Therapy

I've become very used to people asking me if performing Sometimes I Laugh Like My Sister is cathartic; I've found lots of different ways of saying no, it's not. There is... something in having made a show out of the thing which has all but destroyed me, but cathartic it ain't. It's an acting job. If I were to use it as catharsis... well, ask anyone who shared a late-night tube with me in 2005 - they'll tell you how much fun it is to actually experience the actual emotions of my actual sister's actual murder shaking me and wringing my neck.

Today, though, was the first time that an audient used the term therapy to refer to their experience of the show. I thought I'd peaked at the point where one woman approached me after the show and thanked me for, well, she said for helping her get through some of her grief for her father. She felt that the show said some things that she had needed to hear since her father died 50 years ago.

I am recording this here, now, because I failed to tell her at the time the effect it had on me to hear this. Since I was about ten, I guess, I've felt inadequate because I just can't get over Dad's death. To hear this woman's experience, well, my heart went out to her. I'm like everyone else: I want to think that others get over their grieving as well. On top of that I felt just a little bit less alone and freakish. I wish I'd told her, but I was so surprised by her feelings and her candour that I didn't think as quickly as I'd like. Thank you woman who came to the show today and then spoke to me about her Dad's death. Thank you.

Yet there was more. A man, a bit older than me I guess, took my hand. Not in a romantic way - it was pretty rainy and grey in the Burgh today, and it's pretty gravelly and muddy outside the Hut where the show happens. He took my hand and told me that I really remind him of his sister. He said he used to be an aid worker and that when he stopped doing that work his sister told him that whenever he had been away she had worried a great deal about his safety. He accepted Martin and my invitation to have a post-show coffee/shandy. We talked a great deal about the pressures on aid workers, about the show, about the moments which really spoke to him. We talked about death and politics and the media and then he went off to see some comedy. Before he did so, though, he said that the show, for him, was therapeutic.

Martin and I sat, rather stunned. We're both tired, we find it hard to do all the moving around that's necessary at the Fringe, particularly Martin and his amazing blisters (that's our next show). Yet I think it was more the effect of these people and their stories, that we have managed to create something which matters to other people, not just to us.

For me, at least, it was time for a good afternoon lie down.

Three four-star reviews

Martin is telling people we have 12 stars. I keep asking him to also say that we have 12 stars out of 15, rather than out of 20 or 25... And some gratifying things have been said about the show in those reviews. He thinks he's funny. He finds it very hard to give two hoots for stars, reviews and their ilk.

And I can see where he's coming from.

There are some very moving things about the show for me, nearly all of which have all occurred after the show. People laugh, don't get me wrong, but many people cry in the audience. Yesterday three people came out together, the first woman and I had a hug, then the second woman and I did the same and finally the guy who was with them and I embraced. I thanked them for coming. They thanked me for the show. I have no idea what resonance the show had for them, but there is a wonderful sense of camaraderie, openness..... of gentle acceptance at these moments. I have no idea whether this is right or wrong, I have no interest in judging, but it feels like we are saying to one another, yes, very terrible things happen, but we are still human. And we still like theatre. And, oh, we can still laugh.

Or that's what it feels like to me, maybe it's different for everyone else. And I guess that's the point: your experience is your experience, whatever it is you will live with it and you will not have it taken away, regardless of whether you'd like it to vanish or not.

The other day Martin and I made some new friends. One of them had cried throughout the show, and at the end she apologised. Even if I had been aware, it would have been fine by me (the great front-of-house staff have already let me know when another audient warned them she might cry in the show, so I talked to her beforehand, assuring her that she could do whatever she wanted, including leave and come back, and that it was all acceptable to us). But eight of us went for tea after the show and we shared death and life stories where we were all allowed to talk about... whatever. Their stories were amazing, enlightening and a privilege to hear.

Basically when I'm not having a strange time I'm having a great time. Hoorah for the traumatised who come to the Hut at 1pm and laugh and cry, that's what I say.

