trying to remove a one-pence piece lodged in her face that someone had thrown at her during the Middlesex University slave auction. Ironically, it was a penny more than anyone had bid for her.
As you can imagine, seeing these two hardly filled me with joy. I rechecked my university prospectus to see if it in fact read ‘Circus Studies’, but no it definitely had ‘Theatre Studies’ emblazoned on the front. The prospect of spending three years with them seemed quite daunting. After I’d unpacked, we met some other first years. In a desperate attempt to bond and make the best of a bad situation, we went to a local pub. After being asked in the first pub to donate to the IRA, we decided to move on to the next one where Vicki, a bookish girl who lived downstairs, told us that this was the pub where gaypsychopath serial killer Dennis Nilsen picked up his first victim. The omens for this course weren’t looking good at all.
My saving grace came the next day when the girl next door knocked to introduce herself. It was Catherine. We had a bit of small talk, mainly about the strange man called Chicken sitting in our kitchen in an off-white muscle top eating cat biscuits. I asked her where she came from, and she replied, ‘Kettering.’ That probably means nothing to you, but it’s a town just ten miles from my house in Northampton, and it was music to my ears. Well, we instantly bonded, united by our contempt for life growing up in the Rose of the Shires. As it turned out, we had gone to the same nightclubs. We both dubbed Reflections ‘Rejections’ – see, I was witty even back then. As it happened, we also had a smattering of mutual friends. It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship that is still going today.
Catherine wasn’t doing Drama or Theatre Studies; she was doing French International Business, and it must have been frustrating for her living among these Drama students. She would often spend hours slumped over a hulking great French business dictionary trying to find the right words, doing yet another essay till the early hours of the morning, and we’d come in ‘exhausted’ after doing two hours of breathing exercises and movement. I don’t think she realised how tiring it is being a tree.
The Drama and Theatre Studies course was based at this rather run-down mansion at the top of Golders Green Hill. It had been Anna Pavlova’s old house. Her dying wish was that her house should be used by the council as a centre forcreativity and arts. Looking back at some of the shit we came out with, I’m sure she’s pirouetting in her grave. But the house was very conducive to being a centre of creativity. It had wonderful grounds, a lake and two performance spaces – I won’t say theatres, because that will build your hopes up. You could imagine how beautiful the house must have been in its prime – the tall ceilings, the staircases, the air of quiet contemplation in the large study, adorned with oil paintings and murals before a load of excitable Drama students burst through the doors. What a fall from grace. Even the large mirror in the rehearsal room that Anna Pavlova would practise in front of had a massive crack through it by the time we’d finished there. A fat girl had fallen against it in a dance class. The final insult.
I was still envious of the Acting course over at Trent Park. We were hearing stories that they were doing all these dynamic, challenging dramas, and were working nine to five every day. That was exactly the thing I secretly wanted to do, but sadly I wasn’t talented enough for it. I kidded myself that I enjoyed making things out of papier mâché and wire-wooling the gussets of leotards. Although the course wasn’t to my satisfaction, I threw myself into London life. Ivy House’s location was a wonderful spot, right at the top of Golders Green Park. It was the perfect antidote to the grey of Northampton’s industrial estates. There was the park on your doorstep. A short walk
As you can imagine, seeing these two hardly filled me with joy. I rechecked my university prospectus to see if it in fact read ‘Circus Studies’, but no it definitely had ‘Theatre Studies’ emblazoned on the front. The prospect of spending three years with them seemed quite daunting. After I’d unpacked, we met some other first years. In a desperate attempt to bond and make the best of a bad situation, we went to a local pub. After being asked in the first pub to donate to the IRA, we decided to move on to the next one where Vicki, a bookish girl who lived downstairs, told us that this was the pub where gaypsychopath serial killer Dennis Nilsen picked up his first victim. The omens for this course weren’t looking good at all.
My saving grace came the next day when the girl next door knocked to introduce herself. It was Catherine. We had a bit of small talk, mainly about the strange man called Chicken sitting in our kitchen in an off-white muscle top eating cat biscuits. I asked her where she came from, and she replied, ‘Kettering.’ That probably means nothing to you, but it’s a town just ten miles from my house in Northampton, and it was music to my ears. Well, we instantly bonded, united by our contempt for life growing up in the Rose of the Shires. As it turned out, we had gone to the same nightclubs. We both dubbed Reflections ‘Rejections’ – see, I was witty even back then. As it happened, we also had a smattering of mutual friends. It was the beginning of a wonderful friendship that is still going today.
Catherine wasn’t doing Drama or Theatre Studies; she was doing French International Business, and it must have been frustrating for her living among these Drama students. She would often spend hours slumped over a hulking great French business dictionary trying to find the right words, doing yet another essay till the early hours of the morning, and we’d come in ‘exhausted’ after doing two hours of breathing exercises and movement. I don’t think she realised how tiring it is being a tree.
The Drama and Theatre Studies course was based at this rather run-down mansion at the top of Golders Green Hill. It had been Anna Pavlova’s old house. Her dying wish was that her house should be used by the council as a centre forcreativity and arts. Looking back at some of the shit we came out with, I’m sure she’s pirouetting in her grave. But the house was very conducive to being a centre of creativity. It had wonderful grounds, a lake and two performance spaces – I won’t say theatres, because that will build your hopes up. You could imagine how beautiful the house must have been in its prime – the tall ceilings, the staircases, the air of quiet contemplation in the large study, adorned with oil paintings and murals before a load of excitable Drama students burst through the doors. What a fall from grace. Even the large mirror in the rehearsal room that Anna Pavlova would practise in front of had a massive crack through it by the time we’d finished there. A fat girl had fallen against it in a dance class. The final insult.
I was still envious of the Acting course over at Trent Park. We were hearing stories that they were doing all these dynamic, challenging dramas, and were working nine to five every day. That was exactly the thing I secretly wanted to do, but sadly I wasn’t talented enough for it. I kidded myself that I enjoyed making things out of papier mâché and wire-wooling the gussets of leotards. Although the course wasn’t to my satisfaction, I threw myself into London life. Ivy House’s location was a wonderful spot, right at the top of Golders Green Park. It was the perfect antidote to the grey of Northampton’s industrial estates. There was the park on your doorstep. A short walk
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