Well Reader, the tour is well and truly underway. This morning I woke up in beautiful Cumbria, where the sun was shining and the birds were twittering in a distinctly northern manner. Wait....is Cumbria northern? Maybe I should have listened to Mrs. Bidewell in Geography when I was 13 instead of sniffing scented gel pens in the back seat like a rebel. Well, you get the drift anyway. Toto, we're not in North London any more.
Of course, I could have realised that from when we got in yesterday. A Booths instead of an Asda, a micro-brewery full of people seemingly outraged that a bunch of strangers were descending on their quiet night (to be fair, it was a Wednesday and rather late in the day when we turned up demanding pasta and beer) and the view from my window frames a mountain with a replica lighthouse rather than a cement school playground and a railway track. It's all rather nice! If this is touring theatre, it's pretty cushty stuff. The house we're staying in is gorgeous too, big open fireplaces and cosy chairs all over the place. Lucky actors! Only one more night here though, then we're off to perform in the Clonter Opera Theatre, where we'll be put up in a rather fabulous country estate. So far this touring malarkey is pretty good fun, but must make a mental note not to keep stuffing my face with service station grease fests because if I don't, I'll be taking up two seats on the tour bus!
The thing is, service stations remind me of holidays. Going to Devon or Margate and stopping off on the way for something decent to last us till night time (for decent read chips and beans and possibly dippy doughnuts) so I have this pavlovian response to them. I see a little chef and I start drooling and thinking of onion rings. It's an addiction really. Other people don't seem to share my weird addiction. Someone told me it was unhygienic to eat at service stations the other day. I just stared at them, aghast. THAT'S ALL PART OF THE FUN, SURELY? Along with the moody staff, the groups of elderly tourists going on a Saga trip, resplendent in wrap-around sunglasses and cut off slacks. Marvellous.
I'd carry on talking up the wonders of service station cuisine, but I have to prepare to go to the theatre (please imagine Brian Blessed reading those final two words, it makes it far more fabulous and epic sounding),
Hope you're enjoying yourself as much as I am Reader,