The day before you came .. Part 2

Ok. Here we go ..

Carrier bags in hand, l escorted Alan to the side exit, trying to avoid banging into the hordes of shoppers filing past us as we walked upstairs to the big, glass doors that led out to the busy street.

I was officially finished my shift and aware l had twenty minutes to go to sixth floor, collect my belongings, back down and out through our staff entrance, run around on to Princes Street, jump on bus, eat whatever fruit was lying squashed underneath all my lady-junk, take off dingle-dangle jewlery, fix face, paint nails, check phone, relax if poss, (although probably have to stand, as bus would be mobbed)

Get to my destination. I could have walked, but use time to catch-up with my Mary Poppins handbag situation ..

Jump off bus.

Weave in and out of the junkies, couples walking ever so slowly hand in hand, taking up all the length of the pavement and stopping dead to decide where to eat by looking through windows. The cafe where jkrowling wrote her money-maker is always plagued by Japanese tourists hogging the place, click clicking with thousand dollar cameras.

'GET OUT OF MY WAY', l scream in my head.

Nearly get run over by a cyclist as l step in to road to pass by the muffin-top 'mothers. Don't you slide on the pit-bull crap, Denise.

Busy, peeping traffic on road outside our massive theatre.

Avoid being sucked under the articulated lorry, as l dodge across the road.

'Sorry', l grin.

Outside stage door, 'fans' (picture, if you will, one hundred badges-on-collar, thick, beer-bottle specs with bit of blue elastoplast on nose piece, autograph book in hand, slight urine wafting in the breeze) walk towards me in anticipation.

'Is SHE any body?', they ask.

'Naaaah'. She's no naeb'dy', they say, turning away as l open the door to start work.

'Hi, doll', says Duncan.

'Hi Dunk. 'Dung can make yer grass grow'. Ha ha', l sung, searching for my name on staff list.

'Aye. It wiz funny when a first heard it. Aboot a million years ago, ya wee bugger'.

Sign-in at stage door. Sign the fire signing-in sheet. Pass stage entrance. There's this sign on the double-doors that reads, 'Do Not Enter'. Uh?

(Someone tinkering on a piano in the orchestra pit. Think it's a bit of Sinatra. Lovely.)

Past box office. Down to mezzanine. More numbers to recall to get through 'pass' doors. Run downstairs, chuck off shop clothes, fling on nasty, horrible staff shirt, not allowed boots with skirts, find shoes, bit deodorant, fluff hair, brush teeth and squash myself into any space for a ready, while front of house manager briefs us on that nights performance.

No, that's not exactly what l did ..

Alan said he would drop me off at work, but we had to go get his car.

I used Jenners big, old, creaky lift, opening at every possible floor, squeezing against the side, trying not to breathe anyone's skin/unwashed scalp.to get my locker, take off ID badge, pick up handbag, and descend down the feckin' six flights, secretly wanting to push the shoppers in my way, out of my way.

My new friend was waiting, looking as if he was trying to not look as if he was looking, if you get me.

Nice smile. Good stuff.

Now, what l SHOULD have done, was hop on said bus, but l was genuinely offering a helping hand with his parcels. It started to rain.

He was parked waaaaay over to some busy car park, and l could see loads of buses flying up the road. Boy, would l be late.

Cutting a long story short, he ran off weighed under by the bags, searching for the entrance. He offered to get me a cab, but there was none at all. Feeling my anxiety, he said, if your still here, l'll pick you up and run you to work, if not l will be in touch. He turned quickly and disappeared into the mass.

Where could he stop? Where would he stop? He doesn't live in the city. He won't know the route to take in this spaghetti-like madness called tea time traffic.

The street was heaving. 6.30pm on Friday evening. Pouring rain, late for work, starvin', and bloody hell, what's his car like. I forgot to ask!

Right, idiot.

I called theatre, and it the really REALLY nice manager on, thank goodness. She said, no worries, see you when you get there.

Jumping on soggy bus, l frantically searched up and down, looking at the drivers faces. No way Jose would Ally boy have a red Smartcar with a property developer's insignia on it. Here's a silver Jag. S' this him? Nope. It's an Asian lad. Good for him. What about that black Porche? Young WAG lookin' gal in that beauty. And then there's me. Bus-pass Aggie.

Plonking myself down on the disabled seat (that's a harsh word, 'Disabled'. How very DARE you label someone disabled, Lothian Buses) I was awash with disappointment.

Oh well.

'Another-fucker-bites-the-dust', as Freddie used to say.

Never mind. Plenty-more-fish, n all that jazz. Prob'ly got some weird, hidden affliction. Wisnay my type anyway ..

I looked at my phone. No calls.

A text, p'rhaps?

Nowt. Zilch. Nuffin'.

(Awww naww)

My heart sank. He could have at least have rang to say some bloody thing ..

Bla bla, got to work. Bla bla, went into ladies loo. Triiiiing triiiiiiiing. Gawd. Shoodny huv ma phone oan mi. Ssssshhhh. Help. Am late, now ma dog is ringin'. it was a caller unknown to me.

'Hello'.

'Denise?'

I could vaguely make out what he was saying through the crackling line.

'It's me. Alan. Are you you there', he shouted.

'Alan', l whispered, 'l canny speak just now. Got to start the show. Must go. Sorry'.

