In an effort to bring in a large amount of money in a short amount of time for relatively little effort - I know, what could possibly go wrong, right? - I had signed up for FLU CAMP. A medical testing programme where they infect you with the flu and work out if their trial drug cures the flu, has no effect or turns you into blancmange. The initial process was a blood test to ascertain basic eligibility factors like whether or not you have not had the strain of flu they are testing (I hadn't), abuse heroin (I don't) and are currently alive (I am). Incidentally the woman who administered the blood test told me her (unsolicited) views on gay marriage - after establishing I was marrying a woman - which were rather biblical so it's a good thing they weren't checking my blood pressure.
The politics of a all-too-sharing bonkers nurse aside, all was well and so an appointment was booked for a second round of tests - a festive barrage where they test you for everything, heart, weight, liver function(!), BMI and a small psychological test consisting solely of the question - do you like Coldplay? (The correct answer is of course, no). Well, I managed to fall at the first-ish hurdle after declaring that I am allergic to nothing, have no chronic illnesses, and have abstained from alcohol, tobacco and caffeine for the last week (imagine how fun I was to be around at yesterday's 12 hour tech...)
Then came the question about medicines. I have never really taken any, never really been ill - other than glandular fever during my A-levels forcing me to choreograph my final piece sitting down - with a wonderful dancer called Rachel who defriended me on Facebook because I vocalised that I was a little cross about the entire Mormon church throwing its backing behind Proposition 8. She was a Mormon. And probably not gay.
However - about a year ago I developed a tiny sun blemish on my forehead called something marvellous like a solar-stellar-nuclear-blast-abrasion and my GP recently prescribed a gel to get rid of it. This I had to declare and was told it meant I was not eligible in case the drug only worked on people with active solar-stellar-nuclear-blast-abrasions.
This was naturally disappointing. In fact, because it was such a small thing I can let you know that I was a little pissed off - though not as pissed off as the time as we lost Garry Jenkins. I have a wedding coming up and theatre is marvellously rewarding if just occasionally not as well-paid as you all might think. However after just about managing not to throw all my toys out of the pram entirely based on the calm and kind coaching my incredible future wife is always overjoyed to give me, I eventually let it go and put my angst and energy into working on my TEFL course so I can teach rich foreign businessfolk how to order a pizza without onions. (Incidentally if anyone has any casual labour work going I am a whole lot stronger than I look).
Hold the feeling, breath, let it go, move on productively. A good worthy mantra.
And it means that I can now have a cigarette before tonight's production of Oedipus and a divine glass of wine afterwards. Sadly it means you won't get a daily update on my progress or other (not-quite-yet) legal-drug-induced witterings from my quarantine but now you can all let me know your respective feelings on medical testing - good way to earn quick money - or completely bonkers thing to ever consider.
The topic of this is dealing with disappointment and I should end with a confession that I'm slightly nervous. In the last 18 or so months I performed on stage over 200 times, yet all abroad and so the children didn't see me in a single show. It has hit me like a freight train driven by a unicorn (semi-unexpected) that tonight is the first time they will ever see me on stage.
Oli, Dora, I love you. Be kind...