A Few Days of Summer

Hullo!

Bit quiet on Bette on Toast, innit?  So much so that people have actually been noticing, and enquiring why I haven't been uploading photographs of myself wearing clothes for their enjoyment.  One of the chief complainers, as always, has been my curly-haired, strange-accented Goldilocks, Alexa, so when she travelled up from the capital last weekend to visit, I roped her into service as a Boring Outfit Photographer.

 

Our first stop of the weekend was a picnic in the park, followed by a mini alfresco concert by my school choir.  Alexa took a lovely picture of me conducting the little mites, looking for all the world like somebody who knows about music, but it shan't be appearing on this blog, because I've done a child protection course, and one of the first things they teach you is don't put photos of the children in your care on The Internet. ;-)

 

This red dress is one of those amazingly versatile garments, that also always receives compliments from chums, colleagues and random passers-by.  Here is my younger, chubbier self, pictured with Alexa, wearing it at our Graduation Ball.

 

 

I seem to have started talking about dresses as usual, but I would really prefer for this blog to be more of a diary of my life than a shrine to Boring Outfit Posts.  So I will continue telling you about my splendid weekend.

 

After the park we built a wardrobe, and then got dressed up for the evening, and took some photos on my steps while waiting for the taxi.

 

 

You will note that the girls both look elegant and lovely, while I look like I'm dressed for pub golf.  This is because I was dressed for pub golf, being terribly busy and popular and having to be in two places at once that night.

 

 

 

So while Alice and Alexa sipped cocktails in Pleased To Meet You, my teacher friends and I drank alcopops and got thrown out of Wetherspoons for having too much fun with a plastic golf set.

 

 

On Sunday we went for our lunch at a hipster Ouseburn cafe.  I was a cowgirl that day, and cowgirls like yellow walls.

 

 

After a bit of shopping and some very rushed cake, Alice and I plonked Alexa on a train and went to our respective rehearsals.

 

I am curently having a similarly wonderful weekend this week, so maybe there will be another summery diary post coming up soon!

 

Cheerio x

 

 



I Am No Unhappy Maid

Something is different around these parts.

Outwardly, not much has changed - life still consists of too many rehearsals, not enough sleep, wintery weather and grouchy colleagues, but I've got a smile on my face.

I've been a very, very whingey Bette in the past months.  I'm surprised I have any friends left at all! I don't know what was wrong with me; I don't know where I went and I don't know why, but somehow, after a bout of January Blues that lasted from the autumn until March, I think I might be better.  I think I might be back.

It's the Easter holidays, you see.  It's been a short half-term, but it seems to have done me a power of good.  I'm off down to Grandparentville to see the family tomorrow, and, whilst I am looking forward to it, it's been a sort of pleasant surprise every time I remember how close Easter is.  At Christmas I was desperate.  For all of December, I yearned and pined (I am a G&S alto, we're good at those things!) and counted down the days until I could leave Newcastle far behind me.  I was sick, sick, sick of the place and everyone in it.  I hated work, and I hated rehearsals.  I was sick of the dark, and I was sick of the cold, and I was even sick of my bicycle.  I had nothing whatever to mope about, but I moped about everything.  Above all I was sick of maudlin, miserable me.

I've been trying to find the nerve to post this for a couple of weeks now.  I know it's a bit attention-seeky, and I hope I'm not the type to air my dirty washing on The Internet, but it seems I am doing so anyway, so here it all is!  Writing things down helps me remember 'em, and I don't want to forget.

I was cycling home one Friday afternoon in January, with no weekend plans and no Friday feeling, and I went straight past my street because I could not bear the thought of going into that cold, dark, messy, empty flat and staring at Facebook until bedtime. I went to a cafe down the road, installed myself with a book and a pot of tea and stayed there until they shut.

That was a desperate measure, but I started repeating that little adventure quite regularly, as a little Friday treat to myself - not out of desperation but because I realised it was something that made me smile.  And I began to notice other things that made me smile, like having flowers in the house, and reading, and my very patient friends, and plinking out tunes on the plonky old school piano.  A couple of weeks ago I noticed that I'm smiling rather a lot these days.  I thought about December and that Friday evening in the cafe, and couldn't believe I'd ever felt like that.  It was quite scary, actually.

So, I reckon I'm me again.  Oh, I'm sure I can still whinge with the best of them, and you can be sure I'll find something to complain about as soon as I post this, but, for now, I've got my smile on.

Bugger off, self-pity.  The sun came out today, school's shut and I'm makin' hot cross buns.  Happy Easter, everyone!

Alnmouth

To stave off last week's post-show blues, I went to Alnwick with the mother.  We bought lots of fine things from charitable shops, and then went to the seaside at sunset.

 

Here I am all snuggly in my parka.

 

 

Dozy and reluctant to leave the comfort of my own pyjamas, I asked Mum what on earth I should wear.

