With huge swathes of tourists already taking over the streets of Edinburgh, Annie and I spent two free days frolicking through the city. There were close to four thousand performances programmed over August and knowing we’d be one of them in a few days time was surreal to say the least. Annie hadn’t actually been to the festival before, so I took it upon myself to play the ever-informative guide.

‘Look Annie, that’s the Underbelly. On your left is the Pleasance Courtyard.

And this is the local Ladbrokes if you want to put a cheeky fiver on Hull FC.’

We caught a couple of preview shows produced by some brilliant artists. Annie Hall even spotted Francesca Moody (a.k.a mother of Fleabag) chatting outside of her own venue! I was too busy chowing down a piece of pitta to notice, dang it.

On the day of our tech run, the infamous flyer-ers were now on the prowl; sniffing out delicious audience members to entice in. We swerved through the first throng of paper ninjas with great dexterity. All whilst carting our set and props up the Royal Mile, trying not to knock out any tourists with our broom.

Upon the trek to Riddles Court, my brain started to catch-up. Holy smokes, it’s happening. We are actually here!!! Everybody stay calm!!! Eeeeeekkkkk!

There she is. Pickle Studio. A twenty-two seater beauty. Our lovely technician Lily was a consummate professional and whizzed through our cue-to-cue sheet. Think pink washes, silly scarves and a Cheryl Cole number to die for.

And just like that, our tech was over. We were now ready for the first performance.

Show Number One

Hold your horses. Nobody wants to hear me harp on about every single microscopic detail. You want to know about the big revelations, don’t you? Of course you do, you cheeky little ferret.

Allow me to oblige.

First things first, Glow Job’s feedback has been immense, it went down an absolute storm. A five star review, a four star review and reams of positive audience comments.

Traditionally actors don’t read theatre reviews until the end of the run because it can put them in a bit of a pickle. But at the Fringe, you aren’t in a position to shy away from crtitics; they’re an important tool to draw more punters in. We stuck our stars proudly on the banner and their wizardry helped fill up the venue. As did the vibrancy of the poster itself which got a lot of compliments. (10/10 Alex)

Before our fifth show, out of nowhere, the pressure of our recent five star review swirled around my mind, like a enchanting spell: ‘You’ve got to be good now Jen- don’t be weird. Don’t accidentally rugby tackle Annie off stage’.

This was one of the huge takeaways from the Fringe.

Get your head in the game. A good headspace is really really important. This doesn’t necessarily equate to being ecstatic or giddy pre-show. For this tall, curly lady on stage, it means having a well-oiled machine. We’re talking a properly warmed-up voice, relaxing those Shakira hips, breathing a bit lower down into the gut and really landing in the room. This also means carving out time to recover post-show. Performing/networking/socialising consistently over nine days takes barrels of energy. What I discovered was the necessity of precious recharging time. An hour alone in a quiet cafe or staring at a blade of grass on the meadows helped boost the batteries, ready for another blast of energy.

I also found that when my brain tried to pressurise perfection pre-performance, (great vocal warm-up), I committed to making a little discovery about one of my characters- Glenn’s poor eyesight or Leanne’s stroppiness became the antidote to overthinking and it worked like a charm.

Of course, at the Fringe there isn’t an easy way of getting physically limbered up because the turnaround is so quick. We had a ten minute get-in, limited space in the dressing room and lots of lugging props up and down in the lift. Looking at the future tour of Glow Job and beyond, we’ll definitely be hunting for space to settle in pre-show and post-show. My own rider will include a masseuse and a personal pie chef. Not that I’m demanding…

For a brief comical interlude, I would like to share an epic tale with you about climbing Arthur’s Seat.

Unfortunately, I can’t, because I never actually got to climb her. Yes, that’s right. Myself, Dave (Annie’s stepdad) and Jordan accidentally climbed the WRONG HILL to watch the solar eclipse.

What made this even funnier was Dave. Dave decided the best way to see the solar eclipse is through the method show below:

Yes, Dave is a legend. Be around legends. Another top tip.

Now you’ve had your comical interlude. I’d like to bring you back to discussing the actual performances.

Pickle Studio encouraged intimacy. In Leeds, the audience was like one big black blob behind the lights. In Edinburgh, you could see the shape of their eyebrows. My first entrance required eyeballing all twenty-two audience members and knocking a sweeping brush against their knees to clamber on stage. There were no two ways around the close proximity and we used it to our advantage. Annie Hall made a delicious discovery which changed the course of our run. Playing the charismatic oracle ‘Jilly’, she gave an impromptu flirtatious nudge to the front row which brought the forth wall down and brought the laughter UP! As soon as the crowd started to guffaw, I realised Annie had given us permission to play with and adapt to our audience. It was a gamechanger. Every show felt very different depending on the energy of the crowd and we worked as a team to discover the perfect moment to pull that forth wall down. Especially when me Uncle Kevin started joining in…

Putting Uncle Kev’s reactions to one side, there was something else that I absolutely loved. Working on stage with her majesty Dame Annie Hall.

Accidentally getting Annie Hall to break character with her little signature smirk? Immense. We’d be stood (usually as Leanne and The Jilly) trying to keep a straight face as the audience clocked on and started wetting themselves. Her drive on and off stage has taught me so much about focus. The stonking one-liners, the character phrasing and pacing, her craft helped our writing hum beautifully. Hearing our lines met with laughter over and over again reaffirmed my faith in our writing skills.

I felt so proud of what we’d scribbled down and how hard we’d worked to get it to zing.

It was zingy-zingy-zingster. Glowing was its Job. And it was working a treat.

I’m sure there are pages more lessons that the ol’ brain could impart, but alas my time is at an end.

I’m not dying, obviously, just trying to wrap this thing up.

What I will finish with is a bit of a motivational speech, but without the weird hand gestures.

We went up to Scottyland as two newbies and came back down as two veterans. (Nine day veterans, but still)

Our run at Edinburgh Fringe is a reflection of what can happen when you have dog eared determination, friendship and community support. Annie Hall’s ambition and unwavering belief in this show brought us up to the Royal Mile. As did our partners, family members, friends and the funny people of Leeds. It's sounding like a BAFTA speech now, so I'll stop.

But I will look back in a joyous daze. What an amazing experience. I've got the taste for the Fringe now, let's look towards 2027 with possibility on the horizon!

But for now, I need to go stare at a blade of grass.

Have a crackin’ weekend

Writing will recommence on Friday.

For now, have an Iron Bru on me x

How is that possible?

The answer is, God only knows. Just like God only knows why John Cleese has decided that the only antidote to Post-Modernist theories or orthodox religious beliefs is to join the most right wing political party in the UK. Who are ironically invested in orthodox religious beliefs.

You can still be on the left and challenge ideas that chew up liberalism. Not boot people out the country because they disagree with you.

