Jo wasn't looking forward to
be being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow again because there is
nothing good whatsoever about being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime
cow. She knew this oh-too-well - this
was Jo's third year in a third town with a third list of z-list celebrities and
other failed stars; with a third obnoxious and uppity front end taking all the
credit simply because they were the head.
Four weeks bent over at a right angle for hours a day, and two or three
times a day for the middle fortnight.
And in a cow costume under bright and very hot theatre lights that were
tantamount to torture. Jo was always
surprised her sweat didn't seep out through the underbelly (or worse, between
the legs) and make a puddle, only to cause children to remark, "Look,
Mummy, its wet itself." It poured
off her and made the inside of the underbelly more and more unbearable as the
production went on. Sodden at the end
of each night, dried stiff and stinking the following day. At the peak of the run, when the costume went
on three times a day, Jo would have to summon all the strength she had to stop
from throwing up when her face was smeared through the wet patch of her
difficult work. It was so bad that Jo
had nightmares all year round involving the Spanish Inquisition attaching her
to a spit and roasting her inside the costume, the sweat pouring off her being
collected in a cup and thrown back in her face.
And how are you supposed to tap dance when you can't see your feet - or
those you are supposed to be dancing in tandem with? True - Jo had mastered this nicely (this was
her third year) but on top of everything else, it was one hell of a headache
(plus she'd been tap-dancing since the age of four and was used to much
better).
Still; it was a blessed break
from waiting tables and hoping there would be a message when she got home. And it dulled the pain of the weekly call to
the agent to find out he had nothing for her.
And it meant she couldn't audition, something she had come to hate. The paranoia and the fear and the sweats and
the stammering. The faces of those
behind The Desk fading from welcoming to disinterested as she gradually lost
them because of nervousness. At school
it had been so easy up there under the lights with your mates, dressed in
costume and caked in make-up. In panto
she was, at least, disguised and anonymous.
Auditions were so very lonely and degrading. In a cold and echoey room, your failure just
comes straight back off the wall to slap you in the face. Yes, being the rear end of a tap-dancing
pantomime cow (again) was far better than the waiting game.
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