juice of a new decade. Infact, I've been looking forward to thirty since about twenty five... But then last week, something happened. I hate to admit it here on a myspace blog, but I joined Facebook (yet another highly addictive friggin internet network find your friends and talk about yourself webpage) and there I found a new gang of old faces I hadnt seen in a long long time... my highschool buddies. Now... for those of you who dont know... I am a small town gal.... Ballarat, Australia is where i spent many many years growing from the seed of a girl who climbed a tree and scraped her knee (much like her hero Frauleine Maria) to the bull in a china shop that writes to you now. (In the past two days I've already smashed my toe, gotten sun burnt, broken a mug and spilt three cups of scalding hot tea on myself and others.) The school of hard knocks that is London is a universe away from the wonderfuly supportive and insular world of my primary, middle and high school life - Ballarat and Clarendon College. A school I attended for 13 years, where my brother, my step sister and my step brothers attended and was also where my Mum, Dad and Step mum all worked (that's an entire episode of Oprah in it's self) Anyway, I was well aware that this year would be our ten year reunion. Ten years since we all signed each other's uniforms, sprayed the teachers with water pistols and promised we'd all be Best Friends Forever. Now... despite the fact I have not become a tony award winning super star, am not married to someone fabulous, do not have an amazing house with two kids named Oliver and Ethan or a range rover and a husky named Nanook (as was my dream in 1997) I am still quite proud of who I am and what I have made of my life thus far (just ask me... I'll tell ya!) and was looking forward to turning up to my ten year reunion and finding out where the road of life has lead my fellow "old collegians of 1997" um... apparently... they were not as interested in me.... according to the messages on facebook... It was last week... AND I WAS NOT INVITED! Not invited to my own reunion!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!? Was I really that obnoxious in the early 90's that ten years has not managed to get the cool kids to invite me to their friggin' party! Apparently not. All of a sudden I was back in year twelve at the after debutante ball party, wearing a size 22 mint green dress, standing alone in the corner too fat to get drunk and snog anyone in Tom Hunter's back yard. I was astounded. Dont they know who I am!? I go to parties with west end stars... I hung out with Monica Lewinski, I have pranked called the Osbornes... My name is put on the door at Ronnie Scotts and I have turned down invites to the Black Eyed Peas after parties.... and I cant get invited to my own HIGHSCHOOL REUNION! (Please note that all of the name drops just written are announced with a large sense of irony and and witty, biting cynicism....) So... I emailed my father.. who still works at the school... because obviously it was HIS fault I wasnt invited. (Lesson one in "How to be a daughter handbook" - when things go wrong... run to daddy) but when all he could email back was "um... you live in London and have been constantly moving since 2001, perhaps they couldnt find you." I went to the next source. Brooke. Brooke is from Beulah, (a town so small its barely even a road) and my fountain of all highschool knowledge. She came through with the goods. All the gossip from the reuinion I missed and let me tell you... it has frightened me to the very centre of my soul. Here is an abridged version of what she wrote - Dear Amy Don't worry there were a lot of people not there but I'll tell you about the people I did talk to - apparently this is ment to make me and my lack of invitation feel better. It didnt work. DO WE SEE A PATTERN HERE PEOPLE???????? The only other unmarried, un betrothed one... is my former GAY BEST FRIEND! How is it that all of these people, who I last saw leaping off the diving board of adolescence into the swimming pool of life, have now already made it to the podium of marriage and children? Did they all race off when i was in the shallow end pretending to be a synchronised swimmer? Was I still shouting "Look I can do and underwater handstand" when they were partnering up and getting the bronze medallion of adult hood? And why the hell do I still feel like I am wearing the floaties and using a kick board while these people are suiting up in the thorpedo olympic body suit? I'm so astounded I've run out of aquatic analogies. And I was so shocked and disturbed by all this Ballarat Step-ford behaviour I spent the weekend on the couch watching "sex and the city" eating everything i could get my hands on and psychoticly obsessing about why my boyrfriend had not called me in the past 24 hours (um... casting a broadway show in New York might have something to do with that...) In the immortal words of my brother... "Who invited me to the party and where have I left my pants?" Now... dont be mis-guided here. This is not a blog where i stand and rant about small town people being boring and having nothing else to do but get married and pop out babies. Thats not it at all. Really. Its not. Nor is it a rant about me feeling unfulfilled because i am not (nor anywhere near) being married with kids and that entire part of life.. Its just a moment to recognise that, even when you feel like you are firing on all cylinders, that you are running towards everything you are passionate about, that you are steadily building a life that is representative of everything you are, everything you know and all things you see as beautiful... There is (and always will be) always a 17 year old girl inside me, wearing a size 22 mint green dress, laughing loudly at the boys jokes to cover the fact she is too terrified to look them in the eyes. and here she is ten years later... still quietly gutted she wasnt invited to the cool kids party! Ugly ducklings... stand up and be counted! xx April 08 shite your dacks excitingAnd here is the third and final installation of the Easterblogs
(aka four days when I actually have time to sit and be with my thoughts… and watch the latest reality television horror Any Dream Will Do – Andrew Lloyd Webbers Search for a Joseph. Oh you can bet I’ll be writing about that very soon.)
