Our final week of rehearsals begins in Friston Forest. In the Rain. We sit in the tent running lines and songs for Act 1. We discover JB, our work-experience student, shivering under a tarpaulin. We prise the paint-brush from his hand and bring him into the tent to go on book whilst we paraphrase madly. He's confused by the script. Not just because what comes out of our mouths bears little relation to the playwright's vision; but also because of the frequent all'improviso markings where we are actually encouraged to improvise between lines. It confuses the hell out of me and I've been working on it for three weeks. It confuses the Director and he wrote it!
The weather brightens and we gradually lose the wellies, waterproofs and fleeces; and eventually most of our outer garments until we are rehearsing in our underwear. It's hot! Proper bikinis tomorrow. JB's face is a study in nonchalance. I'm impressed with him. He's willing and able rather than surly and incompetent. If I ever had a teenager, I would want him to be like JB.
On Monday I went running with the Dog on the South Downs. They call them Downs but there is an awful lot of UP before you get to go down. I was feeling angst-ridden about a whole load of stuff (not the show... loving the show) and wanted to blow away a few cobwebs from the dustier recesses of my life.
Not to self: This doesn't always work and can make you really tired.
On my way back, I saw in front of me an odd looking man with a page-boy haircut and a rusty jumper, towing a small suitcase. As I ran past him he touched me on the shoulder and said, 'Peace.'
I instantly felt better, loving the universe and moved by the stranger who recognised my turmoil and responded to it.
Later that day I saw the same bloke in Saver buying cut-price toiletries. He didn't appear to recognise me. He initiated a conversation about the merits of generic pain-killers, told me I was gorgeous and then blew lots of air-kisses as close to my face as he dared before wandering off chortling to himself.
Here's the thing: Is my earlier experience diminished by discovering that his reality and societal modus operandi lead me to label him as a bit of a nut-job? Is the healing experience any the less valid? Is the lesson here that you shouldn't judge or is it that you shouldn't rely on first impressions? The man you elevate as a mystic and a healer may yet turn out to be a fool.
But do fools not speak the truth?
Lx
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