The initial communications, conducted by e-mail, went like this:
Rikki: Was looking to see when West Side Story was on, and found this site: [URL supplied]. Which evening would Sally like to go? ;-)
Sally: Great idea! How about Wednesday 7th or Thursday 8th? Would Rikki like to join me?
Rikki: Are you saying that *you* would like to treat Rikki?
Sally: What? On your wages? Get real! You can treat me, if you want. Should we investigate ticket availability?
Some background information might be useful here. Rikki had found a web site giving details of local amateur stage productions, and had discovered that West Side Story was being presented by Stage Door Theatre Company at the Spa Pavilion theatre in Felixstowe from 7th to 10th April. Being involved with a 'rival' amateur theatre company myself, I know the 'scene' and many of the people who inhabit it, although news of the staging of this particular show - one of my favourites - had somehow passed me by. Coincidentally, I used to belong to Stage Door many years ago, and although most of the people I knew then would have moved on by now, it still has the reputation of being one of the best amateur companies in the area - frankly, I was curious to see how well they'd handle such a difficult and complex show.
But having said all this, I prefer to be a participator rather than an observer, so it's unlikely that I'd have sat through a 2½-hour show unless I was playing in it. However, this time, there was an added incentive - namely the possibility of realising one of my fantasies, and going to the theatre dressed! The fact that I know Stage Door, the Spa Pavilion theatre and its staff, and several members of the orchestra (whom I'd played alongside a few weeks earlier in a different show with my own company) ...... well, let's just say that someone would be bound to recognise me before the evening was through!
A few minutes after sending my last e-mail, Rikki telephoned to say that she'd been only half-serious - I'd missed the 'smiley' emoticon in the original message, and had taken the proposal at face value. "Well, I'm going anyway", I replied with mock bravado. "You can come with me if you like. I think Wednesday evening would be best ......". Rikki agreed to go, but not necessarily en femme. So Wednesday it was, and two tickets were duly purchased.
I'd decided to dress down - if the evening was a success, there'd be plenty of future opportunities to be more flamboyant. So I wore a plain white sleeveless tee-shirt with a short-sleeved black jacket, my black-and-white pleated mini-kilt, semi-opaque tights and high-heeled strappy shoes. I thought that my brunette wig would be best, as I didn't want to block the view of people sitting behind me with one of my 'larger' hairpieces! Rikki chose to dress after all - again quite soberly, although somewhat more colourful than me, with a red-and-white skirt. We'd agreed to meet on the road above the theatre at 6.45pm to ensure that we could find somewhere to park within reasonable walking distance. In any event, the area can get a bit rowdy late at night, and we didn't want to get involved in any late-night trouble with the local yobs. We walked down the cliff path, and went for a short stroll along the seafront in the warm evening air. I recognised a number of people hanging around the theatre, and also exchanged glances with the musical director, David, who was standing by the stage entrance. He looked at us, squinted, adjusted his spectacles, and looked again - he certainly read us, and I think he recognised me too!
We entered the theatre at about 7pm without so much as a raised eyebrow from any of the front-of-house staff, bought some drinks from the bar, and sat down for a chat until we were called to our seats shortly before 7.30. The first half of the show was performed very well, with some good singing and acting, and some excellent choreography during the fight scenes between the rival Jets and Sharks gangs. A few first-night problems were in evidence - such as a metal gate in a chain-link fence which wouldn't stay shut. This gave rise to some curious behaviour whereby gang members were scaling the two-metre fence within an arm's length of an open gate - but that's part of the innocent charm of amateur theatre! Knowing Stage Door, all minor hitches would be rectified in the following 24 hours.
During the interval, I had the chance to chat to Stage Door's director, Meg, with whom I'd lost contact after leaving the company some years ago. Until I'd telephoned her a couple of days earlier, she hadn't known that I intended to see the show - especially en femme. Surprisingly, news of my 'other life' hadn't reached Stage Door, despite being widely known and accepted in the company I now play for! In the couple of minutes available to us, we discussed various aspects of the first act from a critic's point of view, laughed about the metal gate with a mind of its own, and praised the lead female Helen, who, despite being only 17, had arguably one of the best voices on the local amateur scene.
It's my experience that the second act of a show often gets neglected at the expense of the first, but not in this case. Of course, the second act of West Side Story contains that great song Gee, Officer Krupke - buried in the clever lyrics, which only Steven Sondheim could have written, is:
My sister has a moustache, my brother wears a dress,
Is it any wonder that I'm such a mess?
which raised a smile from the two young women sitting next to Rikki! I was also highly impressed by the sheer professionalism displayed by one of the girls when the zip on the back of her dress broke during a dance number. They say "the show must go on", and it did - held together by a single hook-and-eye around her neck, the dress remained in place as she confidently danced the rest of the number. Bravo!
The show finished just before 10pm to well-deserved rapturous applause. Before leaving, I went down to the pit to say a quick "hello" to David, and to say how well I thought the orchestra had coped with the fiendishly-difficult syncopated rhythms. Although David knows about my 'other life', he hadn't seen me dressed before, and certainly hadn't expected me to be there
Rikki and I left the theatre along with the 700-odd other people who'd been in the audience, and walked up the cliff path back to our cars. The evening had been entertaining in more ways than one. I'd found that it wasn't necessary to be a participator - here was a new way to enjoy my favourite shows as an observer, and I expect I shall be observing many more in the future!
From personal notes and correspondence.
