Mamma Mia

It’s often said when we start having a family that we lose a part of ourselves. Over recent years I have sometimes been asked what my hobbies are and, after wracking my brains, eventually have to admit I don’t have any.

When I was school age I did a decade of ballet, then there were the piano lessons, girl guides and pony club but they all stopped when I went to uni, then did the OE and returned to start a family. Who has time for hobbies?

But lately, with the kids all at school, I’ve been feeling like I need something for myself. The suggestions included a photography course (I studied manual photography at high school and polytech in the pre-digital days), getting another horse and ladies golf. Then I spotted an ad for auditions for Mamma Mia and a light bulb went off.

I’ve always loved performing on stage but, although I can sing in tune, I don’t have a great voice and so I phoned and enquired if I could audition for a dancing and chorus (background) part with no solo singing involved.

I went along and reminded them that I wasn’t there to sing. Sitting there waiting I was feeling alright about everything when in walks a 17-year-old who starts warming up by promptly sinking into the splits, before touching her toes to her head in a back arch. At this point I grabbed my bag and started making a run for it when the choreographer called us both in.

She was lovely, as was the girl I was auditioning with who happened to mention she had just made it into the Australian School of Dance. I wanted to leg it as we were taken through our routine and I clumsily tried to keep up. Six years ago, I was in Disco Inferno as chorus and dancer and, afterwards, I declared it the best thing I had done after having children. But this was clearly a totally different calibre.

“Right,” said the choreographer. “Who would like to go through first?”

“Where to?” I stupidly asked.

“Through to the audition,” she replied smiling.

Gulp. “You mean … that wasn’t the audition …?”

The confident teen went through ahead of me, making my plight even worse. Not only would I look like a complete doofus, but, following the likes of her, I would look like a geriatric flunk.

She went through and, again, I considered bailing.

But then the doors opened and it was my turn. I went before a panel of four or five who, although were extremely pleasant, had had a day of auditions and, I would imagine, would not have the time for the likes of me.

“Would you like me to do the routine with you.” asked the lovely choreographer, seeing my discomfort and realising I was a long way off mastering the routine.

“Yes please,” I gratefully replied. 

And with that, for the next five minutes I assailed their senses by flustering my way through the steps, making some up as I went along.

“Now, can you sing?” asked the pianist.

I shook my head in a vehement no.

“It’s alright, we’ll just get you to sing Happy Birthday and we’ll sing it with you,” he soothed.

Off they went in a pitch that was way too high for me and, oh-em-gee, it was high school speeches all over again.

I mean, have you ever tried to sing Happy Birthday solo when you’re not at a kid’s party with all the racket to drown out your own voice? It’s terrible!

Halfway through, I stopped.

“You can sing in tune,” the pianist euphemistically declared, no doubt, seeing my mortification.

I must admit, the panel were very gracious about my disastrous audition and I thanked them for tolerating me, then fled.

So ladies golf it is. Look out Pines Golf Course, here I come and, I promise, no singing or dancing on the golf course!