Strike Night
It all started when I'd just made assistant stage manager for our local theatre. That means I was responsible for begging, borrowing, making or otherwise finding all the props for each of the plays, looking after them while they were in our care, getting them on and off stage at the right time, and getting them back to their owners afterwards. It was the last day of this play, which meant three performances followed by set strike (and strike goes until we're finished removing everything even if it means we're still going at two in the morning)
Because it runs so late, the theatre company puts in a takeaway order with one of the local restaurants, so that the backstage crew can eat. It’s the task of the most junior crew member to collect the food before the restaurant closes. That night, the task fell to me. I hastily shoved various props into places they wouldn’t get damaged and ran down to the Mexican restaurant.
Inside, the server laughed when she saw me, and handed over the bag of food for the theatre without quibbling. “Here, you go, princess,” she said. “All as ordered.”
I nodded, took the bag, and hurried back to the theatre. It was shaping up to be a very long strike, and everyone was hungry. I didn’t remember until I was handing out meals that I’d shoved the prop tiara into my hair to keep it safely out of the way while my hands were occupied hauling furniture. No wonder the server had laughed.
I guess not many women get to meet their future wife in paint-stained jeans, a ratty t-shirt, and a glittering princess tiara. But me, I’ve always been the exception to that kind of rule. This time was no different.