Oh well, I’ll leave him to run a really crap hotel to the ground with no foreign guests whilst screaming at the occasional German.

Anyway, get back on track Jen.

Hall & Carss have been very much in the thick of preparations. Great timing then, that my gum has succumbed to an infection. You’re lucky I haven’t stuck a photo of it right here. Urgh. No one wants to see the swollen mouth of a woman on the edge. And that’s after the dentist ‘gently’ scraped a needle into said gum to numb and clean the area.

Now armed with antibiotics, Corsadyl and ice cream, I’m ready for Scotland.

This has been part of the mammoth list so far

1. Find a tech operator, sort out contract

2. Reach out to radio shows

3. Organise set/props/get Annie’s step-dad to build a foldable desk

4. Reach for the stars (optional)

5. Coax out casting directors

6. Slide to the left, slide to the right

7. Criss cross, criss cross

8. Cha cha now yo’

Yesterday we discovered a boo-boo on our schedule. We are missing one night’s worth of accommodation. Doh’! We are now on the hunt for a six man hostel dorm or planning a trip to Maccy-D’s from 10pm-7am. All part of the fun.

The actual super-duper exciting part is treading the 2 metre by 2 metre boards of Pickle Studio on the Royal Mile. Barely enough room to swing a cat. But swinging eachother in laughter, we shall be. Should I fall off the stage and die, please tell my mam I love her…

We’re going to soak up the atmosphere like a sponge in a petri-dish. This means eating beige food from dawn till dusk and flyering until our hands are paper cuts with nails.

How many flyers can a flyerer flyer, if a flyerer could flyer flyers?

The answer? Twelve. Or one thousand because that’s how many we bought.

Alan Carr’s podcast with Sally Phillips (comedy legend) stoked up the excitement too. Sally is great because she quite clearly can’t be bothered to do small-talk and promotion. She credits menopause for the eradication of her need to please and in the podcast steered the whole conversation toward clowning and Edinburgh Fringe. Some great stories about her waking up under a duvet on Arthurs Seat and not knowing how she got there.

Just think, come mid-August, we’re going to have anecdotes! Hopefully ones that don’t include getting repeatedly drenched with a water pistol eachtime the audience gets bored. But if you want context for that story, listen to Alan’s podcast…

The thing I keep trying to pull my attention back to is the core of the show. The writing, the chemistry, the fun of it. All of the producing and marketing side is never ending and I can’t wait until we’re at a point when we can hire someone to do more of the brain melting promotion.

If you know any comedy producers or anyone you recommend us inviting, please do say so. That includes writers, giraffes and anyone with a sense of humour.

Which leaves me to say, Holy Potato. Next time I drop you all a blog, it will be about our first performance.

I’M FINE.

I’M TOTALLY FINE.

NO, WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?

HAVE AN AMAZING WEEKEND, AND GAAN CANNY x

Did last night really happen? Nooooo, I’m not referring to chowing down chicken nuggets in Maccies car park. (They were worth every last bite, thank you very much.)

I am of course referring to the world premiere of Glow Job.

Yes, last night to a packed out house in Leeds, Annie Hall and I stood behind a curtain, shaking like two leaves at the ominous approach of a leaf blower. It was finally here.

After months and months of form filling, prop assembling, testing out ideas and hysterical laughter, the time had come. We were finally ready to step into the fire of comedy.

And I am delighed to announce that we took our bows without succumbing to third-degree burns. Yes, I might have come out looking like a Victorian chimney sweep, but that’s adrenaline for ya’. And by gum mister, was there laughter to be had.

Like two kids in a sweet shop, we guzzled up guffaws with gusto. Then again, we did make everyone else pay. So technically, we were more like sweet shop owners, forcing kids to eat sugar whilst shovelling it down infront of their faces.

Listen, I’m tired, alright? Metaphors can toot-sweet off.

For the first seven minutes of Glow Job, my nervous system was overwhelmed. Turns out a broom is a great get-out-of-jail-free card. I would heartily recommend sweeping the ground, thereby putting all attention on a dusty floor rather than your own dusty thoughts.

Or use the broom to knock the audience out. Choice is yours really.

In most theatre shows, the opening gambit is a tentative nudge to the black mass of faces lurking behind the lights. It was no different last night. What we’re subtly saying, but not saying aloud is:

‘Hey there all of you cheeky chaps in the audience!

This beginning part is to establish the world and let you all settle in. Oh and just to let you know, it’s perfectly safe to laugh.

Yep. It is a comedy.

Are we nervous? Yes, we are. I’m trying to keep my kneecaps from falling out.

But as I said, it’s great to have you here. Please do welcome Gilly and Vanessa with open arms.

If not, your fire exits are here, here and get out.’

Vanessa and Gilly are characters by the way. Annie and I didn’t just sit at the back of the auditorium with a Gin, forcing two random women to perform for us.

Although what a mint idea. Saves on understudies.

Anyway, right now, can I be coherent and break the whole show down? No.

But what I want to do is celebrate the sheer talent, the magnitude of wizardry that is Annie Hall.

Our partnership has been one of the great joys of the past six months. Writing, struggling, laughing, eating her seasoned food, ranting, sobbing (mostly me). We are yin and yang and yet I trust her on that stage implicitly. She has instilled in me a deeper sense of self-belief without over egging the pudding.

And the best part of this work, is looking across the room and knowing that if we both totally dry on our lines or deviate, it’ll be alright.

We’ll simply pick up the broom and start on the opening number from Stomp the musical. But with pink tabbards. Obviously.

Thank you for all the love and support. It is so deeply appreciated.

After work on Saturday night, I’m going to race to the Co-op, get a steak, pineapple juice and sit down to watch ‘Pat and Margaret’. I think I’ve earned it.

I hope you have a lovely weekend. Get some rest if you dare.

Gaan canny x

Or sat down for a brew with your Tai-Chi class, only to discover that “the family unit is a government system designed to divide the population”?

What about chatting to an old lady on a park bench, who surreptitiously slides out her bible to tell you all the answers lie with her church?

Wait, you HAVE had all these things happen? Thank God it’s not just me.

Being in the wrong room (or on the wrong park bench), is always disconcerting.

If I may, I’d like to draw your attention back to my first hour of drama school.

‘Why do you want to be an actor?’

‘I want to make people laugh’.

As you may recall, this response was akin to hockling on Shakespeare’s grave and calling him a Barded old tart.

I’d always blamed myself for my dead thick response. But the other day, something flipped.

A book landed on the doormat.

I’d actually forgotten I’d ordered it. It was from the US of A and had taken yonks to arrive.

