Why do weddings make us cry?

So, as you guys know, The Bride recently did something rather incredible-she got hitched! And it was the wedding of a lifetime! A gorgeous manor that looked like something straight out of a period drama, so much good food that I felt like I'd eaten more than I'd had in weeks, she looked like a princess, he glowed with pride when he caught her eye, we all danced to a live band and I taught a bunch of people to headbang. It was lovely. And there were lots and lots of tears.

I cried watching her get into her dress, I cried when she couldn't help but kiss her soon-to-be husband as soon as she got down the aisle, I cried as they exchanged their vows and I cried during the speeches. I welled up giving her the book me and her other oldest friend had compiled for her, I shed a tear when we chased her bridal car down the road. Everyone cried at the groom's speech, and then again when we did the bridesmaids' speech. I couldn't express how happy I was without welling up.

So what is it about weddings that make us get misty eyed?

Well I've noticed the crying thing has only come about as I've got old enough for my friends to start getting married off. Now don't get me wrong, these aren't sad tears-nope, anything but! They're happy tears, proud tears, overwhelmed tears. They're tears which are hopeful for the couple but also hopeful for yourself.



The thing is, unless you're not a believer in marriage, the wedding day is like this really awesome chance to celebrate love. And what's so bad about that? You get to shout from the rooftops how important that person is to you. It's like saying to that person-'You are it. You're my best friend, my family and the person I want to share my bed with forever and a day.' And that's a huge deal. Marriage isn't something to be entered into lightly, you do it because you know that the person you're meeting at the end of the aisle is someone you don't only want in your life forever, but that you need. Which is why divorce is such a terribly sad thing.

Watching friends you've watched grow up get married is incredible. You see it all in your head-what they looked like when you were kids, arguing about who would get your period first, that time you designed your dream dresses (and laughing to yourself as you compare her incredibly stylish and elegant ivory gown with her old vision of a turquoise monstrosity with sequins and puffy sleeves, topped with a tiara...eight year old's visions of wedding dresses are fairly Big Fat Gypsy Wedding-esque), confiding in each other about your first kisses and talking about what you wanted to be when you grew up. You remember teenage angst, and worries over spots, greasy hair and the boys that didn't like you back, and you then you watch as it all melts away and your friend, that same one who used to wear owl-like glasses and play with furbies, turn into royalty. And it's not the dress that does it, it's not the big venue, the presents or throwing the bouquet. It's love. I've never seen The Bride look so beautiful as she did when she looked at her new husband, or glow quite so much as she did with pride when he gave his speech.

My tears were out of pure happiness-because the little girl I played Tomb Raider and hopscotch with was a woman. And that day, I saw her whole future in front of her-the ups, the downs, the laughter, the tears, the late nights and the early mornings. And I knew all of it would be ok, because she'd be doing it all with a partner in crime who knew her better than anyone, loved her more than anyone and wanted her happiness more than anyone. It's a weird sensation when you realise that you're not your oldest friend's port of call any more, but when you're handing over to someone who loves them that much, it's also one of the best feelings in the world.

So, to The Bride and her lovely new husband- with all my heart I wish you that long, wonderful future.(I promise next time I see you both I won't cry. Well, probably.)
Ash
x

The lost romance of coaching...

Reader, I am back from 11 days performing at the Edinburgh Festival. What an experience! Getting in before 2am of a night was impressively puritanical, finding food that wasn’t beige and deep fried became a fun new game, as did booking shows that started ten minutes after another ended, but that were 20 minutes away. I slept on a mattress topper in a room with 3 other girls, and felt lucky that I had so much space to stretch out. I saw shows that made me laugh, shows that made me cry and shows that made me question if maybe the creator’s parents hadn’t been a bit too kind about their efforts. I used Skype for the first time and sent postcards to someone important who was still in London, when my parents visited I begged them to take me somewhere, anywhere where I could even look at a bit of lettuce. I drank shots from test tubes, did Jagerbombs, had a cocktail so strong my eyes hurt and a hangover so awful that we introduced a new method of flyering that involved laying on the floor. We almost sold out and then had a two person audience (who were bloody brilliant and apparently thought our show was the best thing they’d seen). My shoes fell apart in the rain, my clothes went through a wash yet somehow are STILL all stinky and have bits of booze and toothpaste on them and I overheard someone utter the eternally brilliant phrase ‘that man was just too Scottish’. Edinburgh, I shall miss you. On top of all of this was the beauty of the city, the meadows (which I fell in love with walking through alone with music playing in my ears first thing in the morning (by which I mean 11am) and last thing at night (4am), the laughter, the music, the magic.

