My beloved and I were married in a theatre. Reader, I popped the question on a leap year by graffiti-ing my local footbridge in chalk, with a layer of hairspray in case it rained. He said yes, after collapsing on his knees in shock. We did the legals in Manchester town hall, followed by a curry (his choice) then a blessing and a shindig in a theatre in London (mine). The theatre is the closest thing I’ve got to church; at least, it’s the place I have frequented from nappies till now, where people come to lend their belief.
Last Wednesday marked two years since the world came to a grinding halt. At the time I was playing Sandra, the booze-fuelled, fag-ashed, unapologetically selfish and morally questionable baby-boomer heroine in a revival of Mike Bartlett’s Love, Love, Love at the Lyric Hammersmith theatre. The audiences gasped and howled at what an appalling mother she was, while being beguiled by her eye-bleeding honesty. Our press night performance was riotous. There was delicious rowdy chaos in the audience, and audible wincing as Sandra informed her daughter, on her 16th birthday, that both parents have had affairs and will soon be getting a divorce, all the while cheerfully handing out slices of cake. Something in the airwaves told us to enjoy the moment while it lasted. It lasted for four performances.
