I was a miserable blighter, muttering obscenities to myself as I toiled over some bloody ill-conceived nonsense. Whose stupid idea was this, to write a bloody Cinderella? Set in Georgian London, with live harp music, in the Playhouse? I wrote jokes about Turkish coffee and a postal service by balloon. I wrote a scene between Cinders and a mouse. I didn't enjoy myself.
Then I handed it over to Erica Whyman, Soutra Gilmour, Michael Oliva. Director, designer, composer. Erica cast some folk. They rehearsed in the Bear Garden, over the road from the Globe. I suppose, I conceded, this is quite interesting. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, even if I'd not. A choreographer came and taught the actors an elaborate dance for the Ball scene. Kind of like a square dance, in bodices and breeches. And then there was Cinderella herself - Alison Pettitt, who was making wonderful hay with my lines. Where I thought I'd written fey, she read feisty. Where I thought I'd written cheerful, she read exuberant. And so on and so much better than I'd reckoned.
Here they all are on the last night, reaping reward for their heartful, hilarious, touching performances.
From left: Rupert Bates (King George III), Brigitta Roy (Jane Humbleton, Cinders's mother), John Macaulay (Prince Hubert), Melissa Collier (Charlotte Snifflewick - stepsister #1) Alison Pettitt (Ella Humbleton - Cinderella), Eluned Jones (Lady Augusta Snifflewick), Hannah Stokeley (stepsister #2, Euphronia Snifflewick).
The show was called The Glass Slipper, and I'll be damned if I can find a copy of the script anywhere. My agent should have a copy but she can't find hers either. So anyone out there reading this who happens to have the bloody thing, do let me know...