And then. Then, dear, beloved reader, came the eight and a half coach journey home. Which I am still on as I write this. I am two and a half hours into it in fact. The heating by my feet is making my ankles sweat, the un-turn-off-able air condition above my head is giving me brain freeze and somehow, the whole bus already smells a bit of wee. Thankfully no one on here is drunk, and the inevitable two year old (who brings a two year old on a coach? Seriously?!) has yet to make a peep. However it is past midnight, and having already slept for an hour of the journey, my neck is in pain and my lower back is so squished I’m sure I’m going to be walking like Smeegol when I get off the damn thing. The reading light doesn’t work and really, shouldn’t all overnight coaches have plugs and beds by now? I thought it would be a little like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter but it’s actually just like a normal coach only full of hungover festival goers and with less lighting. I need to learn how to drive.

On this particular coach, we have the enormous family of 6 (with toddler) who don’t seem to understand where they’re going or what a coach is, a group of Chinese students who instantly annoyed the British contingent by not understanding queueing (cue instant tutting), some French performers who have already had a passionate row and complained to the driver, a large woman who won’t stop eating, a small man who keeps rushing to the loo (I don’t want to know), some really grumpy stand ups and a girl who has been quietly but audibly crying since we left the bus station. Or laughing very oddly. It’s sort of hard to tell.

Everyone else on the coach appears to be asleep or meditating in the dark, but after two weeks of only sleeping at 3am at the very earliest, I want to read my book or have a conversation. If I was still in Edinburgh I would probably be at a show right now. Or a bar. Or at the flat having a Skype date. But instead I am writing this blog entry. Which won’t go up till tomorrow, when I am face down in my bed. I cannot wait to be face down in my bed. I actually changed the sheets before I came out to Scotland in preparation.

Anyway, my laptop is running out of power and I reckon I might give sleeping another go-although being the only one on the coach awake makes me feel pleasingly like the badass kid in Battle Royale.

Have a fabulous day not on a coach Reader!
Ash

x

Hoots mon! (etc. etc....)

Well Reader, it is 8am on my third day at The Edinburgh Fringe and the sun is shining! Which is very exciting, because yesterday I was flyering in the rain all day and ended up having to buy an incredibly attractive mould coloured cagoule and some sensible shoes. And you know how I feel about sensible shoes.

So far I've been trying not to go too crazy at the fringe because a) I'm skint and b) I really don't want to make myself ill. Saying that, the first night here I stayed up till 4am drinking and reminicing with long-lost university friends after their show (The Noise Next Door at The Pleasance Venue 2, doing their Comedy Lock In-go see it, bloody fantastic), which was awesome but made yesterday's flyering doubly hard. Today I have had a full eight and a half hours sleep so am feeling more ready to face the day with a smile on my face and a skip in my step.

Audience feedback has started coming in about the show and so far it's been amazing-one person described it as 'the best thing I've seen. Wept like a baby' and we've had loads more like that. We overheard an audience say, as they left the space yesterday 'That was so fucking good!' which made all of our days. Long may it continue!

I haven't seen many shows so far, but today I'm going to change that with one this morning and another after a launch party I'm going to. Then I'm rather intending to go drink cocktails and sing karaoke if I'm entirely honest...

