It’s a Tuesday, hopefully in the not too far future. 2014, maybe? Perhaps some time in May?
I awake at 9 and trot to work in jeans and tshirt. Phoebe is there already; an early riser, she works 8 – 4, whereas I do 10 – 6. We have a quick morning meeting at the little table in the middle of our cramped little office, sandwiched between just-arrived boxes of flyers, a filing cabinet and a coffee machine, desks nestled beneath a higgeldy-piggeldy collection of wall adornments: old blackcat lounge posters, snippets stuck to pin boards from the queer press social pages, photos from our uni days (us in Hill End back in 2003 when all this was just a dream), our first novelty cheque from the SGLBA, those cross stitches I bought Phoebe for her 28th birthday…
We touch base on where our various artists are performing that weekend, confirm all flights are booked for the Fringe, go through our taxes (it’s that time of the month again) and approve some designs from our (completely paid, not at all volunteer) graphic designer.
I sit at my little desk, punch out a press release or three, go through applications for our upcoming cabaret festival, email some of our artists, update the website(s), reply to comments… (yes! people comment on our blogs now…)
Work is peaceful, satisfyingly self-directed and generates just enough cash to live on (thank God for our 2-day-a-week-or-so “day jobs” – here’s to living out both Plan A and Plan B!)
Over lunch we prep for our interview that afternoon. The Good Weekend’s Two of Us column has finally come a-calling, after our latest successful season. Then it’s off to rehearsals for me, while Phoebe puts the finishing touches on a budget for one of our newest groups, a little cabaret gem fronted by a young woman with loads of talent and not a jot of business savvy. We’re sending her on her first interstate tour next year…
As the day draws to a close, we go home to our respective partners to each have a quiet night in. We’ve a busy few nights of gigs coming up and rest is important. Phoebe eats meat of some kind. Maeve makes a nutloaf.
A girl can dream, right…?