On my job application I hummed and hawed over my curriculum vitae. I'd filled in all the mundane stuff about education, qualifications and that, but I knew these people were interested in whether I could put myself out there, stand up and be counted, not be afraid to make a fool of myself in front of others.
So, after 'stage backdrop design assistant', I wrote 'back end of a cow'.
Then I clicked on 'send', shrugged to myself and thought, well, I probably won't hear from them again.
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When Mum said she was going to show me her costume for this year's pantomime show I had trouble containing my enthusiasm. This was because I still had vivid memories of last year's outfit where she'd played, among other non-speaking parts requiring a quick change of costume, a belly-dancer in the local repertory's slapstick version of Aladdin. For a bit-player, her performance had certainly impressed, and the lead actor admitted later he'd almost forgotten his lines while trying to control his hard-on. In rehearsals, she'd played it straight, but, come the show, it was almost as though she was giving the poor Genie a lap-dance. Mum certainly knew where her talents lay.
So this year, her reward for that performance was...
My jaw dropped.
"Well, Mikey?" asked Mum.
Her voice was a bit muffled, since her head was covered with the rolling eyes, the lolling tongue, and the misaligned horns of a black and white cow. Her legs were encased in pants made from the same colour, held up by braces, ending in oversized hooves at the bottom.
At that moment, Dad came downstairs, holding a long, tufted tail over his arm as you would a handbag, and sporting huge udders dangling from around his waist.
"I feel a right pillock."
"So you should, Dad." It was hard to control my laughter, so I didn't.
But this was part of life in my family. I'd been brought up to appreciate the way Mum eagerly took part in every production of our local am-dram society and succeeded in dragging my ineffectually complaining Dad along with her. Her enthusiasm was so infectious that even I was drafted in with my do-it-yourself talents to help with building the scenery. What she lacked in stage skills was made up for by her unwavering commitment. No part was too small, and I guess you could say that playing the pantomime cow in this season's production of 'Jack and the Beanstalk' might be considered a small part.
"So, how does this," I indicated the joining of the two of them by bringing my index fingers together, "work then?"
"It's fairly easy," said Dad, as though taking me through a particularly difficult algebraic equation, "Your mum stands more or less upright as the front of the cow, while I bend over, holding her at the waist, and act as the back half..."
He showed me by bending over, grabbing hold of Mum around her middle and resting his head on the upper edge of her ass. He jutted his own ass backwards, flicking it to make his tail swish.
"...then we just have to co-ordinate leg movements and away we go."
"Umm, okay, but doesn't it offend your masculinity that you've got to be the one with the..." I mimed milking a cow.
"I saw that," said Mum.
I wondered how she saw it through that head, but said nothing.
"I'm offended that you should impugn your father's artistic integrity...besides which, it's totally sexist."
We all laughed. "Yeah Mum, you're right. It's Dad wears the udders in this house. And, Dad? You wear them so well."
He whipped me one with his tail.
When we were all ready, we piled into the car and I drove us across town to the theatre. This was to be their first rehearsal at the venue where I'd already been kept busy for a few weeks now helping to construct the backdrop. While we drove, Mum kept her cow's head on just for a laugh and we drew some remarkable double-takes from other drivers along the way.
"I've got to get used to looking out through this fine mesh by the nostrils - this thing's not really constructed very well at all, it's so clumsy...and all these buttons and things make it difficult to get out of when I've got to change costume."
"Oh," I looked round hopefully at my bovine passenger, "you're playing other things as well...?"
"Yeah, I'm also 'second buxom village wench', and after Jack climbs up to the giant's lair I'm in a cage in a bikini waiting to be prepared as dessert for the Giant's lunch. I've got a feeling I might be ladled with chocolate sauce for that one since I won't have to change costume again. The director mentioned something about us acting out some kind of a wrestling match in jelly."
My mind, not the car, went into overdrive.
When we got to the theatre we went our separate ways - me to the scaffolding of a half-erected giant beanstalk, while Mum and Dad joined the group of actors and director in a semi-circle of chairs to discuss the performance.
From my viewpoint up at the top I was able to survey most of the action down below. There were dressing rooms for the main actors, but those bit-players who had to perform quick costume changes in between scenes had to do so simply behind any convenient bit of scenery available. For example, Jack's mother's house was obviously not actually a house, but rather just three strategically arranged rectangles of plywood serving the purpose of a façade. So when the actresses, my Mum included, chose a hidden place to change, they did so behind the walls of the house. The house without a ceiling. Open to the view of anyone sitting on a giant beanstalk. Like me...
But amongst actors, even amateur actors, there's no room for embarrassment when shucking off their costume to replace it with another, because while you might have only a minute or so to get ready for the following scene, the rest of the cast are working to their own similar time restraints as well.
And this is what seemed to be bothering our autocratic director today. He was shouting at the cast in general, while waving his arms around, that the action must flow smoothly, no awkward pauses between scenes. So it was to my good fortune that he insisted on going over the scene changes several times, holding a stopwatch to eliminate wasted seconds during the changeovers. I took a timeout on my perch to sit and marvel at how the four bit-playing ladies, my mum among them, would run behind the scenery, lift their dresses, unzip their skirts and, ooh, shake off their bras and be practically naked for a few wonderful seconds before pulling on their next costumes, straightening themselves out and jumping back onto the stage to perform some version of a hayseed Can-Can. I just loved the theatre...
Our director, Bernard, seemed to be having a few problems though with Daisy, the cow.
"Ellen, dear," He called everyone 'dear', "we've still got to shave a couple of seconds off that costume change into the cow. Now I know that's difficult for you because you're just coming on after the busty wench scene, but perhaps you and David can help one another out there...mmm?"
It was not a question, it was a command.
"...and the two of you, I want to see a bit more action from the cow. Remember we're playing it for laughs. A little skip from the hind legs and a jump and a wiggle won't go amiss. Let's take it from where Jack's leading you downstage along the road to market shall we..?"