‘How to be the greatest improviser on earth.’- Will Hines

Its timing was second to none. I’d had a sluggish rehearsal on Sunday. There were a few super experienced improvisers in the room and suddenly, your gal in a state of inferiority was pushing for laughs like a woman in the throws of labour. Placenta was everywhere. I wish I’d had gas and air, but only the last glug of Appletiser met my dry and chapped lips. I collapsed in defeat. Damn it.

Later that week, I huffily opened the book with it’s tongue-in-cheek title.

Halfway down page 136, I caught my breath-

Extract from ‘How to be the greatest Improviser on Earth’ by Will Hines

[Will is about to begin a class led by UCB co-founder Matt Besser.]

“So why do you guys want to do improv?”

Silence. Then someone timidly raised their hand. “I want to learn how to be in the moment.”

Besser nodded. “Be in the moment, okay. Anyone else?”

After the answers stopped coming, he raised his eyebrows and said, “No one here wants to be funny?”

“Nobody likes… comedy? Nobody was a fan of comedy and then saw an improv show and thought it was funny and said ‘I want to be funny?’”

We slowly nodded. Yes, we wanted to be funny. We liked funny things.

“I bet you all, before you wanted any of those things you said, just wanted to be funny. It’s good. You should want to be funny, improv is funny. Right? Okay, two people up.”

I slammed the book shut.

Holy potato. That’s IT!

The hunger to make people laugh on that fateful first day wasn’t wrong.

It was the room.

I was in the wrong flippin’ room!

Drama school built on craft, yes, but laughter? Well, it wasn’t called ‘comedy school’ was it? Should have guessed really.

DOH’

Turns out the room of gloom in Manchester was one I could never hope to fully squeeze into anyway. I mean, I’m a tall lass. What am I meant to do with this tiny corset? Wear it as a hat?

Let me tell you, Will Hines was a lucky bloke. He got to own the want to be funny with approval from a comedy King. To know it’s not self-indulgent to have a hunger for guffawing. And he came to it later in life too. Just like this ol’ gal.

What a revelation. And all without Revelations being palmed off to me by a pensioner on a bench!

I’d heartily recommend the book. If you’re looking for practical steps to chip away at the most common struggles in improv, this is it. He links each problem area with a list of exercises designed to stretch out your comfort zone. ‘Top of the scene’ is my biggest hurdle in improv at the moment. You know when your heart is thumping in your chest so loudly, you’d rather ring an ambulance that decide the first sentence for the scene?

His advice changed the game for last nights show. Moustache proves all.

Will Hines has a blog too, if you’re an improv nerd and want to read more frequent tips from someone with a lot of skin in the game.

The arts world still looks down on comedy as if its an indulgent add-on that only thickos perform. But little do they know, that every person on earth needs to laugh.

And if they don’t, I recommend joining the Tai-Chi cult.

Very welcoming bunch. Just don’t tell them you’re gay.

Gaan canny x

Like the South Pole. Or the inside of The Dorchester.

But this week I actually got to tick off the most EPIC outdoor theatre in the UK.

The Minack sits right at the bottom edge of the UK. An outdoor amphitheatre; think turf covered seating banks, tropical style plants nestled between blocks and a backdrop of the SEA. Yes, that beautiful bobbing mass of water separating ourselves from those sexy Portuguese.

I’d heard tales from Southern actors who had visited as kids, but with it situated lightyears away from us Northerners, (eight-ish hours in the car from Leeds), it wasn’t somewhere my private jet had ever considered landing.

Now what I didn’t know until I came home and did a google, was that it was actually built by a woman. Rowena Cade be her name. Rowena owned the land near her home and with a couple Cornish tradesmen blew up rocks and smashed things to smithereens (technical term), to fashion a badass theatre. Piece of piss to her, it was. She was the kind of bad-ass woman who had no fear.

So THAT was cool.

And it was only £12 a ticket. I did a triple take. Did my missus secretly sell a kidney to get a cheaper deal? She was looking a tad yellow, but she told me this was due to sun cream skin, not due to selling an organ for a discount.

Amazing price.

The show itself was called ‘Too many Greek Myths’ by Living Spit.

Here is a picture:

Two actors ran around the stage throwing on wigs and unspooling reems of thread in total panic. Why? Because they had just under seventy minutes to retell twenty Greek myths. The consequences were severe- Zeus and Hera’s wrath.

We’ve all felt that pressure, haven’t we? I know I have. Those pesky Gods.

I laughed a lot. My favourite joke was the U-ranus versus Ur-Anus joke, which had me guffawing like a hooligan. It was sharp, it was silly, it was story-telling theatre at its best. We were perched quite far back and although I’ve heard directors jabber on about filling out the stage, the skill it takes to do this outside really hit me. Especially with the alluring blue waters winking in the hinterland. Luckily Beverly Rudd and Stu McLoughlin had energy in buckets and kept the ball high in the air. The physical discipline was really impressive. I was dead impressed. Particularly with Stu’s omnipotent Charon character. Wielding a huge black drape, it looked as if he was melting into the ground and then levitating. Special effects- 10/10.

I clocked halfway through the face of actress Beverly.

Ahhhh but of course. James and the Giant Peach at Leeds Playhouse. She was Aunt Sponge! Comedy bones through and through that lass. Small world, ey?

The Scousers sat on the same row as us were dying laughing at Bev’s Scouse Pandora and I was happily basking in the atmosphere of silliness. Ahhhh silliness is the best, isn’t it? Stripping things back to basics is a matter of trust. Audiences will only suspend disbelief if they can relax and hand over the reins. And by the end we’d thrown the reins completely to the performers.

TAKE THESE YOU TWO SILLY-HEADS.

I look forward to returning to Minack Theatre again when I’m 60.

A delicious dose of inspiration to blow up my back garden and build a theatre. Come to think of it, why not start now?

…

Yeeeeeah, maybe leave it to the Cornish.

Overflowing with passion, like a Thornton’s chocolate fountain.

By the way, I know Thornton’s have gone, but I swear they stopped chocolate fountains being self serve because people used to stick their fingers directly under the delicious melted chocolate. Filthy animals.

As we know all too well, life isn’t always energising. One day you wake up feeling full of vim, the next day you wake up feeling full of Vimto: wanting to wrap yourself up in a duvet and weep into your acid-reflux.

This is how I felt yesterday. Due on, low energy, low mood. Weeping at a random folk song then shouting at my partner for blinking too quickly. It’s all well and good feeling like this in day-to-day life, but how do you approach it when it comes to performing?

Do you call in with a fake case of tuberculosis? Do you pretend an distant third cousin has died? Do you get your friend to dress up as you and go instead?

Naaa, I couldn’t get cover this late in the game. And my fake TB is terrible. So still in a big ol’ strop, I trudged over to the car and drove to the gig.