People are amazing

I have endured my sister's murder and, indeed, co-written and am performing a show about it. If I can keep my head to do that why does not being able to print the four-star review of our show to attach to our flyers (did I mention they DID arrive in the end?) bring me to within inches of actual jibbering? It's a bit of a saga, spanning a day or so, but the culmination was me in a copy shop being told by the guy with the computer and the power to print the stars, and the review excerpt, that my USB has a virus.

I left. I called Martin: “My USB has a virus. I'm going for a cry. See you later.” (Martin was delighted that his stick was not infected – he has enough health problems already). I went in search of a cafe for my scheduled cry and some tea. Whyohwhyohwhy was I so upset? I was, of course, being melodramatic about the tears. I had already done my make-up for the show and there was no way I was going to get to cry without ruining my beautiful aspect. Of course I did not have my make-up with me. Only women who wear make-up have it with them. Idiot. I was not being melodramatic about the emotion, though, I really did feel the sky was going to fall in.

Just off the Royal Mile I found a nice place and got my tea... when in walked the lovely Zoe. I don't know her very well, but she's a friend of many of my friends and I had to try to put a brave face on my petulance. We saw Zoe a few days ago and she was not at all well. I was very pleased to see her looking much better. She's doing a show at the Free Fringe, and we got talking about that and other things. We talked about reviews – I said we'd had two lots of four stars already. She seemed so genuinely pleased for me, it was lovely. I could see her point – some fantastic reviews a few days into this festival – we are so lucky.

I went off to do the show and, well, what an audience. Theatre school children, who were fanstastic: attentive, respectful. I wanted to talk to them afterwards but I was talking to a woman who is a translator. She was upset – she knows many translators who are from all over the world some of whom have been put in very frightening situations, who are traumatised by pressure resulting from their involvement with news networks. She became tearful. We had a hug. Really, that's all I have to offer, if that, and there we were talking about these incredible people whose extraordinary lives I cannot even imagine.


What a privilege it is to perform this show of ours. It is quite a story, but the stories others bring are humbling. And I am reminded time after time after time that I am only here at all because of the wonderful people I have had around me not only since Kate died but my whole life... and still they keep coming.

Just virusy enough

The confirmation that I'm definitely ill came yesterday. We were walking on the flat and I had to ask Martin to slow down. Martin has one joint left in his feet so we can only conclude I am a bit virusy and frustratingly I certainly feel it. Early nights, afternoon trying to sleep it off. This was not the Fringe I was hoping for. I was hoping to be really ill for the last ten days, for crying out loud.

Later, though, I had a bit of a treat. I was crossing the Royal Mile when I saw three people, sitting on the steps of a church, gripped. They looked like a family group, tired, surrounded by bags and festival paraphernalia. Not from the UK, I don't think, Mediterranean maybe. They were clearly watching theatre so fantastic that it transcended cultural and linguistic boundaries. I followed their gaze, excited to see what was mesmerising them. There were two guys standing by a drain on the lovely Royal Mile, one of them on the phone and clearly wiping himself up a bit having thrown up into the drain, and, inevitably, around the drain. I looked back at the family group and they were still under the spell of Mr Chunder (this was 8pm, by the way, not part of the midnight throw-fest).

Since this little sequence I have been considering what I'm up against as an actor/storyteller of a big story from my life - nothing is as fascinating as
someone being sick, live, in the street, unaware that they are being watched. Or similar. And this chap was doing it for free.

Glorious silence in the Hut

I swear I remember writing something yesterday... but it's not on my computer today. I think that, although I had a good long rest, my tiny-weeny laptop was out on the razz without me. I was achingly erudite and entertaining yesterday. Today, in the drizzle of the Pleasance Courtyard, I am feeling more prosaic. I can only apologise, dear reader.

Our lovely audience yesterday was the quietest we have ever encountered. Martin and I, I fear, have careered off on our own particular line of... er... I'm not sure. This was illustrated very clearly to me yesterday as over the gorgeous silence of the audience I could hear the technician (yet another of Martin's roles) giggling, and then stifling the giggle, at our fantastic gags about my sister's murder. Mum was mystified when I told her that there were virtually no chuckling from the audience – she laughed like a drain virtually throughout when she saw the show. Just because it was her daughter who was doing a show about her other's daughter's murder, she knew all the stories, and would start, together with one of my aunts, laughing at the beginning of the anecdotes. You know those people: they attend Tom Stoppard plays and laugh as the auditorium lights go down and don't stop until it's over. Know-ing, as they are: yes, yes, they know how Tom thinks, all his gags, so obvious to them.

