Diary – 24 May 2018

Monday morning. Sitting in Ed the physio’s waiting room. He is theatreland’s go-to man for fractured bones and torn muscles — essentially, an MOT garage for weary actors. A herd of cast members from The Lion King hobble in; the expression ‘suffering for your art’ comes to mind. I hurt my knee playing on all fours, but as a dog rather than a big cat. Since training at Laban, I had always wanted to do absurdist theatre, and when a role in Auden and Isherwood’s The Dog Beneath the Skin came up, I thought my prayers had been answered. But what a challenge! On stage for two hours every night, wearing a boiler suit, dog head, and gas mask. No more dog parts for me. I was apprehensive about the reviews, but Matthew, my brother-in-law, pointed out: ‘It’s really none of your business what they write, Cressida.’ Fair enough, I suppose.

I have a phone conversation with my friend Claudia Legge, the talented underwater photographer. We talk about collaborating. Here’s the idea: we make a short video, she films and I dance underwater. What could go wrong? Lots, but I am thrilled by the idea. I am happiest when dancing. Spending a day twirling underwater sounds like heaven.

Breakfast at the Electric on Portobello with the family has become a weekly occurrence. This includes my three sisters, my brother and my mother. Being the youngest of five, I find myself fighting for air time. Still, it is my favourite hour of the week. There is, however, always drama. Tears may spring from any set of eyes at any given time, brought on by some crisis or other. This week it’s the death of my mother’s beloved Pekingese, Pocket: 13, blind, deaf and, most recently, incontinent.