But rather than rant about other people’s careers, I actually have some updates on mine.
It seems that when everything goes to complete shite… at some point they have to get better. Or at least at some point you get off the couch to prevent your skin fusing with the leather.
March brought with it the return of my best male friend Johnny. He and I met all the way back in 1997 at the call backs for what would turn out to be the University we both attended. When I met him he had blue hair, was wearing checked purple trousers and was carrying a teddy bear. I looked at him and thought… who the hell is this guy? But then he opened his mouth… and he could sing. And I thought, if stick with him… well then the two of us are bound to make it!
Thankfully, what was an opportunist move turned out to be one of the most lasting and valuable friendships of my life. We have been through births, deaths, marriages, divorces, pregnancies, break ups, drunken snogs, living together, living apart, cruise ships, call backs, jobs gained, jobs lost and the toughest one of them all… London.
We met in one of our favourite café’s and I took one look at him and said… thank god you are here. We caught up on everything, filled in the blanks of the past few months and set out to have a fun fun fun month in London, while he was on break from the QM2.
One night, we were at a late night cabaret show for new music theatre writers in the UK, sung by working west end performers and supported by Cameron Mackintosh, it seemed to be the kind of thing we would attend, support, produce in Melbourne… we were wrong.
Not wanting to rain on someone else’s parade… but it was COMPLETE SHITE. The way the event had been set up was an insult to the writers work and joke of a performance. And these people are the “young hot” performers of the West End!? What the hell kinda bull shit was that!? And it was then… in that foyer… that something clicked over in my brain. What the hell was I doing? Why was I sitting waiting for the next audition when this schlock was being paraded around as the most exciting thing in the industry. I looked at John and I said… “I’m calling in sick tomorrow aren’t I?” he said “You sure as hell are.” And that was that.
Since that night he and I have been running a hundred miles an hour towards what we have always said we would do. In three weeks we have secured our venue, obtained financial backing (albeit not enough), secured the rights to our first show, registered ourselves as a business and launched www.contempotheatrecompany.com We have an Autumn/Winter 2007 season lined up and are in plans for 2008.
I write to major Broadway producers… and they actually write back. I contact writers who I have idolised since I was a teenager, and they want to work with me… I talk about our company… and people get excited. We have an accountant and a publicist, I have emails to write and meetings to attend… everything we said we would do, is actually happening and at the same time I am exhilarated and crapping my dacks. As I said to John the other day….
This is it... this is the moment we do this. And either we do it all the way, with everything we’ve got… or we don’t do it all. This is our crunch moment…and god knows I’ve never done anything by halves.
If this all goes to shit… If I wind up in thousands of pounds of debt… then at least I did it putting my money where my mouth is. Or at more accurately, where my heart is. If I go be a cruise director for the next 20 years to get myself out of that debt… there are worse ways to spend your life!
At the same time I am working for a casting agent and find myself running auditions for hip hop dance shows in Dusseldorf (that’s a whole other story), being a freelance photographer and shoot weddings with my friend Al - www.alexandrasilberphotography.com – and am in talks to do an artistic commission for the Berkley Hotel (where Madonna, Leo, Lohan and Brittney all stay) to shoot photographs that may be hung in every room of the hotel. Oh yeah… and I’m called back for Madame Thenardiere in Les Miserable on the West End. All of this around the farce that is my day job and attempting to have some kind of a social life in one of the world’s most exciting cities.
Ever feel like the world is your oyster?
Please do not take this blog as bragging – its nothing but amazement.
