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Part Four - The Road to Stanford's: On Crowd Control - and Other Stage Wisdom

   Clearly, we're not expecting out front at Stanford's that Dagenham stag do, the shopping channel staff on a corporate bonding night, or the congregation of St Peter's as officiated over by the non-elected Dean of  Bocking...


  At the Woman's Insitute, Ear Soham, Celia was the only member wearing her name badge. Coming into the Green Room (village hall kitchen) she said if I was going lower than knickers-on level, I should go into the ladies' as she had to be in the kitchen just then to meld her mini-pavlovas.
  During audience questions, she asked how I'd gained early experience working a crowd.
  'I was working at the Walworth Road McDonald’s during sixth form to pay for singing lessons after my tuition grant passed its use-by date.'
  The chemist in East Lane couldn't give me enough hours.  Not to mention that on my first day a woman came to the counter with something wrapped in tin foil.
  'Sonny, you’re new.  What are you going to do about this?  In here I’ve got a blood-spiked lump of shit.’
  She unwrapped the foil.

  Those were the days at McDonald's when one customer must – and, could - be served in under ten seconds.  Every inch of stainless steel must be taken apart for a nightly scrape, vim and sterilising sluice. A gherkin must be dead centre on a bun.
  I became Lobby Hostess. In charge of the seating area, and of children’s parties. These were for the very young. A meal, colouring in books, a tour back of house. No fathers ever. One mother had recently moved away to Sutton; the party for her three-year-old had been booked before contracts were exchanged. The other mothers tried not to notice that she had come to the party wearing her wedding dress.  She watched her son colour in but didn’t remind him not to go over the lines.
  She asked me if this was it?
  Probably a critique of my hostess’ skills.
  One Saturday the Ronald McDonald clown came. The actor must have done a few visits already that day: his make-up had the look of touched-up paint and he made sure to be always directly under a ceiling light. We could see his wig under-cap. He asked everyone to sit cross-legged in the lobby area – ‘Please leave swing room for the toilet doors’ –  and pranced, chucked chins and juggled.
  And I didn't admonish the toddlers sitting on either side of me who heckled. ‘Ronald McDonald, you bastard, you fucking wanker, you stupid big-shoe cunt.’
  No. They'd paid their money, that was their choice.

 


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