We sit in a semi circle on Wil's double bed and facing Thom - the music nazi, perched infront of his laptop, staring at an indesign layout of name cards he'd missed out for the seating arrangement.
"TLC?" "Yes." "Neil Diamond" "No". "Neutral Milk?" "Ok..." "which song?" "Sure" "but maybe, but No." "We already have Pavement and a Beach boy's track." "Yes, but it's the medley".
"Sadly no."
We've been here.
7 years ago, it's the night before opening night of our Musical - Bugsy Malone. I'm perched over the lighting rails back stage in a black suit I'd purchased at Savers for $7.00. In my had is a hand puppet, soggy from nights of rehearsals. One of the splurge guns has malfunctioned. Thom is standing on stage in a green teeshirt and cap. He's moving animatedly, showing the actor their cues.
By 9.30 the execution is in order. Speeches are out of the way. Liberal amounts of alcohol are consumed. The meticulous planning has gone to plan with every song.
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