The world is an amazing place if you let it be and everything you want can be yours if you are willing to put your hand up and ask for it. Never settle for anything other that everything you want. It will never be easy, but nothing worth having ever is. It will take all of your guts, all of your strength and every ounce of your heart… but when its happening… all you can do is be truly grateful and amazed by what you’ve got.
Oh… and by the way… make sure you have an amazing group of friends around you who support you as you go. What’s all the success in the world if you can’t share it with anybody?
xx April 06 an ode to loving what you've got.So… the last time I “blogged” I had just re-sold my soul to Disney to be a freelance character manager for them. Apparently in England…. Freelance means “you’ll do one job with us, we’ll owe you money and then we’ll never answer your calls….” FOR SHAME MICKEY MOUSE FOR SHAME!!
So my prison-beak style escape from the Alcatraz that is Harrods is yet to happen. But for some reason – I don’t really mind. Something seems to have clicked over in my head; I have harnessed my chi and don’t let the bad stuff in anymore. And really – the salon is a lot better than some of the other day jobs I’ve worked.
I’ve dressed as a Kinder surprise egg and been beaten up by children at a race course, I’ve thrown yo yo’s at people in mosh pits, I’ve sold mobile phones to people who do not need them, I’ve hunted down tax evaders for the government, I’ve helped to run the worst youth hostel in the EU, I’ve sold popcorn to celebrities at Cirque Du Soleil, I’ve wrapped presents in my Auntie’s gift shop and I’ve nannied for the most spoilt children on the planet.
Hey kids! Look what a degree in musical theatre can do for you!!!
Life at the Urban Retreat aint all that bad and it seems that I’ve been there long enough to now have what I can call “my clients.” The weird, eccentric and slightly “left of centre” people who love me because I make all of their ridiculous requests, an even more ridiculous reality.
Stellios – mid 40’s, interior designer. Comes in every Monday for his pedicure, every other Wednesday for his back wax and every third Friday for his hair to be tinted and cut. These appointments are booked for the rest of his natural life. He is a creature of habit and does not like change. When he comes in I make sure he has his fresh carrot juice as sits down and only when he has finished drinking it will he be served his porridge. Do not think of serving it at anything less than boiling point. Do not ask him his surname – he will not tell you. Do not ask for his mobile number – he thinks they are evil. Do not think he will pay on his card – to him credit cards are satanic. If there, for any reason, needs to be a change in this routine, he needs to know 48 hours in advance to emotionally prepare himself. Stellios – the man with no surname, always dressed in Prada. I love him.
Rula - Mid 30’s, Jewellery Designer, French. Highly strung. Flips out if someone breathes in the wrong direction. Will ONLY see Davy for her cut and Sacha for her colour. If I sit her down and convince her, she might see Paco or Nikki, but will only speak to me about it. I make sure she has her diet coke, no lemon, no ice ready for her when she comes in and there is always an eyebrow specialist ready to give her an eyebrow shape should she decide she will DIE if she doesn’t get one NOW. But as she leaves she gives me a hug… tells me she loves me and wanders what she would do without me. Quite frankly… I don’t know.
Mrs. Cassar – about 100 years old. Non – specific eastern European. Cannot talk, can only yell… and seems to think the world is out to get her. “DAWN WILL NOT JUST DRY MY HAIR TODAY YES , SHE WILL CUT AND DRY YES, SHE WILL CUT THEN DRY NOT JUST DRY YES.” After 20 years of coming to the salon every single Thursday afternoon at 12:30, Mrs. Cassar can’t quite understand that no matter what Dawn does, it will always take 45mins and cost the national debt of Uganda. She often says to me “I LIKE YOU YES, YOU DO GOOD WORK YES, IF I HAD EVER HAD TO HAVE A JOB YES, I WOULD BE LIKE YOU YES. I take that as a compliment.
Mrs. Bettleheim. – About 200 years old – 3ft 4” and hunched over like Quasimodo. I have never actually seen her face. My reception desk is so high that when she checks in all I see is a cane smacking onto the glass and hear a Munchkin like voice say “Bettleheim – Robert – thank you” and off she goes….
