This past week, I stood, my face moistened by the salty liquor of pink skin suffocated in BB cream, mineralised paint and shimmering dust. I stood, my womanly curves, straightened between the stays of our 21st century answer to whalebone and linen; elastic control-topped strangulating hose. I stood; my Raphaelite curls immobile, gleaming with glistening something and super-hold something else. I stood, I felt the cool air waft over my humid skin, cool air, emanating from the rhythmic beat of paper waving the still, tepid air suspended in the back passage of London’s National Theatre. I stood, breathing in that cool air, watching that paper beat out the pulse of a strong male hand, the strong male hand of Benedict Cumberbatch. #bridgetmeetbenedict
This past week, I had the tremendous fortune of attending the National Theatre Bright Young Things Gala. I say tremendous fortune because it cost me almost as much as a return flight to Sydney. I say tremendous fortune because The Critique offered me the seat, a seat left vacant at the very last of last minutes. I say tremendous fortune because I moved about a room filled with heroes and heroines, even a Hera. Yes, Billie Piper, who brought to life Shakespeare’s nubile dolly-bird in a BBC produced version of Much Ado About Nothing shared her fire-bin ashtray with me.
Cinderella’s preparations for the ball began the weekend before.
A trip to the West End to lay down at the altar of Karolina, Duchess of Depilation, an hour with Maria the Manicurist and an entire afternoon with David of Essex, the Magician behind the mop of non-pubic curls. That same weekend, an entire day was spent sweating, huffing and puffing in the fitting rooms at John Lewis, attempting, in vain, to find something that wasn’t jeans and a T-shirt that might optimise the visual impact of the flesh and bones attached to my cranium. Dresses were donned, shoes were shod and fantastical jewels of polymer and plastic were strung together upon thinnest nylon to adorn the overflowing prow of the good ship Bridget. #muttondressedasspam
Finally, the big day arrived.
Have you ever tried to shove a sleeping bag inside its nylon sheath? Have you ever made homemade pork sausages? Have you ever trussed a Christmas Turkey? Have you ever sewn a strap, and then used a large safety pin to turn the fabric inside of itself? I’m now certain I employed a unique combination of all these skills, and some ancient voodoo, to get myself inside of the Spanx Tights and the fully lined, floor length jersey dress I wore to meet with the most famous cheekbones since Linda Evangelista didn’t get out of bed for less than ten grand.
Arriving, as per usual, uncomfortably earlier than the only other person I knew, as in, person I knew in real life not just off the telly, I had to wander in front of the entrance for a few minutes. Rather than casually check my phone, or stare wistfully into the oncoming traffic, I chose instead the far more glamorous “slam into someone very famous while you try to extricate your cigarettes and your lighter from your too-tiny very-fancy going out clutch” move. I have no doubt that Damian Lewis, our dearly departed Nicholas Brody of Homeland, found the top of my head thumping into his shoulder as exciting as watching Claire Danes grimace for the past 3 years.
The Critique did finally arrive and we entered the mystical, ivy-coated corridors at the back of the theatre, today made over to resemble the secret garden where Titania wooed Bottom; that, or a very posh Surrey backyard. We sipped on something that is apparently British, and also sparkling white wine. Not Champagne, and not quite nice, but bubbly and alcoholic and I’m going to get my money’s worth and drink whatever they proffer. #youcantakethegirloutofparis
I sipped, I stood, I stared, I laughed at the right times and made the right comments and holy-fucking-shit Kit Harrington just said excuse me to me! Jon Snow, who can take down a Dragon, a White Walker and Ygritte with only half his arm, can’t walk past me unless I turn to the side. Not sure if that is a good thing but I now have at least one actual famous person who has said something to me.
Then I saw Benedict.
I saw him, I realised I could stand, in my little wedge heels and look straight into his eyes and became decidedly underwhelmed. #theyalwaysseemtallerontv The Critique, who is better at this game than I, managed a whole conversation with him. I managed to gape, gawp and gurn. Then we heard him speak.
How is it that a man can tell a story involving pissing in a shower and still sound ethereal? Still sound like his every vowel was spun from honey and brandy and cigar smoke… and a shitload of money? Could it be that all my lefty, pinko, commie values go speeding off into the sunset as quickly as my elastic torture knickers as soon as a perfectly rounded ‘good evening’ is emitted from the lips of a well spoken man? Is it only the well spoken that weaken the resolve of this hardened, tired and angry wench of the western suburbs? Am I incapable of fancying anyone that cannot whisper a sonnet and use the word shall in a sentence? Is my inherently downstairs self, coveting an elevated upstairs life? Am I only attracted to #poshtotty ?
That evening saw me discussing the potential outcome of the Scottish referendum, the social impact of Australia’s resource-based economy and the different responses to recent terrorist incidents in the Middle East. I did feel uncomfortable, because of the stupid pants, but I was sitting around a table of people who had things to say and that helped me think a little less of the Herculean Trial required each time I needed to pee.
Cinderella kicked off her slippers back home in the Material Mansion, alone, shortly after midnight. She washed her face and combed down the curls ready for another day slaving over Outlook. She had one night at the ball, and then, she went back to work.
“Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me”
Act 1, Scene 3
One of your best imho
Posted by: Tony Bryan | 09/25/2014 at 08:33 PM