I believe I can fly...

I have always and will always seek to live the adventure of life.  And one such adventure started whilst on a family holiday in Tunisia.

Tunisia it turns out, or the part we were in, was a completely non cultural resort of sorts but it provided a haven away from a rather horrific storm my family were going through.  Anyway, we sunbathed, ate lots, celebrated New Year, went to many markets and bartered away.  We went swimming in the sea and decided on one particular day to try para gliding.  This was rather adventurous for a mother with 3 children aged 14, 11 and 8…but that’s just the kind of family I’m from.

We had passed one set of men running the paragliding which put the notion in my mother’s head.  As we carried on walking we approached some more men and we stopped to enquire. 

Two guys on the beach would harness you into some safety contraption, we’ll call them Tom and Dick, then Tom would wave to a guy far out in the sea on a boat (we’ll call him Harry) and he would set off.  Tom meanwhile would tell the paraglider to start running and soon they would lift off and soar magnificently into the air.  They would be up in the air for about 10 minutes and then the boat would bring them back to the beach.  Tom or Dick would then whistle, the paraglider would pull a cord and then would descend gently onto the beach.  Got it? Simple.

Right, so first up, my brother, Richard, aged 11, the man of the house.  Harnessed in, he sets off and is back on dry land in 15 minutes all grins and wonder. 

Next, my mother.  I think it’s important to mention at this time that Tom and Dick, (I cannot comment on Harry, we never met) were the greatest sleaze balls Tunisia has ever had to offer.  Prolonged stares, whispers, with a gentle constant murmuring of ‘Will you marry me?’ playing in the background.  They loved our accents, my sister’s blonde hair, the fact that we were living apparently was even worthy of praise.  My mother sets off, is up in the air whilst her two daughters are being sold into marriage.  By the time my mother is heading back into shore I’ve had just about enough from these freaks and so refuse to look in their eyes and hold my sister close lest they sell her.

Mum has returned, loved it. “Way you go Ru…” she offers. 

So I did.  Took to the floor like a seasoned pro.  Tom is still whispering.   Refusing to look at either of them, I hear them drone through the ‘sexy’ safety procedures and I zone out and take in the beach. 

A vast beach; waves, people swimming, laughing, playing and in the distance a boat with froth coming out the back.  The thoughts begin…Froth happens when the engine starts…is that the boat that Harry is on? Scanning the sea I can see no other boat.  I think it’s the boat.  As I turn to tell my lovers that I think Harry may have got the wrong end of the stick, I am yanked forward by my stomach, like some extreme hiphop move. 

Harry has started the boat.  I am just about harnessed in.  Tom and Dick squeal.  Sexy.  

And I am hurtling across the sand at record speed on my backside with a parachute flailing behind me and an audience of about 300 across a beach.  I’m tearing through the sand like a crazy machine.  Harry will not be stopped. Then I hit a ravine, well you know what I mean, a pathway created by the sea leading to the sea, deep enough for my toes to dip into and flip me over…yes.  So now…I am hurtling at about 30 miles an hour across a beach with my face in the sand, my body completely flat.  This entire event lasts about 40 seconds and then silence.

I think I am dead.

Silence.

I lift my head, slowly.  Spit sand out of my face and turn around.

My family are on the floor crying with laughter.  Tom and Dick are apologetically whimpering.  And the beach is in awe.  That I survived, that such a thing could happen.  Bedraggled, and believe me I owned that word that day, I returned to the start position.  With only my dignity and entire ego bruised, I tried once more.  This time Harry co-operated and as I took off running and was lifted into the air I heard a faint cheer of support.

Para gliding, when I actually mastered the art of getting in the air, was not all I had hoped for.  When I approached land I pulled the toggle and landed…wait for it…in Tom’s arms!  Tom and I did not marry, although we did sell my sister.

Sing a song of sixpence

I like to sing.  I can sing.  I am a singer.  I sing.  I love it.  My vocals are on three albums and I’ve performed in front of thousands.  Singing is great for the soul and can lift your spirits instantly.  And if you’ve ever raised a note to the air then yes you did not need me to tell you that.

This musing leads me to a story on the gift of song, when I, with my 27 years of life, stood at the front of my church to teach a new song to the congregation.  Musicians; check.  Rehearsal complete; check.  Singer; check…Prepared; most would boldly say “Yes”. 

No one can really tell exactly what happened between the rehearsal of said new song and the time approximately 35 minutes later when it was to be taught.  I can only assume that I was elsewhere, there in body but not in mind.  The band started, playing the first verse before the vocals were due to kick in.  Whilst this was playing there was a distant thought in the back of my mind that I had in fact never heard this sound before.  Just as I opened my mouth I remembered that I was the one with the microphone and that 100 heads were looking my way.  I did not panic.  No.  I was simply going to improvise. 