Mrs. Nemeth – early 70’s – 4ft 2” (a giant compared to Mrs. Bettleheim) comes in every fortnight for Robert to do her wigs. She carries three large wig bags with her and, due to a hip replacement, waddles through the salon talking the ear off everyone. Always orders two cappuccinos and a piece of carrot cake with two forks so she and Robert can shoot the breeze while he attempts to make her rugs look like real hair. She is sweeter than everyone’s Nanna put together and is an oasis of lovely amidst the ocean of Euro trash that comes through our doors.
Mrs. Scott-Brown. NEVER EVER EVER CALL HER BY HER FIRST NAME. She will actually set you on fire with her eyes. But, if you keep on her good side, she’s quite a pussy cat… or is that lion… through all the bright orange curly hair extensions it’s hard to tell where the cat ends and the fifty something woman begins. She’s had enough face lifts to make David Guest proud and is running the impossible race against age. Her tiny frame actually trembles at times and she seems quite terrified by her life or perhaps by the reflection in the mirror. But when Flavien runs his fingers through her hair – all the worries seem to melt away.
Marie Louise – another one with no surname. I have no idea how old she is because she has had so much plastic surgery she can only be half human. French and the size of a semi-trailer she comes in three times a week for endomology (a crazily expensive cellulite treatment.) With her bleached blonde hair, bright pink lipstick and blue eye shadow pasted all over her face I often say to her “Marie Louise, you look so lovely today in your leopard print leggings… you are so naturally beautiful I don’t know why you need us.” She sighs and looks at me over her Dior glasses. “I spend so much money coming here three times a week… and look at me! I am still fat!” And with that… she takes another bite out of her cream pie, gets in the cab and goes home… around the corner.
I could spend all day writing about my wonderful clients at the Urban Retreat – there is enough to fill a book, and one day I will. But the people who really make it all worthwhile, all the screaming, insulting clients, all the long days and the Harrods bullshit…. Are the staff. We are the worlds largest salon and in some ways, a little micro world of our own. We all laugh at this life together, because if we didn’t, there’d be a mass Waco style suicide on the fifth floor of Harrods.
There’s my reception posse – a gang of mostly girls ( and two guys) who are a never ending stream of advice on love, men, fashion, sex, dating, restaurants, bars, clubbing, celebrity gossip and diet tips. They put up with my melodrama of a life and don’t tell me to shut up when I quite Oprah’s thought for the day at them… well not right away anyway.
The beauty therapists are always on hand to help you out with an emergency wax, tan, facial, body scrub, back rub or eyebrow tint should the need arise and will always listen to the woes and worries of the day. Just don’t mess up their bookings… they will pack hunt you down and eat you for breakfast while your heart is still beating.
The make up artists are magicians who somehow manage to make me look human after working fourteen consecutive days and staying out all night in a gay bar in Soho because John wanted to go dancing. With a flick of a brush, they take me from “night of the living dead” to “night of a thousand dances” and think nothing of it. I don’t know how I lived before I met them.
But... If I am being honest… of everyone… the hair stylists are my favourite. If we were in high school they would be the cool gang that everyone wanted to be. They are the beautiful ones who are just so frickin’ cool…
Top Dog is Paco – Senior Art Director of the Salon – Spanish. He calls me “Carrinitos” - which in Spanish means little cuddles. Mid 40’s (although he seems to defy the aging process completely) his boyfriend is the HOTTEST man in the universe. He wears knee high Prada boots, tight ass hugging trousers and Versace shirts and struts through the salon like the stallion that he is. He works when, and only when, he wants to and does what ever the hell he feels like… for he is PACO! Lord of the stylists! When our ridiculous management try to speak to him about it… he listens… smiles… and then does whatever the hell he wants to. I love him.
Next is Claudio – the other Senior Art Director – Italian. Works harder than anyone I know, can cut three women’s hair at once and make them all look like Miss Venezuela ’97 within thirty mins. And they love him for it. He is passionate, funny and tells it like it is. On the days I have slept in too late to wash (or brush) my hair he’ll openly yell at me “What are you doing? You can be so pretty and you show up here looking like a cleaner! Stop it! You make me sick!” But then he’ll give me a wink and a smile… and I’ll reach for the damn hair brush.
