On the South Bank

There have been concentrated efforts to bump up the playground atmosphere around the South Bank. The tree trunks are garlanded in red and white polka dot fabric (each white dot now featuring the sentiments of any member of the passing populace with a pen). On the skimpy lawn in front of the concrete megalithic dinosaur that is the National Theatre (why are theatres of our era determinedly drab, and more akin to prisons than places of creative release, could someone please explain?), I am amused by the oversize sofa, armchair and lamp that have been covered in astroturf and left to the imaginations of Londoners and tourists. This being Friday afternoon, the city was shedding office and they flocked to the riverside to partake of the movable feast they made. The air was ice creams and high heels slipped on on the tube and I took a seat on the turf with a cup of wine and the script of the musical I start rehearsing on Monday. I was distracted by a young German father rolling around on the fake green like a puppy with his tiny smiling son, who was greatly intrigued by my wine cup. It is another dream fulfilled to be a real part of this city; to be a working actress in this billowing patchwork of need and creativity and survival. I feel so strong and full of light; I can scarcely believe that I am the same girl who, a few months ago, could barely lift her gaze beyond her toes. Of faith, hope and love, it is hope that is the vital ingredient to me. And I have hope again.