Sometimes when you stifle your voice to do the whispering thing, it actually makes things worse, for some reason, doesn't it ..

'Ok pal. Am still in the bluddy car park. Wot a place. Numpty heid bloke says the barrier's shut down'

Somebody was coming into the loo. Help.

'Denise. Are you ok?'

'Yes, thank you'. Now that you had called.

'The ticket machine was broken. Job's-worth had us all waiting till he sharpened his pencil', chortled Ally Bally down my phone.

'The barrier was stuck', he repeated. 'Did you get into trouble?', said Alan, bringing himself back to me.

'Nah. S'no problem', l hissed, desperately trying not be overheard.

'Thanks for the call.' (You hang up! No, YOU hang up. You hang up first. No. YOU hang up first! Ok. We'll both hang up together, ok? One. Two. Three) kind of thing.

'What a carry on', l carried on. 'You couldn't write this. Nobody would beleive it, as the saying goes. Got to go. Big night. Subo is in the building, and folk goin' nuts'.

(I must stop quoting songs. I must stop quoting song)

'I could ring when l get home, but it'll be bout eleven. Sorry, Got to go. Bye'.

I collected my programmes, cash and torch from our larger than life Lisa, the cashier.

'Where the fuck've YOU been, lady', she grinned. 'This is' (canny remember) ' and this is Mutton'. (dressed-as-lamb) 'Denise to you'.

'A love you too, happy'.

We smiled at each other, while new gal looked on, puzzled.

'You better get used to workin' in a loony bin, pal', Lisa told new lass, 'lt's Panto soon'.

'Aye', and you better be puttin' a fiver in the swear box', l replied, laffin' ..

I forced my legs to pick up speed, and got up to my patch in the (very) Grand Circle. We had our fire drill, like on you see on an airyplane! Job done, now time for a two-minute skive.

I adore my theatre. Been there about 16 years, l reckon, and seen mostly every type of possible performance there is. What a treat. It's like a family. Backstage, bars, box office, actors, musicians, cleaners, ushers, top brass. They are ALL wonderful.

Right, where was l. Oh yeah ..

I had managed to sneak a tangerine, yum, into the auditorium, and after patrons were all seated and happy, l flipped down our wee usher seat at the back. My legs were tingling with, what? Just plain stompin' around, l guess. I felt sweaty and mingin'. I needed a pee, a cup tea, a wash, a cuddle and a medal. I had gotten no real thanks for my huge sale.

Oh Denise. Stop yer whingin'. (I do that. Talk to myself. All the time, actually. I'm doing it now, as we speak)

What the ..

I could feel the stress and strain and wonky legs disappear.

Listen to that ..

Elaine C Smith was singing (as Susan Boyle, of course) 'Someone to watch over me'.

I put my head back to rest on the wall, feeling like a bag o' spuds. Heaven. A seat. Closing my eyes l said to myself, there are two thousand people in here, some pissed, and yet you could hear a pin drop.

'There's a somebody l'm longing to see, l hope that he, turns out to be. Someone who'll watch over me'.

One, warm tear ran right down my face. (Where the feck did THAT come from)

It wasn't cos of my feeling sorry for myself. It was the absolutely gorgous, soft, caramel sound that came from the actress's voice.

(This was the character 'Mary-doll' in the Scottish comedy programme, Rab C Nesbit. She touched my 'E' spot. One's Emotional Barometer. What a gift, to open a mouth, and honey-sound pours into ears)

That orchestra. Her voice. Oh, and may have been a tad tired.

Hey. Wakey Wakey. Chop chop. Yooo hoooo ..

Course, l had to snap out of it, pronto. Interval time. Us guys have ice creams to sell.

'Hi there. What can l get you'. (Fish supper? Iron bru? Nose hair clippers? A mint?)

'Huv yiez goat a kindow, eh, raspberry ripple, eh, naw, emmm ..'

Poor old soul. Must be 90 at least. Did she not have someone to watch over her, then.

Queue, way up the staircase, and tiny granny canny make her mind up.

'This is nice. Chocolate. How about a strawberry one'.

'Nawwww'.

'Honeycomb?', says l, holding it up to her wrinkled, old face. Bet she's a kind, sweet thing, watchin' aw the others in line tappin' watches at me.

Aye, awright. S'no ma fault! Mibbe you should pass on the calories. Two walkin' sticks, a Zimmer frame, inhaler, AND soft slippers, ken ..

'A dinny like any o' thame. Yer stocks crap. How muuuuch?! TWO POUNDS furra eye-waash o' ice cream. Ah. Away n bile yer heid, ya robbin cunt'.

Like l said. Sweet as a nut (job)

Home at 11pm. Letters to be opened. Drop everything in hallway. Open fridge. Find clean glass. Glug glug, Peeno style. Fiver ooti Tesco. Barrie ..

Got no clean dishes, cutlery, clothes. Need to wash manky theatre shirt for show tomorrow. Maybe another day will be fine. I spray a bit of that old perfume under the oxters.

Get in bath. Pluck. Shave. Scrub. Soak. Too exhausted to pick up clothes or towels.

Must Hoover the carpet.

Too noisy. Do it first thing. What, at 7am?

I hang up swimsuit, (yes, l squeeze that in too) get packed lunch for tomorrow's marathon. Wash my hair. Can't even be bothered to dry it.

Ring ring

It's Alan ..