Archives for posts with tag: Co-codamol




Well, OK – the Co-Codamol tablets were just to get me through rehearsals; they’re not a solution. Colitis is a chronic (longterm) condition that can flare totally randomly, so, when it does, you have to hit it with steroids. And the Preds I’d been taking were not working fast enough for my liking; so, after the last rehearsal of the week (and I’d got back into my clothes) it was straight into hospital for me.

A bit of waiting in A&E (fortunately early evening before the alcohol and drug and random-violence victims) then into Acute Med – 6 beds – two of them double and reinforced for seriously morbidly obese patients (nb. I am not one.)

Curtains drawn back on my left – Ron’s sitting in the chair.  Speaking slowly he tells me how he fell in the garden on his way to get the Flymo. He couldn’t get up and lay there for sixteen hours – in the garden, overnight. ‘It didn’t rain’. Happened before. Lives alone. Couldn’t get up.

(I’m tempted to say sweet) Loretta the nurse – full on, total attention almost to everyone at the same time, upbeat, dynamic, funny. A whirlwind of great, caring energy.  Mike the nurse – tattooed bearded South Londoner, shock of upstanding hair, very friendly. We talk books briefly, and films at the Duke Of York’s.

Max has a ring tone that is a screaming horror thing that you really don’t want to hear in a hospital…


The drugs are working: a breakfast of Asacol, Prednisolone and Co-Codamol. Consequently I’m here, on the big stage of Brighton’s Dome Concert Hall, built by the Prince Regent in 1805: otherwise I’d be languishing in bed feeling miserable. Overhead are the huge scalloped cut-outs of the circular layered ceiling – the place is gorgeous but not fancy Art Deco – with modern lighting gantries hanging (though unlit now). Facing me are 1700 empty seats, but we won’t be performing here – we’ll be in the black-box Studio theatre next door. Jason, our rehearsals director, and now – at last! – our choreographer, is working up a new dance piece – contemporary dance, dance-theatre, ‘modern’ dance, some calls it. The women rule this one. We men (5 of us) scuttle around, hiding behind the 13 female bodies, till we’re revealed, snaking geometrically round the stage, heads down. We don’t know where this is going, yet…

What I do know is that I have to rush around onstage, trying to get attention, becoming increasingly desperate, until, humiliated, I strip down and stand alone in my underpants…