At school, it was boys only—so naturally, boys had to play the female roles. For reasons no one ever fully explained, I became the go-to woman.
I played everything from anxious mothers to dramatic widows, but the peak was an elderly spinster on a plane who foils a hijacking attempt. I studied my gran for days—her posture, her voice, the way she pursed her lips at mild disapproval. It worked. I won the annual acting award.
But by my final year, I’d had enough.
“Bugger this,” I thought. “I want a masculine role.”
We were doing Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat, and I went straight for Pharaoh—the Elvis-style showstopper. Pelvic thrusts. Swagger. Power. Redemption.
Opening night: I cycled onto stage in padded cycling shorts (for reasons that made sense at the time), grabbed the microphone, and launched into full Elvis mode. The thrusts were… enhanced. The crowd loved it. Slight complication: my gran was in the second row, witnessing the entire evolution of her observational study in reverse.
But it was a triumph. Overnight, I went from deeply uncool to oddly legendary among the younger boys.
Then came the final night.
I cycled on. Big entrance. Huge energy. Grabbed the wired microphone… and nothing.
Silence.
Without thinking, I whispered loudly, “Switch on the effing microphone!”
At which exact moment… it switched on.
My voice boomed through the entire hall.
There was a stunned pause.
Then the biggest laugh of the entire show.
I set out to prove I was a man's man; I ended up proving that if you’re going to swear in front of your grandmother, you might as well do it in padded bike shorts with a backing band.