Error. 

Improvisation does not and will not ever work in this case.  You cannot lead people to improvise the exact same thing as you.  As an entire congregation listened to me busk my way through a verse and a chorus I was left rather impressed with my ability to create new song.  Then reality kicked in, I saw the damage and a kind girl joined me at the microphone to try and heal the situation.  The irony of the situation…when the congregation joined in, I knew it.

I’d like to say this sort of event was a one off but no…I once auditioned for a musical about mental illness.  Yes tis true, there is a musical out there about mental illness.  I entered the room and was greeted by a team of two, and a pianist in the corner.  I started with a monologue.  This is nothing extraordinary.  The piece was not about mental illness…until that day.  I started and ended.  And then realized I’d left out the middle.  So the sketch did not come across as written and I looked instead, not like I was auditioning for the part, rather the part was based on me!  Too embarrassed to explain that I had completely mucked up the monologue, I moved onto the song.  Surely all could be redeemed.  No.   Overwhelmed by the fact that I had most probably come across to these three strangers in a tiny cell audition room as a complete loon, I realized the introduction had once again caught me unawares.  I seriously must invest in some warning siren for when a piece of music is about to begin.  As I opened my mouth to sing, I felt my cheeks begin to go red, then redder, until finally I was beetroot.  Clothed now like a tin of Heinz tomato soup I sang the song.  Several minutes later I left the room smaller than I had entered it.  I believe that later that day, I did cry for quite some time over my inability to do what it says on my tin.  

However folks, let us not forget the triumph of the day…I did remember the tune.  Yes, yes indeed.  But the audition…well that was not to be mine.

a person a day helps you work, rest and play!

I moved to London, a mere 7 years ago, to train at drama school and instantly became engulfed in the superb madness that is London life, with it 8 million inhabitants.

My first few days at Webber saw me slapped in the face by a random crazed French man, showered by broken glass and centre to a near emergency involving a toilet and a disabled alarm! 

The alarm it turns out was cunningly disguised as a light switch.  On entering my stage combat class I was informed that if I didn’t rectify the situation an ambulance would be there within 20 minutes…my teacher’s razor sharp skill with a sword left her lacking in areas of sympathy.  The French man who slapped me was not, as my new classmates assumed, an ex-lover or boyfriend.   I had never seen him before in my life.  He approached me with whispered murmurings, staring all the while, and with a strike he bruised my cheek and disappeared from my life.  And the window, well, that just decided to explode whilst I was downward dog, showering me in shards of deadly glass.  Well ok, I was left completely unscathed, but it could have been deadly.  My yoga career was unaffected.   And this within two weeks of moving to London.

In the past few months, I met a lady who sat with her pram on the bus with her twin babies…on closer inspection I was alarmed to discover they were in fact plastic dolls!  I got chatting to a man in a wheelchair when I went for run.  I would like to draw attention to the fact that I was running…thank you.  Minding my own business, ipod in, I slowed to hear what he was saying.  He introduced himself, asked my name and then offered me some food from his BBQ.  I declined.  Charred burgers aren’t what professional runners have mid marathon.  And then whilst waiting patiently for a bus, two men waited with me standing in nothing but aprons and motorcycle helmets.

Which leads me to my recent realization…it seems to be quite some feat to get a casting director to meet with me and yet I seem to have no trouble in meeting just about anyone in London town.

Last week a random French man (I’m pretty certain it was not the same man) started chatting with me on my cycle home.  We were both stopped at the red light at a busy junction (I do hope my friends at the Transport Police are reading!) and he pulled up beside me on his bike.  Mid 40s, taking his fluorescent safety jacket off, he said “It is ‘ot non?”

Apologies for the crap French dictation.

I smiled and made a reassuring friendly “Mmmm” sound.

So we wait at the lights and set off like all good Christian folk when the green bike appears.   Cycling off, my new friend is by my side chatting about the weather and asking me where I live…No, she of the pin number, was not about to launch into exact co-ordinates of my abode.  I said London Fields.  That is near my house.  I’m so cunning. 

And he told me he lived in Leytonstone…always good to find out the whereabouts of your attacker.  I reached the end of a road and turned right and said “Ok, see you”

At which point he added “But Je going the same way as you”

Oh yes, so you are!

Great.

We chatted for about 5 minutes, I learnt that he lived in Leytonstone, that once you cycle past Mare Street it gets a bit dodgy and that he’d had a hard day at work.  Turns out that is it, we cycled together for about 5 minutes…which must mean he knows a lot more about me than I figured I’d shared.

Some truthful facts: He did not actually say “Je”-I added that for dramatic effect.

I would rather meet all these wonderful people than all the casting directors in the world, but throwing one or two into the mix once or twice a month would really do me no harm!