Now what would normally happen on a night like this, a night with minimal energy in the tank, would be some emergency pushing. I’m not proud to say I’ve done it a fair few times before. It’s a self-preservation mechanism which often produces grimace-worthy performances. The performer who seems to stampede over everyone else, who forces an emotion with as much crediblility as Donald Tump’s peace making skills.

But I tried something new. I decided to feel tired and give what I could from that place. To be with and not fight against. It was the night of the England game (thank God for Harry Kane), so the audience were thin on the ground. And perhaps it was a good job too. A quieter show, a gentler start and all without forcing.

Were there times when I pushed for a laugh? Absolutely.

As Julie Walters once said, ‘I’m a tart for a laugh!’

And don’t get me wrong. My listening wasn’t super sharp. Period brain and all that. That’s what teamwork is for. I got so carried away fake smoking that the scene derailed completely and Jade turned it on its head, taking the mick out of me being a div. Thank God for improv, ey? The team are there to bail you out and add to the chocolate fountain.

Prab and I are the children of the group clearly, look at us two gnomes.

And the scarf is a prop, I swear!

Have a lovely weekend. And if you’re staying up for the England game, let’s hope it’s worth the 2am kick off, ey?

Something is shifting. After years dragging my massive feet, the troll in the dungeon is lumbering out.

Gosh, it’s bright out here isn’t it!

Well, here it goes.

I am on the hunt for acting representation.

Even writing the word ‘representation’ takes me back to being a 21 year old, drafting out hundreds of generic emails to anyone with an office.

‘Dear _____,

I’m Jennifer Carss, a Geordie actress (not quite true), looking for representation. I have curly hair, no reels and need some money (very true).

If you choose me, I will NOT stand outside your house, waving at you through frosted glass. (Can’t comment for legal reasons)

Yours in sheer desperation,

Dame Carr (spelling is never correct, so don’t stress)

The smaller agencies were always full. They were filled to the brim with beautiful women who could play the piccolo whilst balancing on one leg. Unfortunately, my balance was akin to an elephant on a tightrope. And my pennywhistle wasn’t drawing punters in. Can’t think why- rude.

SCREW IT! If they wouldn’t select the tall-small fry, we would make things happen for ourselves! Curly Tales came from that feeling of frustation and in the end we actually managed to perform at Leeds Playhouse. Without an agent.

I’ll tell you what, that was no easy task.

The doors for actors without rep were firmly shut; the casting director at the time would only see actors who had trained in LUNDUN. Yes, LUNDUN. Everyone knows that you can’t act unless you’re from LUNDUN.

I’ll stop, (but I’m loving it)

For a year or two, I joined a Co-op agency. You volunteer for a couple of days a month in the office and work to book gigs for fellow performers. There were parts of this that I really enjoyed- the celebration of other peoples wins was so lush. They also had a few more connections with casting directors, so we were suddenly taken 8% more seriously.

In the end though, I felt I wasn’t able to divide my time and energy fairly and parted ways.

The downside to not having established rep, is the quality of Spotlight offerings. If you don’t know, Spotlight is the only serious casting platform in the UK. At the moment it’s just under £19 a month if you’re an actor. You pay to scout out work essentially.

I’ve been shelling out for years and the only things you have access to whilst being unrepresented are:

1. Pantomimes casting in February for Christmas

2. Adverts looking for hot models (booked 100s of these, don’t wanna brag)

3. T.I.E tours asking for the world for 4p

4. Musicals

5. Film parts where you have to get your bum out

6. Corporate photoshoots, needing twins with a scar on their left eyelid.

7. Jobs for elves. Elves in garden centres. Elves on shelves. Elf-y work.

How many other doors could open if I had an acting agent in my corner?

You know, like a pro boxer. Ready to put in the work and hear words of encouragement on the outside. I mean, the gumshield would have to be small enough so I could still talk to her in between rounds.

IDHSH GAVAATOE SBISH FSR PUHT (Translation- thanks for this gig pet)

So if you are on the hunt for rep, have a mint dynamic with your agent, or had an agent who was a walla-walla-bing-bang, let me know in the comments below. Let’s have a chin-wag, ey?

I’m looking for a solid partnership from someone with a good sense of humour. We would both want to put in the graft and enjoy a glass of milk on an evening. (The milk is optional)

Yes, this does sound like a dating profile. I want to confirm, I am not on the lookout for an agent as a ladyfriend. I have a ladyfriend, please and thank you.

Anyway, STAY COOL OUT THERE!!

Gaan canny x

Annie Hall rocks up to my house with a sledgehammer, smashing up all preconceived limitations with great gusto.

I should really get a hard hat. She's a maniac with that thing.

I'll give you an example: there is a venue that I've tried to forge a connection with for yonks.

Each time I dangled the carrot, my inbox would be met with a prompt rejection email. This set lots of ‘no’s’ in concrete.

They don't like new work. They don't do X, Y and Z. There's no point contacting them again.

But look! Here comes Annie, weapon glistening in the sun. She approaches the venue…

What's that?! A day later, we’re booked?!

Insane. How does she do it?

I don't know whether it's the sledgehammer (please note, she doesn't really carry a weapon), but clearly her determination helps see past blindspots.

Annie has no qualms in asking for what we need. And her unwavering belief in us both has genuinely grown my confidence. It's like we’re allowed to feel good about what we are building. And proud too. I won't lie, it's a bit uncomfortable initially, but when I allow myself to indulge in it properly, it feels like we’re taking over the world. In a non-evil way. Obvs.

Our sharing on Wednesday evening was a good reminder of teamwork. We improvised and fell into the fire and survived to tell the tale. One audience member said the scene was ‘beautifully awkward’.

Little does he know how much more awkward the full show gets, bless ‘im.

THIS IS OUR BIG ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

We are performing our world premiere of Glow Job in LEEDS!

As you probably know, the Fringe ain't cheap and we've made it work by being super stringent and are hoping to fundraise from this gig towards breathing in Scotland.

So if you know ANYONE who has worked in the service industry, anyone who has a sense of humour or anyone who has felt trapped in the beauty nightmare that is being alive, please spread the word far and wide.

We are very very excited to test it out.

Tickets can be found here- www.linktr.ee/hallandcarss

For now, gaan canny x

This week has been a bit bonkers. Four gigs in three days.

Many wagon wheels have been consumed.

Many forms of public transport have been blessed with my bum.

And after a bit of a grotty Stag-do on Friday that left me feeling a lot of rage, yesterday was AMAZING.

We at Murder Inc hosted a hen party. And let me tell you, the cast were on fire.

So much so that ‘Trish’ the Mother-in-Law couldn’t breathe. Her mascara had evaporated from tears of laughter. In fact, her guffaw was so contagious that my jaw was aching.

So distracted was I by fellow cast member Becky Webb’s INSANE transformation from one character to another (in less than ten seconds), my mind completely blanked on what I was supposed to be doing.

