Get Those Juices Flowing...

Final Destination: The Royal National Theatre

Deep in the recesses of my memory, there is a song which begins with the words "oh, whatever happened to you? Whatever happened to me?" If anyone can find out what that song is, I'd be very grateful. The reason I say this is going to sound very clichéd: I've begun to pine after "my first love", the theatre.

I used to go to the theatre at least once a month. I remember, at the age of fifteen, habitually getting up at 6am on a thursday morning to go and queue for a 10 quid front-row ticket for whatever tickled my fancy at the National Theatre, bunking PE and frequently getting into detention for it. Boy, was it worth it, though!

When I moved away to go to University, I joined the Drama Society, and had been involved in a production every term. I've acted in five plays, produced one and directed another, as well as performing in a few bits and bobs in between all of that. Performance Drama was my mainextra-curricular activity, and without wanting to put too fine a point on it, I had built up quite a base back in my second home.

Since I arrived in Madrid, I've been to the theatre once, and performed in all of zero productions. Several excuses can be found: adjusting to my new life, change of scenery and rhythm, not knowing where to look, and not having enough money. Unfortunately, those are only excuses: there are eight publicly-funded and several private theatres in the city; I know my way around very well, now; and I'm making enough money as a private English tutor to survive and enjoy myself a little. I have been invited to join one performance group (though it clashes somewhat with my timetable, timetables can be rearranged), and I know of at least four student and amateur groups for which I could pay a small admission fee. So why, oh why am I still unable to move myself? Apathy? Fear? Both?

Memo to Self: Get your arse in gear...