So far I have discovered the following about the fringe

• You will probably find it hard to eat healthily-everything is deep fried and DELICIOUS. My favourite thing so far has been a crepe with cheese and peperoni...mmmm...
• The Mile is intense. Think hundreds of drama students with hangovers. Some really cynical comedians who won't do flyer swaps, a dotting of incredibly young students who can't quite believe they're there, a terrifying duo in white clown make up and inevitably someone pretending to be crazy dressed in period clothes.
• There are NO POST BOXES. It took me an hour and a half to find one yesterday! 
• The free fringe has some blooming brilliant stuff on it. Today I'm going to see a comedian who (like us) is supporting Death on The Fringe who we saw an excerpt of on my first day. She talks about the love of her life dying and her coping with it (she's only 33) and it is the most hilarious, tragic, bittersweet stuff I've ever seen. Will be bringing tissues and fresh make up.
• I am very good at flyering. I am quite smug about this. Scratch that. I am HUGELY smug about this.
•  I am already a little bit homesick for my local giant 24 hour Asda-Tesco express doesn't really cut it
• I should not hug friends just before they go on stage, because I will inevitably spill my drink on them (sorry Tom Livingstone!) making me look drunk even when sober. Scotland has done nothing for my hand-eye coordination it seems.
• I get lost very easily. Yesterday, not only did it take me almost 2 hours to get home (usually a 30 min trip), I also go disorientated on The Mile and forgot which end my theatre was at...
• Drinks are brilliantly cheap. Dangerously cheap.
• Sleeping on a mattress topper on the floor actually isn't too uncomfortable
• Sometimes you'll be half an hour into conversation with an eccentric when suddenly you realise that they're in character.
• Lots of tourists come to Edinburgh during the Fringe to NOT watch theatre or comedy. They are clearly eegits. 
• There is a ghost bus here. I want to go on it SO MUCH.

More updates to come (unless my liver implodes and I get scurvy or trench foot)

Ash

x

Fringing...

Well Reader, here we are. In a couple of hours I'm getting picked up by the other bridesmaid and we're off to the wedding site, tomorrow I'm bridesmaiding all day and friday I fly to Scotland for my first night performing on The Fringe (sans Tech run, which is happening as I'll be giving a speech for my oldest friend over the wedding breakfast). I have so much to do that my brain has shut down-packing has turned into 'just shove some stuff in a bag and hope for the best', I have to do washing up, drying up, fridge emptying, emptying all the bins and change my sheets so when I arrive home at 7am after an all night coach I can just faceplant into bed. Oh, and I'm in the midst of trying to get in touch with our letting agent to prep for the big move back home. Which is proving bloody impossible.




So what am I doing? Blogging. Of course! I've also spent a large chunk of this morning sorting out my YouTube accounts-essentially I'm setting up a new one for just my acting stuff and auditions which you can see here  to compliment my usual vlogging channel. I've also been dealing with some less nice stuff. I filmed a vlog about feminism the other day, which has got a mostly lovely response. In it I talk about some of the reasons why I think we still need feminism and some of my not-very-nice experiences being a woman. And how most feminists love men too-we just want to be equal to them in the eyes of the world and be treated fairly. Which isn't a very drastic thing to say, but I've spent a while deleting comments and banning people from my channel for sending me and my viewers rape threats, calling me an 'ugly bitch' for having a perspective and calling my lovely regulars (not all of whom agree with me, but who all share their views in a reasoned, respectful and intelligent way) derogatory names. Why do we need feminism? Because a girl can't share her views without people telling her they'll share her home address with convicts and rapists apparently.

Don't worry though, I'm not letting that get me down. Because trolls aren't worth my time. Tomorrow I get to see my oldest friend get married to the love of her life, a man who looks at her like she's rare and wonderful (which, of course, she is), I'm off to Edinburgh with a cast of people I love spending time and acting with, and I spent yesterday kissing someone incredible as the sun set across The Thames. Beats some nasty little boil sitting squawking abuse at their computer, doesn't it?

Life is actually rather beautiful at the moment. And I feel really lucky to be living it. (Even if I STILL haven't finished packing...oh bollocks...)
See you in Scotland Reader!
Ash
x

The perils of being part sloth...

Reader, were you to meet me in real life, you might be fooled into thinking that I am an energetic lass with buckets of get up and go. You would be wrong. I am incredibly busy, yes, and constantly doing stuff, but buried deep beneath all the meetings and auditions and international jobs and projects is a sloth whinging that 'I JUST WANT TO STAY IN BED AND BE FED PIZZA AND HAVE SOMEONE SCRATCH MY BACK'. For, dear Reader, I am a secret lazy bint.

If given the choice, I would always choose to stay in my cosy flat with a delicious meal and a pile of books bigger than my head over going out to a cooler than cool event where I have to schmooze. Don't get me wrong, I love a bit of a schmooze too, but I am so rarely in my home, that the chance to be in front of my telly in my pants with my home made aubergine bake in front of me and an episode of Friends on the telly is just a dream come true.

