Another summer season arrives. I’m still at the holiday park, my auditions for the West End unsuccessful. The years have taken the edge off the enjoyment, the smile painted on. But I pull on the sparkly dress and step onto the shallow stage. Before me is the usual crowd of misfits, easily drunk on lager and spirits. A man jeers from the bar, unhappy at the quality of the show so far. The music starts and I launch into the opening line of 9 to 5 . . .
a bead of sweat drops
into my vodka