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We do hope you read that title in a Welsh accent so that it rhymes…a la Emily in Paris in a French accent. The next post in our love letter series, inspired by Valentine’s Day, is L’s love letter to theatre. We hope you enjoy reading it.

Dear Theatre,

Where do I begin? What a year we’ve had. I suppose, rather than dwell on the present too much, I’ll think of fonder times. It began, as most of my best stories do, at my Nan’s house.

Growing up, I’d spend endless summers and half terms at my grandparent’s home in Wales. My favourite pastime was to watch Disney films in the conservatory while I doodled drawings and did my colouring-in. Once I’d grown out of princesses and talking animals (as if I ever have), Nanny Val pointed me in the direction of the great movie musicals. I devoured The Wizard of Oz, Calamity Jane and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, but then came the real lightbulb moment: Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. The version we had was taped from the telly by my lovely and much-missed grandfather, known to his grandchildren as Lloydie, which resulted in a lack of crispness in quality, wonky alignment in the credit sequences and the entire film having a slightly brown hue, but I didn’t mind in the slightest. Once I had the bug, that was it.

I became obsessed with cast recordings, thanks mainly to the musical, Annie. It was a childhood favourite and we played the cassette of the original Broadway cast recording every morning, literally every morning of Year 4, on the hour’s journey from home to my school in South London. It was around this time that I also started the heavy lobbying of my parents to send me to a performing arts boarding school. I also have a vague memory of announcing to my mother that I wanted to “become an orphan” (well, Annie, Anastasia and Harry Potter were, so why couldn’t I be?). The response from E? “Lily, do you know what an orphan is?” I remember replying along the lines that of course I did: orphans were children who lived in a house with all their friends and got to sing and dance and have adventures all day long.

E relented and off to a part-time stage school I went. This progressed to full-time performing arts education from the age of 14, and although I never wangled the boarding school bit, it was heaven. At the end of each term we got to perform in a theatre; my entire reason for being at this point. I remember walking through the rows of seats in the dark auditorium. Theatres were dangerous, our teachers warned, things could go wrong. For me though, theatres were exciting, terrifying, huge and beautiful. We were always chaperoned backstage, but once you were out in the warmth of the footlights, that was it – you were on your own. That sense of independence and control was palpable, and exhilarating, and wonderful!

Oh, my theatre. How I love your traditions. The opening night cards and flowers lining the corridor to the dressing rooms. The hunt for the “best spot” in the dressing room. Ideally this is at the end of the row, near the window, next to the coffee machine and as far away as humanly possibly from the door and showers. I love: the hushed whispers backstage when an understudy gets to step into the spotlight; the onstage physical and vocal warm-up, everyone bare-faced and wig-capped like an alien army; signing in and out at the stage door; getting post (and Amazon Prime) deliveries to the theatre because it is quite honestly our second home and where you’ll always find us; the rush to get on the road and home on the final night in a regional venue; the tiredness-induced delirium of a panto three-show Boxing day schedule; Facetime calls with other theatrical friends who are working as you prepare for “the half”; grabbing a “medicinal” wine – just the one – after the show; travelling home on the Tube with a full face of stage make-up; the bows and panto’s celebratory “walk down”; and the overture – oh how I love the overture!

My love of the theatre doesn’t just exist as an actor, I am a passionate audience member too. Settling into those plush seats or having to lean forward in the Gods as the lights go dark. There is nothing like that feeling. Grabbing a drink at the interval and swapping thoughts, being moved to tears in Act 2 and trying to stifle a whimper (thank you Hamilton; as impressive on the small screen at home as it was on stage). I enjoy the moments of leaving the theatre after final curtain, having stayed to listen to the outro in full and having applauded the orchestra, obviously, and rejoining the real world in the frosty London air. The memorable moments of quickly orientating myself to whichever street the theatre exit has landed me on and from there finding my way to stage door to wait for the departure of the cast, crew and musicians, to cheer them and thank them for their work. A late evening train snack, while reading the production programme from cover to cover is a critical part of the routine, as is thinking and talking about the production over the following days and, ultimately, falling more in love with the show as you re-listen to and compare and contrast a variety of cast recordings. More magical than all of this though, is getting to share that experience with someone for the first time, whether it’s a little one’s first pantomime or seeing my Dad’s reaction to Billy Elliott; there is nothing quite like it.

I’ve always known that this world is fragile. As an actor, your career is precarious. Growing older changes the roles you’re suitable to play and one injury, including vocal injuries for those of us who sing, can prematurely end that once-in-a-lifetime role. Jobs are lost, shows are closed and reviews can sting. I knew this age-old truth when I entered this industry. What I – what none of us – could have anticipated is what has happened in the last 12 months, and exactly how devastating it would feel.

In June of 2019, I booked a job in the new Cameron Mackintosh UK tour of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera. It was a job I had dreamed of doing since I was a little girl. I had been auditioning for it since I graduated drama school in 2012. Finally, finally, I had done it! On 16 March 2020, the day my Nan had travelled to Leicester to watch the show, we were called on stage about an hour before curtain-up for the evening’s performance and advised to go home for the rest of the day. The pandemic was progressing at such a rate that the theatre and production company had no option but to suspend the show until further guidance could be obtained from the Government. That was it: despite exhaustive and, I’ve no doubt, exhausting work by the production company to try and save our show, we didn’t manage to reopen. The pandemic has been devastating for many thousands of people and this is no “woe is me” story, but the day our beloved show closed and the weeks following, I shared that sense of devastation. Actors are nothing if not resilient and in the year since Phantom had to close in Leicester, I’ve appeared in online concerts. I’ve also felt the security and excitement of having booked three more acting jobs – a commercial, an international tour and a pantomime – only to have all three delayed or cancelled entirely as Covid 19 has continued its rampage. But I’m not giving up and I have hope and optimism: I know theatre will return eventually and I promise to be there as an actor and, more importantly, as an member of the audience when it does. How could I not? It is at my very core and simply my favourite way to spend an evening.

Theatre, I’ve not forgotten you. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you soon. You have my heart ~L.

Please, please do return to theatres once it is safe to do so; it will be curtains without you. In the meantime, here are some helpful ways you can support the arts industry:

• Donate to The Theatre Artists Fund
• Watch online productions for only £20 per household. The Color Purple is next on my list!
• Book tickets for future performances: even if these are delayed, ticket holders will be moved to a later date