So I have been to see my very good friend Carlton Edwards’ workshop show The Five Labours of Harvey Fish. The book was written brilliantly by Brian Jordan (a friend from a time when I did a corporate for Macdonalds in Birmingham and famously thought that I was meant to outspeak the auto-cue. The operator, who was working it manually, was trying to keep up with me and thus was winding it at the a speed that almost produced smoke from the hinge. I little knew that they, like an accompanist, will keep up with you and not vice versa. I have not been near an auto-cue since.
This was the same corporate conference that invited a very young David Beckham to stand in the wings with us and kick a football into the audience. We tried very hard to make him chat with us, but his agent had instructed him not to speak, so Mr Beckham smiled, frequently, and still disarmed us with his charm.
The music of The Five Labours of Harvey Fish was exquisitely written by the dear mate, Carlton Edwards, who had offered so kindly to play the piano at my wedding at the Actor’s Church in Covent Garden, a scary eleven years ago. I arrived to the venue, which was in the middle of a labyrinth in Pimlico. I should have known it would be difficult to find, because at every corner, there were numerous elegant ladies wandering about muttering, “Where is the bloody place? The terrible c**t won’t answer his phone!” The only elegant ladies I know who use the c-word with such gay abandon are actresses, so I was not alone in my search.
As I walked through the entrance, I felt a little like Norm in Cheers. What felt like a large number of disparate voices shouted out Kate Terence! My dear old mate, Matthew Rixon, was playing Zeus/Luigi and Hero, impeccably and with his effusive warmth. He and I were in the play where I first met the Captain, called The Contrast at the Cochrane Theatre. It was pitched as America’s first play and been found in a museum. It should really have remained there, but then, I would not have met the love of my life. We worked and played hard throughout it, all at ages where love played its essential role, and thus the bond between Matt and me will always remain.
Another dear mate, Robert Hands, who played Apollo/Roberto/ Hero/Leo Neame was splendid and seamless as always. He and I met in the Epicurean bar of Bristol University, where I was studying Psychology and he was at the Old Vic Theatre school. We became firm, if tempestuous buddies, and ended up in a play together called Have Faith Alice and Enjoy in Edinburgh, written and directed by Simon Beresford, who is now the agent within Dalzell Beresford. Interestingly Huw Kennair Jones, was also in it, and he is now the Commissioning Editor for Drama with Sky. I scratch my head to think whether I have missed some sort of boat, but hey ho. When I greeted Robert, the casting director of Mamma Mia Stephen Crockett approached us. Robert could not resist introducing me, saying that I would make a good Tanya in Mamma Mia. He jocularly asked if I was interested, at which point I thought it wise to mention that while I sang very well at parties after a few drinks, singing in long running musicals might be a skill that had evaded me so far.
Another great mate, and supreme performance came from Felicity Duncan, playing Helen Beaufemme, with whom I was at drama school and with whom I have recently become much more in touch. This was a show where I sat there and wished I had the guts to sell my house and produce the whole play. It had HIT written all over it, so anyone who has a wish to invest in something that, if well- marketed, could make the sort of money Mamma Mia made, should look up Carlton Edwards and Brian Jordan immediately. You heard it here first.
I have joined a gym, and on the whole am delighted with the result. For £45 per month I swim, yoga and gym it for at least three times per week, and because the money is leaving my account automatically, I feel I absolutely have to make use of it. It is a mere ten minutes walk up the road, and every moment after I have done the exercise, I feel more vibrant and happy.
I knew it long ago when an inspired G.P. at university refused to put me on anti-depressants, which I had been prescribed at boarding school. He took me through a cognitive behavioural therapy based programme, which included doing at least one hour of exercise per day. While I am not in any way belittling anyone who suffers clinically from depression or bipolar disorder, I would say the milder cases should have a go. It certainly works for me.
The only disadvantage is that occasionally one has to interact with a lunatic. I will cite a particular example. I chose on one occasion to take the medium lane, as it avoided the large Russian looking man/woman who was thrashing through the fast lane. The board on the lane indicated very clearly that it was anti-clockwise that we should swim. As a new member and a seasoned swimmer, I obeyed, to find a spiky, bony, toothy, posh woman standing in the lane walking towards me, so that I had to stop.
“If you had bothered to ask me, I would have told you which lane I was swimming in and you could have picked the other.” she said, as she tried to manage the unnecessary amounts of teeth that were fixed in her mouth.
I stood up, took my goggles off, and no, I did not punch her in the face. That was my fantasy version. I said,” I’m sorry, I am a new member here and thought it best that I follow the rules, the board indicated anti-clockwise whereas it seems, you are swimming in one lane, up and down.”
“Yes”, she retorted,”We don’t bother with those signs around here. You only needed the courtesy to ask me.”
I answered, “I am so sorry. I had no idea that you owned the club and swimming pool. May I add, Madam, that you have a very bad manner.” I swam off, realising that saying she had a bad manner, made me sound like I was a continental who had not yet learnt that it is more acceptable to refer to manners in the plural. I was irritated and upset for a whole day. In the dressing room, I heard women referring to manners, and rudeness and became paranoid that they were referring to me, in a Fulham clan sort of a way.
It struck me, when I had calmed down, how very easily I break when I am bullied, and so I have made a resolution not to tolerate it any more. You have been warned. Bully me at your peril. (not that I believe any readers of this would be in the market to bully me or anyone else for that matter.) But, shall we all make a stand against psycho-bullies? Let’s do it. You heard it here first.
Kate Terence's Letters from London 