I stood twiddling my hair like a vapid Californian.

Jade and Prab were on fire. Jade’s welsh ‘survival’ character had everyone howling with laughter. And marching to the venue from the train station, Jade made such a great point.

‘The only difference between Murder Inc and the Improv companies doing work in big venues, is the exposure they get. That’s it. We’re up there mate.’

She’s not wrong. The skillset in MurderInc is insane. I often wonder how I’ve managed to sneak my way in. Must have been all of the winking and bad puns.

So anyway, here’s to a lovely Sunday and many more lovely gigs making people howl. (I’ve got one last one today)

Oh, aaaaaaand a big announcement coming this Friday too for those of you in Leeds.

Ciao for now x

Annie kindly reminded me that we only have EIGHT WEEKS until the first show.

Not that I’m worried, you know, that we have EIGHT WEEKS until we’re standing on our 2 metre by 2 metre platform, egging on the general public.

Yes I’m sure the EIGHT WEEKS will fly by and we’ll be flying by the seat of our pants with those 56 days far-far behind us. EIGHT WEEKS gone forever.

THIS WEEK, we are cobbling together a Press Release.

So far, I’ve written:

Do you think that’s enough? Only time will tell.

We’ve got a twenty minute experiment at ‘Comedy and That’ this Wednesday night. You shall find us alongside other comedians at Bridge End Social in Leeds.

I’ll be testing out Leanne. She’s a Geordie and a ‘nutritient-ist’. Her words, not mine. We shall see if the audience find her funny.

If not, I’ll give the audience a bad review.

So for now, gaan canny. Look after yourself and keep being you. Unless you’re a sociopath, in which case, get help x

Central School of Speech and Drama.

At 17 years old, I stood with thirty other young hopefuls, shaking like a leaf. This was the place that legendary Catherine Tate had lost her patience, stood up on a chair and shouted, ‘Why won’t you just let me in?!’

You tell ‘em love.

I didn’t get in. (Damn it)

My second year auditioning I sat in the corridor, nervously going over my Viola monologue. A girl, clearly relieved, came out of the audition room. Apparently her monologue had gone really well. Her listening partner, a third year student, had leaned in and started to kiss her. She was told it was a test to see if she’d ‘go with the scene’ and she’d passed.

You wha love? He started smooching her? That’s a bit weird, innit.

I never got in to CSSD. I never got into RADA, or Bristol Old Vic or East 15 (thank God, don’t think I would have survived that sack-of-shite).

But in 2012 I had one last ditch attempt before another year of waitressing and doing my parents heads in.

And I only went and did it.

Manchester School of Theatre.

I burst into tears when I opened the email. My parents were excited to boot me out so they could immediately redecorate my room. (Wallpaper with parrots if you’re wondering)

All of my wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiildest dreams were about to come true.

Why do I get the feeling that you’re being sarky Jen?

I don’t know what you mean.

It began with 31 students. We were from all over the country with different accents, smoking habits and tattoos (no, I didn’t have any tatts cos I’m not cool)

Our first day was telling.

The movement studio echoed with the angry squawks of our Head of Acting. A fellow student had dared to share her ambition of becoming a director. Wrong thing to say, apparently and she was really getting it in the neck. We were then kindly informed by another tutor, that if he had the choice, he would ‘kick us all out’.

What a welcome.

Bloody hell, this is a bit intense isn’t it lads? I thought it was all kumbaya, holding hands with flowers in your hair!

I didn’t have flowers in my hair, it was beads of sweat. We followed twelve hour days: throwing sticks, stomping our feet, choral singing with tiger balm smeared into the calves. Was I going with the flow and taking it all in?

Um, no.

I was running on white hot fear.

There was an intensity in that building. Superiority radiated from certain members of staff and patience wore thin. The human side of training had dried up. Vulnerability wasn’t in vogue as no one wanted to look fragile; you couldn’t afford to be soft. God forbid you were struggling. Our main source of maternal care had left a few months in to teach at another school, so we were really battling this on our own.

*Alexa, cue ‘Where is the love?- Black Eyed Peas *

I turned to the only two certainties in life. Friendship and food. Scoffing potato waffles straight from the toaster, smeared with peanut butter. God bless my flatmates Sophie and Camrie. We trained together and lived together, chomping down on pasta pesto, custard creams and guzzling whiskey. A cacophony of sophisticated flavours to numb the ever growing waves of dread thumping in my chest.

Laughter got us through too. Proctor’s puns were punnier than ever. We goofed around where we could, bonding and going on nights out. I only did a few of those over the years. I barely had the energy to tie my velcro shoes.

There’s always those brilliant lessons that don’t get out your head. Like a legendary Stanislavski exercise: at the end of his scene, one student cracked open a bottle of Merlot, swilling down the real Mccoy to the eventual horror of our director when he realised it wasn’t diluted ribena.

Brilliant.

Wasn’t there first year romance in the air too?

Well, now that you mention it, there was.

I had accidentally fallen in love. Twiiiit Twoooooo.

There I was, in my black Primani trackies, grinning across the room at my first ever girlfriend. I couldn’t believe it. I was officially the luckiest woman on earth.

Keeping it secret was hard. Friends started to clock on and we had to lie for a while until it felt comfortable. But in all honesty, she was my anchor.

Throughout those three years of crippling anxiety and shame, I knew that at the end of a long day, navigating the pitch black streets of Hulme, I would be met at home with loving arms.

Her forcefield of protection prevented me from a massive mental health crisis. I’m one hundred percent sure of that. We got through MST side by side.

Awww, young love. You’ve brought a tear to my eye flower. It seems there was a good bond amongst you all as a group then?

I’d say so. Sometimes I’d get overwhelmed by how mint our year group were. Camrie’s beautiful singing voice, Barney slipping into character like popping on an old jacket, Caroline embodying the grief of a 50 year old mother in her 20s. Maddeningly good.

Our closeness wasn’t all rosey. At certain points, I think we clung onto eachother through personal traumatic experiences both in and out of school.

You wha? Trauma?! That’s a bit strong isn’t it? Wouldn’t ‘misery’ be better instead?

Perhaps, but that’s why the whole experience is so challenging to explain without over egging the pudding. To the outside, it’s just a basement filled with people twatting around. As a director once reminded me, any accountant would take one look at what we were doing and peg it the other way.

But when you’re in it and you’re sensitive and young, it feels like your whole world. It was an asylum of sorts.

In my second year, I started to clock that something felt off. I just couldn't relax.

There were unspoken rules. A hierarchy of sexuality. If you were in with a particular director, you knew you were deemed fascinating. And there was nothing more important than his fixation. Especially if you were a lass.

I betrayed myself many times for his approval: performing a stripper routine, off of my own back, with a deep desire to be seen by this teacher. The shame of self-abandonment makes me want to go back in time and set the building on fire (and burn off some asbestos while I’m there.)