So this evening, the first evening in a kazillion years when I've actually been in and able to cook a beautiful meal (pasta made out of courgettes in garlic and basil, chicken stuffed with mozzarella and sun dried tomatoes and drizzled with pesto in case you were wondering...) and 3 episodes of Friends later, I am feeling a little guilty about not having done any work or any tidying (I've been out so often of late my room is a rubbish dump with a small space for me to sleep in), I thought I'd share with you some of the struggles of being half sloth and a quarter mattress (on top of my quarter human obviously).

SLOTH GIRL STRUGGLES

1. Mornings

Oh mornings. These days I set three alarms because my bed is SO COMFY, leaving it makes me die a little inside. It's summer at the moment and when I see sun shining in in the morning my first thought is 'Oh, what a beautiful day!' and my second is 'I have NO EXCUSE to stay in bed. Arses.' My favourite kind of day is a day where I have nothing to do and it's pouring down with rain. This hasn't happened for about a year, but even so. 

2. Eating healthily

So, as you might have remembered from previous posts, I am a rather fantastic cook. I can whip up traditional and innovative recipes that will make your head spin so fast you'll get whiplash. But because I'm really really lazy, my current favourite dinner is a cheese string and a bowl of ice cream. Thank god for green smoothies, I'd definitely get scurvy otherwise...

3. When people tell you they're in the area and are going to drop in

 

One big issue I have with being a sloth girl is that my bed very quickly becomes the epicentre of everything. It is my desk, my dressing table and my library. And because, at the moment I am so horrendously (but in the nicest way possible) busy, I have no time to clear it all up. Nor do I have time to tidy the kitchen. Or put on a clothes wash. So when people 'just drop in' it's like panic code red and all of a sudden some very creative 'mess hiding' comes into play

4. People thinking I'm super feminine when I'm actually not



You know why I wear dresses? Because it's only one piece of clothing. Less to wash, less to coordinate and people think I'm FANCY. Know why I have long hair? Because I'm a lazy fucker and cutting and stying takes forever. Also partly because I can whip it back and forth. (Just whip it)

5. Stairs



Much like a sloth, I am lazy, clumsy and do not have lots of control of my limbs. Stairs are not my friends.

6. Exercise



When I do exercise, I am genuinely exasperated that I am not instantly a toned size 8. If I do exercise once a week, I'm so smug that I have issues containing it. A friend of mine who has my ideal figure told me she worked out four times a week for an hour each time. WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT? I'll stick with being a bit lumpy thanks...

7. Thinking one of my arms is a branch, reaching for it then falling to my death



Oh no....wait, that's real sloths...

I bloody love sloths.

Anyway, hope you're well Reader! I'm in bed. Predictably.
Ash
x
p.s don't forget to check out my vlogs! 

Not every first kiss is a First Kiss...

So Reader, I was recently told that my high expectations for a first kiss were pretty terrifying. This is fair. I expect great things from a first kiss, and if they're not great, I tend to lose interest fast. But it was while mulling this over that I realised something-not every kiss is a First Kiss.



Ok, so hear me out. When you kiss someone for the first time, sometimes it's one of those kisses that just doesn't make something click inside you. And you realise that you probably won't be kissing them again after today. Those kisses cannot be classed as First Kisses, since they are also (at least in part) last kisses. They don't mark the start of something that might carry over into another day, week, month or year. It's not a kiss that you'll remember 10 years down the line, when you're kissing them on your way to work or when they bring you a cup of tea done just right. It's a first kiss. Not a First Kiss.

So what constitutes a First Kiss? Because a first kiss lowercase is not the same as a First Kiss uppercase.

A First Kiss is the beginning of something new. It's that moment where you are stepping off a cliff because you're 65% sure there's a bouncy castle at the bottom of the fall. It can only really be judged in hindsight-if you can't remember your First Kiss then why did you have a second? A First Kiss does not have to be perfect (contrary to my high expectations), it just has to make you want to kiss the person again and again. A First Kiss shouldn't be really tricky, it should be something that you want to tell passers by about 'Oh, excuse me-I just had this INCREDIBLE kiss' and then they should applaud. That should be a thing. When I am Emperor of the Universe I shall make it so.

A First Kiss doesn't have to be the beginning of a long term relationship-but it can be the start of something else, the First Kiss of an adventure abroad, or of a fling you'll remember for the rest of your life.

Your First Kiss should be on the DVD constantly playing in your brain of your top ten relationship best bits. Maybe your top 20 if you've had a particularly interesting life. Because some kisses are meant to be held on to and replayed over and over.