Then there’s my favourite of them all. The man who walks in slow motion, with his own personal wind machine. The one with the floppy brown hair, the endless sparkling eyes and the sex appeal oozing out of every single pore. His bi-sexual, French flirtations mix a heady cocktail I would take intravenously if I could. He rubs my shoulders, whispers in my ears, and plays with my hair and at many times I have thought to myself… if he doesn’t stop I cannot be held responsible for my deeply inappropriate workplace actions… and then let him keep going. I tell him everyday that I love him and that the sooner he admits he loves me too, the better it will be for all of us involved. He tosses back those brunette locks and laughs… and I let him think I am kidding. This is Flavien – the Don Juan of Urban Retreat.
So here’s to those of us who have day jobs… the things that keep our bills paid, our rent on time and our fridges stocked. The things that keep us occupied while we spend every spare nano second of our live running towards what we actually want - our dreams.
May your dreams and your day jobs be as entertaining as mine… xx February 25 M-I-C... see ya real soon.
okay...
just a quick one to let you all know i am indeed back at disney... but not at the cruise line. oh no!
I am a freelance character manager for the London offices, flying around The EU, South Africa and to Dubai to hang with Mickey and the gang... oh yeah...
had training last week and some more in a few weeks and then I'll be back making magical memories again.
it feels like a good move. Not quite "it", but a step closer to where i want to be. We shall see. It feels like its all baby steps at the moment.
I will write with tales of mickey in Poland soon....
xx January 29 something to do on a sunday???okay... so my agent rings me the other day and says the following... "Amy, i have a great audition for you, its for a one off gig in Edinburgh, great money, singing the hits of the west end... take in two contrasting songs and a monologue, they are really excited to see you! It's gonna be great!" Sounds great right? Well dear friends let me tell you that in big bad London, things are not always what they seem.... you need to learn how to spot the warning signs... Firstly, the audition is on a sunday... which although is not completely unheard of, but is a little odd... Secondly, there was no accompianist... i had to bring two backing tracks... which are officially aginst my religion... not being a snob, but i HATE them!!! Thirdly.... Steph couldnt tell me too much more about the gig... what styles to sing what the money was, where in Edinburgh the gig was...I had a strange feeling about it all, but went in anyway... So.... picture me Sunday morning, full make up, hair done, all tizzed up, all ready to sing the hits of broadway.... i find the address and it looks all a bit residential.... not really like a hall or theatre or studio... I press the buzzer... a young twenty something waif answers the door... the conversation was as follows "can i help you?" "um yeah... i am amy... here to audition...." long silence and stare "yeah... sure.... whatever... come in... you can wait in the kitchen" I sat on a stool, next to the fridge looking at family photos all around the room... i could hear the some guy belting out the hits of dirty dancing in the next room and to my horror i realised... THIS WAS SOMEBODY'S HOUSE.... I WAS ABOUT TO AUDITION IN A LOUNGE ROOM!!!!! Yes folks... in i went to meet a panel (can you call it s panel when theya re sitting on their COUCH???) of three who were sitting there killing themselves laughing at something hilarious i was not privvy to, with a full spread of pizza, bottles of red wine, desserts and a cd player... "Amy... nice to meet you we are looking for someone to sing the hits of phantom of the opera, have you prepared that for us?" "Um... no... i was not told to bring any particular kind of show.... so i have some uptempo belty numbers for you...." "oh... we we've already cast those roles so can you just make up something from phantom for us? do you know it? you can just hum it if you like.... just sing something opera-y that sounds like the phantom." um... what... the .... hell.. is.... this???? the bloody ballarat light opera company are more professionaly than this.... the sad truth is that my resume here seriously needs some padding with uk based work... no one will look at me twice in town until i have dome SOME kind of work over here in something... anything... so i sucked it up stood there.... in some random persons lounge room and made up the lyrics to wishing you were somehow here again from the god awful phantom of the god awful opera my lyrics went something like this.... wishing you were somehow here again wishing you were somehow near i love to sing, that is the thing help me to sing and fly no more memories, no more silent tears no more skating across the icy years..... where i ever concoted such rediculous and painful lyrics i will never know... all i could wish by this point was that i could smack myself in the head to make this pain stop.... but they applauded at the end... which of couse always makes me feel better. and that was it.... no monologue.... no more songs.... no backing tracks... just some applause and more swigs of their red wine... my question is... are these people actually casting a show... or did their television break down and they felt like somelive entertainment for the day! Did they find some undying need to subject themselves to made up phatom of the opera songs and old queens singing dirty dancing??? what could have posessed these people to waste my time!?!??! What would you all do in the same situation??? DISCUSS.
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