 

"Start with sensible walking shoes, and work upwards from there", she replied.

 

 

Don't be ridiculous.

 

 

In the end I hoyed clothes at myself at random and was rather pleased with the result.

 

 

This photo's a bit unfortunate, but it shows what I liked about this look - the tiered skirt, thick tights and ankle boots made me feel like a naughty Victorian ruinning around in her bustle!

 

 

Also a bit like Peter Pan...

 

Mum proceeded to take some photographs withouit me in them, which I thought was a sorry waste, but other people seem to like Views, so here you go.

 

 

 

 



January

 

I have high hopes for 2013.  This new year is going to be a panacea.  It's going to bring us a huge gulp of fresh, sweet air.  Giggling on the bridge at half-past eleven on the 31st, I expected to feel the change physically.  I was confident that our shoulders would lift, our heads would spin and our feet would dance the moment the clock struck twelve.

Of course, that wasn't the way it happened.  For one thing, there was no clock striking at all - people began a countdown on the Quayside, more people began a slightly unsynchronised countdown further up the Quayside, and as we on the bridge, bewildered, joined in at around '6', two off-kilter sets of fireworks exploded from different riverside locations.  But it was brilliant.

With a sense of February Dread looming (I've always found it a completely dismal month, haven't you?), I had begun to find myself losing faith in 2013 already (I found myself typing "I had high hopes" at the beginning of this post!)...  But!  Thinking about it, that rather lovely New Year's Eve really seems like much longer than a month ago.  A hundred tiny adventures ago. This January I may have measured out my life with coffee spoons, but in the past thirty-one days I have:

 

* Swum in the sea * Cooked home-made meals * Begun to learn BSL * Cried * Sung * Played netball * Drunk cocktails * Argued * Laughed * Read three good books and two excellent short stories * Hired a locksmith * Had a trip to the cinema * Flirted * Rehearsed * Discovered a new favourite cafe * Walked in fresh midnight snow * Regretted * Been to a party * Been to a restaurant * Fallen off my bike * Kissed * Visited a capital city * Had a hangover * Enjoyed the lighter days! * Hated and loved my job * Been to a fair * Had my hair done * Whinged * Explored a graveyard * Bought shoes with sequins on  * Lost at Scrabble *
* Made resolutions *

Not too dusty.  Come on then, February, let's have you.



My Glamorous Showbiz Life

Viewers, I don't underbloodystand Instagram.

So, most of these photographs are uplopaded from my new telephone the old-fashioned way, with a USB cable.  I lose at the future.

1. Self, in coral.  I like coral these days.  If I were a proper fashion blogger I might do a Polyvore-heavy post about coral, but in reality I'm useless and lazy so I won't.
2. An E-NOR-MOUS apple cake.  The heaviest thing I've ever baked!
3.  Bicycle sporting this season's on-trend florals.
4.  Simon beat me at Scrabble, and I wasn't pleased.

5. The view from my chair in the staff room. First photo on new telephone.
6. A little plastic swallow swooping in my hair.
7. Actual arty-farty hipster Instagram picture!!
8. Gin and tonic inna can.

 
Maybe by my next boring, information-less blog post I will have learned how to use instagram, and then my snapshots will be prettier.  Here are some more scenic photos, showing my fun weekend in York.  I went down on the Friday night train with Matt, Laura and Phil, to catch the opening night of The Merry Wives of Windsor, performed al fresco in the park, and starring our very own Kayleigh. 

Ok, I've just checked, and I didn't actually take any nice photos.  Instead, here are a pair of snaps of us in the audience (bonus Pimms-in-shoes, if you look hard enough), followed by an arty-farty blogger picture of some spices in a spices shop the following day.

Here are three questions that have been plaguing me lately.  All to do with high-street brands, as it happens - perhaps I should post them on Twitter instead and get sent e-vouchers and freebies in return...?

1.  Why are my two different shades of @MaxFactor Colour Adapt foundation such completely different textures?  One is thick liquid, the other a mousse...

2.  My pretty @Clarksshoes Henderson Sky brogues are beginning to fade.  Where can one obtain hyacinth blue shoe polish??

3.  Are @Aussie_Hair_UK shampoos notorious for stripping colour?  I noticed the bubbles coming off my head were grey (shamp is yellowy out of the bottle), and it's a good few weeks since I last dyed my hair...

Get in touch if you know any of the answers!

From the Sunny Spanish Shore...

I like holiday reading.

I like spotting Newcastle from the sky.

I like buildings that unexpectedly have umbrellas.

I like my sisters and my cousins and my aunts Stephanie and Penny

I like recreating the past.

I like Parc Güell.

I like sangria.

I like the beach.

I like crazy souvenirs that have Gaudi, Dali AND Picasso on them.

I like Barcelona.