After performing this God awful moment, I was led upstairs to an empty corridor. The tutor stared at me in total silence.

It felt like something was about to happen. I begged for feedback on the performance. He took a breath, then stopped.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

He turned away and walked quickly back down the stairs.

What is going on? Why did he change his mind? What didn’t he want to tell me?

I had failed his test. I still wasn’t enticing enough. How embarrassing.

Hold on Jen, this doesn’t make sense. You’re a lezza love, why would this bloke have any pull on you?

It’s really challenging to explain. Lord knows why I pined after the recognition of that plantpot. Maybe I took everything too seriously. Some people were able to cruise on through and focus on the bigger picture. But I started to believe he was the answer to all of my acting problems.

Hand on heart, I think he knew exactly what he was doing. Psychology can be manipulated in the wrong hands, especially when working with younger and more vulnerable people. Women with low self-esteem or women who trust without question. We were young. A lot of us took his word as gold dust. Well I did anyway.

Again, it’s hard to explain. I’m cringing so much my shoulders are up to my ears.

Hold on, stop a second love, what was that noise?

Oh, yeah. Sorry, that’s my plastic bedsheet rustling. You see, in my second year I started wetting the bed.

Wow, could this get any more depressing? I’m just off to stick my head in the oven…

Rude.

The humiliation of sneaking sheets into the wash before our housemates woke up was the cherry on top of the wee-wee cake. I didn’t have the language to understand that my body was absolutely rung out and my nervous system was constantly in emergency mode. I couldn’t take a chill pill. No pills were chilling this gal.

Our environment encouraged self-analysis but by that point, I was in too deep. Every single interaction throughout my day was under a microscope and this self-monitoring was debilitating. How I walked. How I talked. What people thought of me by the way they lifted their left eyebrow.

Jesus, hanging around with you must have been a riot.

It was awful. I think if you’d have seen me, you’d have thought it was I-Jen-Robot. There wasn’t signposted support. I managed to get one therapy session through the university, but after offering her church membership as a solution, I didn’t go back. Nadia stood by my side, sword in hand, cutting through the grey cloud of gloom that loomed over us during that second year. Our friendship was a lifeline.

(Both glowing, see above)

The year was split in half each term and Paddy and I were paired with each other over and over again. Both of us wondering why we were doing such depressing scenes whilst being partly depressed. Hamlet and Ophelia eat your heart out.

Did they give our class a chance to try comedy? Or improv? Naaaaaaa. Who needs to chuckle when you can pretend to be a suicidal woman who drowns in a river, ey?

Laugh-a-minute it was.

When I think about what creativity means to me now, I shudder to think. The word play wasn’t part of the curriculum really. Think pain and persistence. Push push push. Become a swan whilst swimming in a sea of sharks. Blablabla.

I'll try not to go on a rant about our worst lessons. Voice. Ironically, the less said, the better. Nothing more inspiring than leaving a studio feeling like a rusty old hinge with no idea what we were doing whilst being gaslit into thinking everything was going great.

Fine, rant over.

Come ON Jen, surely third year was the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm on my knees here! Tell me it gets better.

Things did change. Calm yourself love.

Lessons died down. We could all stop and catch our breath. Without the year above to lean on for support, especially my lovely ‘mam’ Rachel, we were now ruling the roost.

My system was still on edge. The skillset in our year was high and I knew I ranked in the lower end of talent. This is evidence based: I’d found a teacher’s marks in the Green Room with my name at the bottom of the list. Humbling indeed.

So when cast lists were revealed for our third year shows, I was confused.

I had been given three decent parts.

By that point, my confidence was so low, that I thought it was a prank. I was waiting for my You’ve Been Framed moment when I’d fall arse over tit down a set of stairs covered in baked beans and be met with a handshake from Tommy Wiseau.

Sorry Jen, I'm trying to concentrate on what you're saying, but eeeeewwww. There's a horrible noise coming from the wings!

You mean the sound of retching? Again, I can only apologise. That’s the reaction of yours truly, just before our first third year show. Luckily I wasn’t actually sick, but it was a close call.

Shelagh Stevenson isn’t exactly a comedic writer and all of my insecurities started to seep out five minutes before Act One. Why didn't I become an accountant or marry a wealthy man and live on an island with a football called Wilson? Why did I look like Hagrid and Sigorney Weavers love- child? Why don’t I just quit whilst I’m ahed?

Bella grinned supportively across the other side of the wings. I stopped the racing thoughts and smiled back. After only saying pleasantries to each other for two years, a friendship blossomed in our third year. Must have been all the retching…

What really really really didn’t make sense was Women of Troy. I won’t harp on, but please imagine yours truly towering over a chorus of six brilliant women.

I say towering in a literal sense. The group were all the best movers in the year. Presumably they’d been cast to build a phenomenal ensemble.

Cut to the show. What did the director do?

Plonk all six women on the floor instead. Inspiring stuff.

In rehearsals, Phoebe got her revenge; subtly munching on a cereal bar and yawning during a particularly long speech, hiding behind her fellow chorus women. Don't blame her.

Did you manage to get an agent in the end then?

No agent, alas. The shows ended, we had our showcase in London and Manchester, before a celebratory party and our graduation.

And that was that.

1059 days of chaos suddenly at a close. The end of an era.

In the departure from Manchester, I made a conscious decision to shut everything down and to move on.

Forget about it Jen, you just weren’t quite right in the head.

And that is the story of my time at Manchester.

The end.

Hold your soggy bedsheets love. If you’ve moved on, why bother writing about this almost a decade later?

Because clearly I didn’t move on, haway.

I kept my head down and tried very hard to forget. For years I blamed myself for being too soft, too sensitive, too fragile.

A pattern of a lifetime.

I avoided Oxford Road like the plague. That stretch of road is a landing strip for memories. No thank you! I didn’t tell anyone I was a performer for years either, opting for ‘teacher’ or ‘general dogs body’. If people asked about drama school I’d make up some bizarre tales to avoid weeping in the back of a taxi to the unsuspecting driver.

I have hidden from people I graduated with; worried our time together would conjure up painful memories. Cowering in a toilet cubicle, embarrassed to show face when I wasn’t working or had been struggling with my mental health.

But it seems the time has come to face up to things. And now, with enough distance and support-

the dam has finally burst.

It’s like the exorcist, random emotions flying out all over the place. Just call me Emily Rose’s more handsome sister. Underneath deep layers of shame and humiliation, there are waves of anger and sadness.

I went in that building in love with performing. I came out the other side crippled with fear, confusion and totally out of my mind.

That’s not right, is it?

Surely not.

If only I’d had the wisdom of age, but such is the merry-go-round of life.

