Well, Mabel and mom got back into their flat, and were given an extra set of keys. But then, mom fell (on a very flat and debris free sidewalk), so now she has a big bump on her lip and a red bruise, which looks like a glob of lipstick. Sigh. I was not there. No one tripped her or anything, it was just a random fall. I'm trying not to wake up with dread each day, but, thinking that bad things come in three, we've used up our quota for a bit and we should be o.k. from here on out.
My mom and I went to a workshop on Emotional Health, at Fringe Central. I thought they would speak to our own emotional health, but it mainly focused on how to listen to other people. What? Humph. Bait and switch. I did learn a lot. . . albeit unwillingly. Apparently, silences are good, try not to offer advice, people usually don't want you to solve their problem, they just want you to listen. There were nice people in the room, and it was a relaxed atmosphere with the Samaritans, the organization who sponsored and taught the class. The Samaritans man phone lines here in the UK, and the phone volunteers are trained by the Samaritans to listen to people. Like a crisis phone line, but better. The Samaritans are there for anyone struggling to make sense of life.
One of the other workshop attendees was a very nice Italian man, (nicknamed Zed) who gave us a flyer for his show. It looked interesting, so we took a chance and headed over to the Greenspace venue 236, a few blocks from where we're staying. It's a converted infirmary and the theatre space was really nice. Next to the Moon, a two-hander written and directed by Tiziano Gamba was very playful and funny, and since the writer of the piece is also a psychologist, there was a depth to the ideas in the play, that I enjoyed.
We stayed after the play finished, to say hello to the two actors and found out that one of the actors, Giulia Cammarota, didn't speak much English, so she learned her dialogue phonetically. They both did very well, but occasionally it was hard to understand what was being said. It would be fun to read the script in English, because there was a lot of wordplay.
Supper was Italian. It was pretty good, but spendy. Supper for 4 instead of 2, and since we haven't been flyering, our audience numbers are way down.
Mabel and I went up to the Space on the Mile and saw The Rules: Sex, Lies and Serial Killers, produced by Sprocket Theatre. It was really well acted and a fun, tight script. Casual evil. There are quite a few serial killer plays this year. It's a genre I guess. Serial killers. This next sentence is for Mabel. Too bad there's not a play about someone who murders people by putting poison in their breakfast . . . .you know, a cereal killer.
Tonight we saw the play which hopefully will be the answer to "What's the worst play you saw while you were there?" Every element was unfortunate. The script, the acting, the blocking, the script, the costumes, the script and the props. Scatological humor, actors talking too quietly, bad sound cues, racist humor, crude humor, lots of swearing and actors who spoke to the audience instead of each other. But other than that we liked it. From now on it will be known as the play that must not be named.
We flyered after that (unnamed) play, since neither of us could fathom seeing another show after watching such a misguided production. The temperature was around 55 degrees tonight, but with the wind chill, it was probably 45 or so. Having lived in Fargo-Moorhead, I know wind chills. I wore my bridal gown and veil, with two pairs of pants underneath, but even then I was literally a frigid bride tonight, with actual cold feet. The Little Match Girl with a brides dress on, and no matches. Mabel was a trouper and she wore my short wedding dress, with small veil, over her yoga clothes. A couple from Uruguay took our photo and promised to email it to us. Today I've spoken with people from Taiwan, Italy, Australia and Germany.
There's two shows remaining for Macaroni on a Hotdog, and I have such mixed feelings about this adventure coming to a close. The sidewalks aren't as crowded now, and the prizes for writing and acting and whatnot have all been awarded. There must have been a clerical mistake. Perhaps they will bestow my prize posthumously. Pity. I would have appreciated it so much more today, while I breathe and walk this earth, instead of being lauded when I'm just dust, blowing around on the Royal Mile.