A First Kiss should be so good that a brilliant song plays in your head

although possibly not THIS song

But more importantly, a First Kiss should be perfect even if it's not. Because it's with the right person, who enjoyed it just as much (and hopefully also wants to kiss you lots more).

I hope you have some truly brilliant First Kisses Reader!
Ash
x
p.s. Don't forget to check out my vlogs! I release a new one every Tuesday and Friday!

The Richard Curtis Effect...

Reader, living in London is a pretty wonderful thing sometimes. But it sometimes has a rather odd effect on me. I'll be walking across London Bridge with a friend, and suddenly it's as if we've entered a strange dimension, where we're endearingly bumbling English folk. Suddenly we start making grand statements and doing really wanky things, like holding hands and running across in the rain hollering and whooping, or yelling across the Thames. What a bunch of knobatrons.



I call this The Richard Curtis Effect. It's when the feeling of being in London overwhelms you to the point where it feels like your life has become a scene in Bridget Jones or Four Weddings and A Funeral and you start imagining that everyone pauses for comedic effects and certain moments go by in slow motion.

Now, obviously, this has its good points-somehow, cringey moments are less awful when you're imagining what Hugh Grant or Domnhall Gleeson would do during them (and as someone who has truly embarrassing moments day to day, this is cheering). I have learnt to laugh at myself when I do something ridiculous, and just think of it as a story to tell my friends when they need a giggle. Also, how cross can you get with yourself when you think that Richard Curtis is directing your story and thus this is all just a prelude to you being about to fall in love with the guy who reached for that book at the same time as you in the tiny second hand shop?



Because that's the thing about The Richard Curtis Effect-you think that there's always going to be a happy ending, no matter how dire things get. Incarcerated for a drugs offence you didn't commit? The dishy lawyer you're in love with is about to break you out and start your career as an internationally acclaimed journo. Wife dead, leaving you with tiny, angry blond stepson? You're going to get off with Claudia Schiffer and form a bond deeper than most biological father/sons with the sprog. Born ginger? You get to TIME TRAVEL and spend your life with the woman of your dreams. Always late for weddings and leaving a trail of mental ex girlfriends behind you?...Oh...ok, this one is a bit awkward, you're in love with this total dickhead American lady who can't tell when it's raining. (I like to imagine when Four Weddings ends, Hugh sorts his shit out and gets with his fantastically sarcastic best friend who has forever loved him from afar). Your career always goes stellar, your house is always either a cosy one bed above the globe with french windows, a rambling country estate or a snug little cottage covered in roses. You may have some heartbreak, but that makes the story SO much better. As does the fact that you're a little bit fat and you sometimes wear some really, really dire outfits.



When I walk around Southbank, you know what I hear? Well, it depends on my mood actually. If I'm happy, it's 'AIN'T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH ENOUGH etc etc', if I'm sad it's always 'Sorry seems to be the hardest word' and there is inevitably a lot of standing looking across the water, clutching a coat to myself. I know. I am RIDICULOUS. I am not Bridget Jones by any stretch of the imagination (apart from the clumsy side, the love of all cheese, the lack of a tidy bedroom...erm....shut up) but when The Richard Curtis Effect looms, I just go with it, and so does my internal soundtrack.



This has also affected my taste in men. You know who I get crushes on? Boys with posh voices. Floppy hair also leaves me wooed. Men who are polite and gentlemanly, but then also hysterically funny and you could imagine them doing really mad but sweet things for someone they liked (Domnhall travelled through time guys. I'm just saying). I am a SUCKER for romance. I try to deny it, but I am. It's atrocious. I blame things like Love, Actually and Four Weddings ENTIRELY. I fear that without their influence, I would be a far more cynical, realistic woman.



Saying that though-who wants to be cynical? I am a massive optimist, and if that means seeing through the rose tinted glasses of British rom-coms with people with large teeth and larger hats, so be it! I may say things that come out ridiculously wanky sometimes, but I always say them with genuine feeling, I know you can use prescription goggles instead of glasses whilst at the cinema if you lose your specs and I know to never, ever, EVER go back to a man who cheats on you with a lithe American model. Life lessons people.

So go out in London today Reader (if you in fact live there-if you don't...erm...I don't know...watch Four Weddings or something) and enjoy looking through the rom-com goggles!
Ash
x
P.s. Richard Curtis is also responsible for the Mr.Bean movie. Yeah.