Woke up this morning (at bang on 11:11 believe it or not) from a dream about being in my actor friend’s current play. It was a variation of one of those “everyone knows the lines except you” anxiety dreams, except everyone knew I didn’t know the lines at all – I was standing in at the last minute and ad-libbing as I went. All I had to do was respond to what was said to me as best I could and everyone would improvise around me to keep the script on track. No pressure, huh?
Anyone who knows me will know I have huge stage-fright issues (seriously – when I went to the Fringe in 2002 I recorded all my off-stage dialogue onto a CD and pressed play at the relevant bits. Evidently I even have off-stage-fright). But this wasn’t where this became a garden-variety anxiety dream for me.
That came when the play spontaneously became a musical halfway through.
The stuff of nightmares
I seemed to be the only person there who had a problem with singing ad-lib. I seemed to be the only person there who had a problem singing. I am incapable of singing, especially recently. Recently I’ve been smoking more than a middle-aged Parisian widow café owner who’s just returned from holiday with a duty free supply of Gauloises to find she’s lost her café. I am incapable of being sung at. It’s curious, I know, but something about it makes me want to leave the room or burst into schoolgirlish laughter. Or smack them.
I was desperate not to be sitting there having someone sing their character’s undying love for mine and have to keep a straight face. So, rather like Rimmer in Better Than Life, I must have signed a silent deal with my subconscious to get me out of the situation by completely ruining it. Suddenly, seconds before it was My Perfect Martine McCutcheon moment, hordes of Cybermen stormed the room, shooting everyone in the cast and audience alike with their own chorus of “Delete! Delete!”. Satisfied that my work here was done, I was then able to escape to reality with little to show for my selfishness and murderous intent than a sore forearm that I’d apparently slept on.
Only I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming. My email inbox this morning looks more beautiful than it has done in a long time. In fact, for a writer looking for a job who rarely hears from some of his best friends anymore, it was pretty much a panacea. Nothing certain, but not the usual wet-haddock-in-the-face sort of instant ‘NO’ either.
Think nice thoughts for me. And if you happen to see this at the Edinburgh Fringe next month, bring something gold. Just in case.
Gosh. A plug!
I can probably promise there won’t be any singing (there may be some incoherent mumbling however) – but cybermen..? Who can tell… who can tell… ?
11:11 eh? How very Rufus of you. ;-)
And the whole dansing cybermen thing? It’s a worry. The whole dream is a worry to be honest. If it were someone else I’d suggest it’s diet related but I fear it may actually be that there’s something wrong with you. Wrong in the head. So very, very wrong. Hee hee.
Dansing? Surely I mean dancing. Cheese and crackers.