It will take time to integrate these feelings properly. I know that. And it isn’t all doom and gloom. There were a LOT of laughs too.

Tilda waddling around as Anfisa, Rhianna chortling whilst chasing me with a bamboo stick, Mez being Mez, Lammy grinning through ensemble and Sam springing into the air to win EVERY game we ever played.

Singing together at our final showcase gave me goosebumps.

We made it through against the odds. What a ride.

Some people were wise enough to go through the training and brush it all off as a laugh. I brushed it off like scabbies. That wisdom wasn’t hardwired. Just a beautiful dose of soul-crushing anxiety in my cells. Thanks genetics!

However, now it really is time to start moving forward. Better late than never.

If you happened to have experienced the circus of training at a drama school, then gaan canny out there.

It wasn’t all in your head. You aren’t mad. Just let me loosen my Straitjacket and we can chat about it.

To feel the tingle in your fingers, to feel the tingle in your feet.’

You may recognise the above lyrics from the musical ‘Hair’.

No, I don’t have the sudden urge to flail around on the floor with fifteen boyfriends, stoned off my backside.

What I want, is to continue to change up the rhythm of my life. (But without the cannabis, obvs)

You see, a couple of years ago I was part of a Street Theatre show. Rehearsals across the North using good ol’ British public transport left my body and brain totally kaputt.

Taking a break didn’t feel like an option. I needed money and this stream of income was propped up with many other inbetween jobs. Classic freelance house of cards.

On the first day of rehearsals, I was dead excited and we had a right ol’ laugh. But as time went on, I started to clock our director.

He was absolutely shattered.

His cynicism and exhaustion would puncture the day. In our last hours together he shared he would be taking a break from the whole performance industry due to chronic burnout.

As soon as he’d said the word, my nervous system lit up. Clearly I recognised the path down that I was stumbling down too. But like all good clowns, I ignored his warning and continued to goof around with an ironing board.

The show was a hoot, but that little nudge in the back of my mind started to get nudg-ier and nudg-ier.

It’s hard to spot, burnout. When your fuel for success is blend of adrenaline and desperation, collapse is inevitable.

Experts recommend carving out a new relationship with your work to prioritise good mental health. Since coaching last year, listening to my body’s warning cues has been a game changer. The racing heart, the feeling of needing to fix everything in three minutes. The body's mental.

Who knew that you could do a day's work, come home and relax, ey? I thought you had to do admin until 10pm, then wake up and continue to type until your face melted off…

I don't want to burn out.

I want to run on clean fuel. I'm sure you get it.

Being creative has become synonymous with self-sacrifice, being skint and tripping over your competition.

There are almost 50 people following on this blog. I know a lot of you work really hard and feel pressure to bring home the bacon.

It's hard and maddening and you aren't alone.

Perhaps that's the most important point actually. Being in relationship with others. People who refuel your soul when it gets battered down by life. Nourishing your relationships and spending time with your tribe is more important than the gig you thought was the-most-important-thing-in-the-entire-world.

So I was gently reminded when sitting with granny and watching Vera- with some diabolical Geordie accents (Seriously, I was howling last night…)

And ironically, when you stop, slow down and enjoy life, opportunities come knocking that were meant for you anyway. Crazy how that's happened over the past few weeks.

Speaking of knocking on the door, my doorbell has just gone. Could be a Mormon, best check!

Gaan canny x

Yes, Annie Hall and I will be gracing the bonny isle of Scotland for nine full shows. I'm still a bit shell-shocked. We're doing it!

I don't know what your relationship is like with the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Have you been before as a performer? Have you been as a punter?

I've been garnering advice and anecdotes over the years from performers who have done their time (not that it's a prison sentence).

We're talking hours of flyering rejection, laughter, comradery, elation, boozing, exhaustion, beige food, doubt, reviews, three audience members aaaaand repeat.

As a 15 years old, me and a couple mates got the train up from Northumberland to Edinburgh and were suitably blown away by the offerings of the Fringe. My lungs were also blown away by inhaling a Lambert and Butler and coughing all the way up the Royal Mile. Think I'm best leaving smoking to the cool kids…

Back nearly twenty years ago, it was cheap. Cheap to stay, cheap to see seven shows in a day and cheap to eat 15 links sausages to keep energy up.

Now, it ain't cheap. Holy potato.

We got an email the other day offering accomodation: ‘A great deal from the landlord- 4 bedroom flat for the full run at £10,000’

10 grand!!!!!!

Luckily we've found somewhere on the outskirts which will hopefully suit well. We've paid our venue in full and paid to register the show and paid to sell our souls to the Fringe devil.

Luckily I still have 50p and my self-esteem so it's not a total loss.

We will be previewing shows in Leeds and Manchester so I'll give you a nudge when we get those dates down.

I'm dead excited. I'm frightened. I'm tired. I'm full of phlegm. I'm not impressed with election results. And I'm praying labour get some help to start turning things around and telling better stories.

And on that note, it's the weekend.

Wishing you a good one. Look after yourself x

But not on Tuesday night, dear reader.

You see, on Tuesday night, Annie Hall and I performed our first ever PAID gig as a double act.

You heard it here first- we’re professionals now flowa’

Our set was part of the awesome ‘Silky & Friends’; we were on a line up with all stand-up comedians: opening with Sam Serrano and closing with Lou Conran. Very very funny people.

The thing is, this was quite a big deal.

We were honoured Silky had asked us to grace the stage (and to be his friend). But like two snails sliding into an auditorium, we hadn’t quite clocked the size of the audience. Turns out we were in for a treat.

‘What did he say?’

‘90 people’

‘19?’

‘No Annie, 90.’

‘19 are you saying Jen?’

‘Forget it.’

This was a chance to see if our TOP SECRET PROJECT would actually make people laugh. We had ten minutes to test out two characters through an improvised scene.

Before we knew it, we were on stage, Myself rocking a broom, Annie rocking leopard skin trousers. And the scene began.

10 minutes or so later, after Annie accidentally booted the broom into a wall, it was over.

The end.

Na na, wait Jen, what did the audience think?

The audience? They laughed!! I was playing the straight woman (haha) and had to bite my cheeks to supress all laugher at Annie’s amazing one-liners. It was a gig we really needed. To be with great people and to confirm that we are on the right track.

So now of course comes the next step. Booking in more small gigs before the TOP SECRET PROJECT.

Now, everything sounds super phenomenal here. And it was a mint mint gig, I won’t lie. But life isn’t all smooth snail-trailing. I’ve been absolutely exhausted recently. Life has been teaching me to stop which I’ve found very hard.

And actually the most beautiful thing about doing this work, has been reconnecting with an old friend and feeling we have eachothers back, no matter what calamity happens on or off stage.

That means more to me than anything else. But don’t tell Annie. I don’t want to blow smoke up her leopard skin trousered backside.

