At 6.29 I decide I'd better go to the loo before I set off. As I rush I trip thereby discovering that the trousers I bought today in the Debenhams sale are too long. At 6.30 I discover there's still a large label stuck on said trousers. I'm glad I spot this before I stand in front of an audience.
At 6.40, in the car on my way, I find out that the manufacturers of the trousers have kindly supplied me with spare studs. I'm not sure where they're supposed to go but I know where there are now: inside my trousers, half-way down my thigh, digging into my leg.
At 6.50 I arrive with time to spare.
I spot someone I know (slightly) and when I tell her I'm on my own she invites me to join her table. Phew.
I am down on the programme to appear fourth. The first 3 acts perform and, dry-mouthed and heart-thumping, I wait for my name to be called. 'Next we have Bea reading some poetry.' What? That's not me.
Bea reads and the next performer is announced: Brid.
I grab the compere as she passes and stage-whisper. 'Have you forgotten me?'
'Are you Liz? You're not here.'
I don't want to argue as this is a distinct possibility. The compere comes back and says I'm on next.
Well, fans, I was wonderful. The audience laughed. A lot. Loads of them came up to me afterwards and said how wonderful it was and had it been published and I should make an audiobook. I explained that, according to the BBC and publishers, nobody is interested in monologues these days. Unless your name is Alan Bennett.(I like the idea of an audio-book. People commented that I read it well and most monologues are better listened to than read. Sean has previously suggested recording monologues as there is the equipment available at Zac's; I will have to look into this further.)
(You notice I had to wear my glasses? It was either that or make the print so large it would have taken me half a ream of paper to print.)
With it being called Women Centre Stage, and with all the acts being female, and the event being in aid of women co-operatives in Liberia, you're obviously going to get some women, both in the audience and performing, who live alternative lifestyles.
One of the singers sang three of her own songs and they were all lovely but especially the last one, which was a love song to her girlfriend. I spoke to them both afterwards and the singer explained that her girlfriend was her muse for all her songs, and that she was 'going to take her home and f*** her now.'
'Oh, good,' I squeaked, smiling sweetly, while my brain was rushing round screaming, 'Purlease! We don't say that things like that where I come from.' I feel another monologue coming on!
The woman who was on stage before me showed us three of her paintings of, and read us some of her poetry about, Sheela-na-gigs. I don't know if you've heard of these; I hadn't. And quite frankly I won't mind if I never do again. You wouldn't think it was possible to use the word 'vulva' 23 times in 10 minutes, would you?
They might be from ancient Celtic tradition and they might adorn the walls of very old churches, but if I never again see a carving of a woman with exposed genitalia, it won't bother me. I can't bring myself to put an image on here but if you'd like to find out more about sheela-na-gigs or vulva-woman, go here.
xx
