Horace Wimp, Is This Your Life?

It seems with every rehearsal, the platform configuration is different, and similarly, it is always a different one that is "soft", meaning that it bows just a little when you walk upon it, like a plywood trampoline, and God help you if there are more than one of you upon it....for it's a disaster just waiting to groan and snap and send you...well, it's only about six inches, but you could get a splinter.

Last night, the temperature outside was a pleasant sixty six degrees; and in the theatre, it was the Black Box of Calcutta, with two overworked electric fans moving hot air around the room.

I can't get the script out of my hand. It seems to be welded to the end of my arm. And these damned GLASSES that I need to read the words that seem to get smaller and smaller....

My knees hurt.
Where the F*** did these lines in my face come from?

I've got to tell you.....I'm having a Really. Good. Time.

Seriously; I step out, with book in hand and sore knees and reading glasses and a voice that won't obey the commands that it used to, and I can't move quite the same I used to, and my tongue seems three sizes larger than my mouth....and I can't stop smiling.

I can't say that every choice is gold, kids; there are a fair share of clinkers there among the winners, but just the ability to make the choice is refreshing. And I have managed to surprise myself just enough to make myself positively GIDDY.

It's managed to make the rest of this crap bearable.

"And even if I have to be a ditch digger for the rest of my life, I'll be a ditch digger that once had a....wonderful day!"

Bring it!