Well, laughter about all of this has become so natural to us, and Martin, that we are surprised when others don't laugh at our death-gags. But we are delighted that people come and have their own experience, whatever the decibelage of that experience.

Beautiful sevens

Yesterday evening when I checked we had sold one ticket for the first show.

That's all folks. That's all I wrote yesterday. I'm thinking of giving myself yesterday off. I wish I'd thought of that earlier though, then I could have enjoyed having the blogday off. As it was I kept trying to think of ways of crowbarring in a shoehorn of of writing, between seeing my first show (a fantastically entertainingly odd affair) and rushing around with Martin and our friend Julie who's over from Brussels, failing to get into shows that had sold out.

We finished the day sitting in a pub readinig our books. I'm now only 80 pages from the end of A History Of The Arab Peoples. That is, I'm 80 pages from the end of Albert Hourani's excellent A History Of The Arab Peoples, not anywhere near the end of the history of the Arab peoples. I'm a very slow reader and I want to maintain the momentum and therefore the enjoyment of the book. Very rock 'n' roll, me and Martin, the odd couple, sitting in a draughty pub, me sipping on my cranberry and soda.

No, actually, we finished our day talking to our flatmates. Here we are at the Fringe and I'm already pretty tired, but mostly due to walking around a lot carrying bags of vegetables to juice and staying up late talking to people I'm going to see every day for the next month. Wild.

So, the first show ended had an audience of seven, in the end, as did the second show today. By that I mean they both started with seven as well – no one stormed or, indeed, snuck out. I confess that some of the audients were our chums. It's a very different show for people who've shared any part of my strange journey since 9 February 2005, the day Kate was murdered, I think, to how it is for people who've never met me before. The reactions vary from friend to friend – some cry a lot (my lodger) and others laugh like drains way way before the punchlines (my mother, but then she knew all the stories already).

The smell of toast

Our flatmates have arrived and they liked the smell of toast we had ordered in for them. They have proper coffee in a flash, unmarked, brown paper bag with them so I think the flat will, at the very least, smell like home. Not my home. My home can smell of toast and coffee, but more often it's a smell which is mysterious to me, as if something is there while I'm out. Sometimes my lodger is there while I'm out, but it's not her. She smells of clean hair, alcohol and youth. After more than a decade in the flat I always expect it to smell like home, but, well, it doesn't. It's odd.

Today's achievements include finding a chair for the show on the street. We think there were three of them, as we could see two women each with a chair like ours in the distance. A very Edinburgh Fringe experience - took me back to my days performing here as a student. We also have a glass for the show. Really, it's all go. Somebody asked me what it is we do when we're not actually doing the show. I think the show will be a nicely focused and relaxed occasion in comparison to this fevered activity involving charity shops, finding cafes with wifi, charity shops, liaising with our designer (our posters/flyers are yet to be printed. Eek!), and charity shops.

We have also registered Martin for the gym. He has gone this afternoon and I'm impressed. He woke up this morning with "no bones" and "all of them hurt", but he took extra arthritis drugs and things are a bit better now. I'm feeling pretty coldy and should be having a good lie down, I think. I've been sneezing and everything. I've not even registered for the gym and I've failed to find a pool. Pathetic. The guy with the arthritis and new heart valve is pumping iron and me with my little bitly sore throat and slightly hurty foot am contemplating bed.

The big news is I have now ordered our flyers, though, and that was terrifying. I realise that sounds like hyperbole, given that I'm doing a show about my own sister's murder, but I'm far more scared of having messed that up than drying in front of an audience... especially an Edinburgh audience... they're usually like a kitten: small and friendly. It's an interesting thought that I will not be in the position of performing this show to an audience which is smaller than the cast it is watching. Athough I sincerely hope there aren't too many days where I match my audience person for person.