Saturday 21st April 2012
ACHE in a tooth – upper left seven, or thereabouts – delayed my rising from bed this morning. It wobbles, may have to go. Bit late now to regret the dental neglect of younger days: too many gap years.
“Don’t be vain about it. It’s like wearing glasses. Get used to having it in at all times, including when eating.”
Were dentists born to chastise? He called it a ‘plate’. I preferred the awful truth: denture. And I saw it as a question of comfort not vanity.
Pleasingly – and with great timing – it broke into three pieces a couple days after the last performance of Still Kicking. No more slipping the plastic pinkness into a pocket before luncheon, or plopping it into a foaming bedside tumbler. Begone, damned prosthesis!
Besides, I’m no longer expecting anybody to stick their tongue in my mouth. As Jo was often heard to say, when we were discussing a proposed stage kiss:
“I have to admit, Marcus, I’m not looking forward to a mouthful of stale tobacco.”
This was towards the end of the show, following…
JO: So what we do next? Isn’t it time for a song?
MARCUS: Ha ha. No. According to the script, it’s time for a snog. Look!
JO: Oh that’s just a typo.
MARCUS: Snog. We have to have a snog!
…and a gradual, if reluctant, acceptance on her part that she just might have to. One of the agreements with Still Kicking was to include things we’d not done on stage before: an unscripted scene and playing the ukulele (her); a dance routine and the kiss (me).
We wrote it over a number of months. Most of the initial draft ended up in the bin. You can’t be self-conscious when working collaboratively; certainly shouldn’t be when you’re both in your sixtieth year. Anything was possible. I could juggle; she could take out her hearing aids and false breast.
It was Jo’s idea to perform it in garden sheds. Other gigs would be in studios, theatre bars, a yurt. Oh, the joy of being back on the road: edgy, exciting, every venue differently demanding.
This was something I could really get my teeth into.