Ways and meanings

I went to four excellent plays in a week, all of which boasted disturbing adult themes. As I watched the hangings, the sexual exploitation of minors and an onstage amputation, as I was myself condemned to death on stage one night (that was a low-life moment), how I longed for a show with soothing childhood themes instead. Still, panto season will be upon us soon. “Lost my husband. Fell into a vat of Nescaff. Least it was instant.” “Lost my husband. What a game of cards that was.” You know the kind of thing. All my hopes are set on Elf the Musical, which is coming to these shores not a moment too soon.

One of the plays I went to starred an old friend and I went backstage to see her afterwards. Dressing-room trips, like hospital visits, do something funny to the language.

In a hospital ward, the mildest phrases spring from the lips with so much added meaning that a simple and innocent “Shall I get us a quick cuppa?” or “I suppose it’s time I was going” can almost finish everyone off. The tiniest thing is too much sometimes. Humming can be good compromise, I find.

Backstage, it seems to me, the language suffers from a reverse kind of deflation. Nothing you say sounds sincere or strong or any good. A light touch is a disaster, for there simply cannot be too many eggs in this pudding. Words like “great”, “amazing” or “wonderful” in a dressing room translate as, basically, “I didn’t like it”. Like an apprentice on The Apprentice who would be ashamed to give only 100 per cent, you need to go in very high.

You know this as you rush along the backstage passageways to the dressing room. Your actor friend knows this and she knows you know it, too. You’ve even discussed it in the past. The pressure mounts as you approach the door. You knock gingerly. You want to find a light way of saying, “Everything you have ever done or ever will do I shall adore until the end of time”. I guess you’re looking for the kind of praise that accompanies the dawning of a new religion, but without sounding over the top.

I stood to face my friend to convey quite how subtle and intelligent and emotional yet restrained her performance was. It was something I would remember all my life. And funny. The words tumbled out of my mouth, getting more and more passionate (or squeaky) with each second. But this time, I added something new. I delivered my speech standing on tiptoe. (En pointe would have been better, but sadly that ship has sailed.) The added height brought something extra to the words.

“You liked it?” she said. “You really liked it?”

My meaning had got through. Hooray! Shattered, I almost took a bow myself.

I had the highly unusual experience last week of receiving enough thanks and praise for something I had done. What are the chances? So often if you go the extra mile in life, you get the same kind of returns as the next person who only went the extra kilometre.

Of course, you learn to deal with this. You take the occasional courage workshop. You provide yourself with automatic pats on the back and reward schemes before anyone else has had a chance to forget to do this. It’s really quite manageable.

Yet, this time, waves of thanks started crashing into my inbox 24 hours in advance. Nine different people wrote to acknowledge my efforts on the night itself. The next day, double that number.

It had been a fundraising evening I had helped to organise with a team of others. I had not expected this kind of reaction. It was so welcome. I started doing some emotional arithmetic, calculating what my friend Amy terms the “economy of sympathy”.

Was it possible that this vast praise was transferable? Could it spill retrospective sweetness on to the past, making amends for times in life when my efforts have gone unsung?

I thought of some soup I had lovingly prepared for an ill friend when I was eight and she was nine, which she had pronounced revolting. It’s true it was rather turnip-heavy, but even then. I thought of a cake I had once made that resembled a kidney-shaped dressing table complete with hand-sewn gathered table-skirt and miniature bottles of perfume and tiny Barbie brushes and mirrors; it had been judged “high end of average”.

High end of average! Well, not this week.

It was a strange sensation feeling utterly and fully appreciated. It took a little getting used to, to be frank. I wasn’t altogether entirely sure. Was it possible the absence of disappointment could itself be a disappointment? Is that a thing?

“No, no, no,” I answered. “No, no, no, no, no.”

— Financial Times