Hope you get to see some loved ones this weekend.

Gaan canny x

Iain is a dead lovely Welsh bloke. We met at the Liverpool Improv Fest last year after messaging eachother on Linkedin. (Yes, I carry a briefcase everywhere I go. Would you like my card?)

Not only has he written a book on puns, (The Pundamentals), he also performs, works with kids AND has a crackin’ podcast which I listened to on the train back from Scouseland.

**We are both descendants of Tinky Winky'**

‘Liverpool Comedy ImprovCast’ is all about Improvisation. Iain in his lovely melodic tone, delves into an improvisers psyche, shining a torch directly in their eyes as he finds out WHO DID THE MURDER?!

Oh gosh, sorry, I’m getting confused with Agatha Christie again.

What Iain actually does is make his guest feel safe enough to chat to reveal what pulled them into the delicious world of Improv. One of my favourite episodes is with Laura Hall, the musician from ‘Whose Line is it Anyway? SO COOL!!!

So, why am I bringing up Iain? Well, would you believe it, I am now a guest on the LCIC podcast.

(Which means technically, I’m best friends with Laura Hall, right Iain?)

Here is the episode: THE PODCAST

Listening back, I wish I’d mentioned more people and projects but alas my brain delivered what she could, the poor old maid.

So to you, HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND.

Gaan canny x

Isn't it a rule that when you go awayoads of awesome work pops up?

Let's see if it works ey…

In the meantime, here I am being super tight with my tap water and cheese and crackers, hiding in the corner of a ripoff airport restaurant so I don't have to pay £17 for some eggs on a piece of bread.

Peace out hombres!

Do I have patience when things don’t immediately line up my end?

Ney wey bonny bairn.

I’ll give you an example.

I decided a few weeks ago (notice the small time frame), that I’d like to start running improvisation workshops for kids. It made sense in my brain. For years, I’ve delivered for other companies- schlepping to schools across Yorkshire- teaching sessions that are not my own. Think Ancient Greece, Macbeth, French (just joking mi petit-filous).

Setting up workshops through Curly Tales could mean a more stable income longterm whilst giving back to the community I live in. A win-win, right?

RIGHT?

Let’s just say my patience had been tested.

Shepherding families through the door has not been easy.

My usual flippy-flappy-existential-crisis-at-the-smallest-thing personality did steer for a while. I felt I was banging my head against a brick wall. Nothing seemed to be moving people to book on.

I was feeling a bit embarrassed about the inital numbers. Only two children booked in for one session. This meant with hiring the hall, I was down in pennies with my self-belief slightly crushed.

The fat controller from Thomas the Tank Engine started to take over my nervous system. I tried to force the situation to be how it ‘should’. I attempted to magic up families from thin air. Alas, this technique did little but frazzle my brain.

And then it was Tuesday morning.

As no one had pre-booked onto the first session, I arrived early to warm up my body and settle in to the reality of the situation. That’s when out of the blue, a lass and her dad rocked up.

They were lovely and didn’t know what to expect. Neither did I. We chatted for a bit. I felt my breath catch and my system try to grip in control, praying that someone else would show up. But no one did.

So, I did what any good practitioner would do- I hid behind the kettle.

NO, I’m joking.

I took a deep breath and started the workshop. We played games, she informed the direction of travel. Before I knew it, it was 11 o’clock and we’d finished the first ever session. I was actually astonished. Time had flown!

Here’s her direct quote:

‘What did you like about it then?’

‘I liked everything.

‘And any activity in particular?’

‘Everything’

This felt like a big win. And what was super awesome was that I wasn’t drained after leading the session. Usually with other teaching roles, I’ll leave feeling as if I’ve been ran over by a ten tonne long wheeler. This felt as if it was actually restoring my energy.

So yes, turns out I have the patience to lead a one on one class. Curly Tales have another two sessions this coming Tuesday. I’m hoping to have at least three kids in each group, but only time will tell.

According to Chat GPT and a really lovely parent, families don’t really know what improvisation is. So that’s probably a bit of a barrier in the marketing of the sessions.

I’ve also notice I undersell my experience with kids over the past decade, so I could probably do with underlining that a bit.

If you happen to know anyone with children aged 7-11 in Leeds who would be interested in boosting their confidence and having fun in the process, please do spread the word.

www.linktr.ee/curlytalestheatre

In the mean time, Murder Inc had an absolute blinder of a gig in Manchester last night. The Ape and Apple have new landlords and luckily the show was top notch and hilarious. And the burgers were banging…

Here’s a picture of Prab and I in the interval, relaxing in our clown outfits, ready for round two of the circus theme.

So for now, gaan canny!

We weren't strutting around Bramley waving at lorry drivers. Oh no.

We were up on stage in Chapel Allerton as part of 'Night of Rewrite'.

It was a crackin' evening. Many other improvisers were up doing their thang. Andrew hosted dressed as a bear and BEAR-ly broke a sweat.

Now Annie and I may have known eachother for yonks, but never before had we entertained a live audience together.

A ten minute slot was the perfect platform to see how our dynamic worked.

As soon as Annie started channelling spirits like a professional con-artist, I felt relief. Audience members laughed, thank goodness. They said they had no idea our work was improvised. I took that as a win.

But audience approval wasn't necessarily what we were after- a rarity, I must admit.

We wanted to come away with the confidence that we can support eachother, regardless of what is thrown at us by the audience. (Literally and figuratively)

Turns out we got into the groove, just like Madonna and French and Saunders. Woop!!

I left on a high, marching in the freezing cold towards the bus stop. When I did get to sleep that night, I woke in the early hours, heart pounding. The sensation of a giant weight crumbling in my chest.

The shame, the hiding, the fear of success. I can't really put it into words. Something shifted I suppose.

Having that trust with someone has moved something in me. And it feels that things are moving in the right direction.

Wow, well on that profound note. It's Easter weekend my friends. I hope you have a beautiful one.

Sending you hot cross buns with a less cross face than usual.

Jen x

Yes that’s right, I’ve decided to sack acting off and become Britain’s next top model.

Naaaaaah, not really.

Although clearly theres some natural talent there:

Piles and piles of top secret information is going on behind the scenes for Hall & Carss productions. Part of the never-ending administration is pulling together professional snaps in a studio.

I’ve never particularly enjoyed having my photo taken. My go to pose seems to be that of a puppet who just discovered they can talk.

Lord knows what the final facial expressions forever captured on zee internet will look like. I can’t wait to see!

And if you’re wondering about these glitzy images above, they’re from the Improv Classics show last Friday.

The Great Gatsby went down like a chicken on a Zeppelin. (Yes, these were our two suggestions, God bless the general public)

Have a good weekend.

*turns to camera, wink, pose, dislocates hip, ambulance, amputation*