Oh Joy, Oh Rapture Unforeseen

This is a random moment of vanity depicting me doing my hair in my dressing room some time in 1946, because I can't think of a good opening sentence for this Toast Post.

I have been to Buxton.

Buxton is a beautiful town in Derbyshire (and I'm not really one for admiring natural scenery, but Buxton was incredibly pretty), famous for spring water and an annual Gilbert and Sullivan festival.  Just to warn you, this post will be about the latter, so fans of spring water may wish to leave now.

Have we just got G&S enthusiasts left in the room now?  Excellent.

I was there to perform a special edition of HMS Pinafore: The War Years, which we first put on back in May (Remember?)

You've seen my synopsis and pictures of the first show, so I'll not bore you with the same thing again.

(Lies - when have I ever neglected an opportunity to publish photographs of myself?  Pictures will be in abundance!)  We returned late on Thursday, and I spent Friday in a state of utter despondency, which got me thinking about the nature of pre-show excitement, post-show bereavement and everything in between.  I have never known any experience that is so much of an emotional rollercoaster as putting on a show.

G&S face interpretation of 'happy' and 'sad' :op

My chum Kayleigh always likens the post-show blues to a messy break-up.  The whole thing IS rather like a crazy whirlwind love affair.  You can't sleep, you can't eat (doesn't seem to stop me drinking though...), it occupies your thoughts so completely that you neither notice nor care that you haven't been anywhere but rehearsal, spoken to your other friends, cooked a meal or watched a minute of tv all week.  You delight in in-jokes, you sing in the street without a thought to how silly you look to those who don't understand, and even though you know, you know it's going to come to an end soon, on that awful morning when it's finally over, you desire nothing more than to hurl your poor, hungover, heartbroken self into the nearest river.

Drunk and grumpy, post-after-show-party

So why do we do it?  Why do we put ourselves through the grief, to say nothing of the pre-show stress and exhaustion, all for two hours in the limelight?  Because it's FUCKING BRILLIANT, that's why.

 

In the past week I've been recognised in the street by audience members (DEFINITE high point!), wept tears of frustration at my own persistent out-of-tunefulness (low point), been lifted up in the air like Buzz Lightyear, spent inordinate amounts of money in public houses, been on a cross-country road trip, drunk more cups of tea than I normally do in a month, lost half a stone, made wonderful new friends, been treated to charming stories about being catheterised, indulged my vanity by watching myself on tv twice, soothed ruffled feathers, had my own feathers ruffled, been bitten by the Buxton bug, laughed myself into coughing fits, killed a few brain cells with hairspray fumes, sung, danced, acted made faces to dialogue, had a wonderful time and took the International Gilbert and Sullivan Festival BY STORM!

Bring on next year.

To Infinity and Beyond!

(Photographs stolen without asking first from the talented Liffy Wood.  Oh, and Matt.)

"...since Thespis first stepped out of the chorus line..."

Post-Show Bereavement ought to be a recognised form of depression, and medication ought to be offered by the NHS.  Bette Queen of the World On Toast says it must be so!  Whilst temporary relief can be afforded from constant and intense facetime/text messages/Facebook commenting with one's erstwhile fellow cast members, currently the only known cure for Post-Show Bereavement is immediate immersion in the exciting opening stages of another show, which is how I avoided the brunt of the malady after The Grand Duke.  HMS Pinafore: The War Years has sadly sailed away into the distance, but while it was here it was UNPARALLELLED.  I tell you what, any Navy with us lot on board would have won any number of wars and vanquished any marauding Jerries by SINGING THEM TO DEATH!

When I get my hands on some good onstage photos I shall spam you all to tears.  In the meantime, apparently real life has carried on happening to other people.  As for me, still cycling to work every day (Oh, I never told you, did I?  Bicycle is called Catherine after the new duchess.  Good name for a bicycle, no?  I'm getting a leetle bit less frightened every day, soon I shall be a positive daredevil, wheee), computer is still broken and languishing in computer hospital (today's toast post brought to you by Simon's cute little toy laptop.)

A long time ago, before I let Bette on Toast slide into neglected decline, I had an Easter holiday.  I had a lovely time.  Here are some photographs of me having a lovely time:

Giving a lamb its breakfast, with STERN MISS HAMER VOICE

Balancing in a bluebell wood on Easter Sunday

This graceless infant is my distinguished grandfather:

And these photographs are of my great-great-great-grandmother, pictured with unbecoming ringlets.  And an unbecoming face.

I suppose I ought to go to bed now, but I shouldn't think there's any point.  Post-Show Bereavement manifests itself for me in insomnia.  During show week I never get any amount of sleep, and then afterwards my body clock goes "You want me to go to bed?  But it's merely 11 o'clock!  Sleep is for ordinary people.  We are thespian, darling!"

My body clock is a bit of a twat, really.