Bring the funny

Whilst having lunch with my husband today, I made the mistake that no aspiring comic actors should ever make. Or anybody who doesn't want their sunny nature sucked out by a God-sized Henry the hoover. (Because I think that the modern God would have a much larger vacuum cleaner than the humble human-being. And it would be a Henry, the smallest one there is. I also think that God deals with the universe very much like how I play Sim City on my phone, but that's irrelevant).

Anyway, whilst we were eating outside on a beautiful day, I decided to pitch up and ask the question.

"Do you think I'm funny?"

Now, those of you who know Alex, might be wincing already. Those of you who know me are berating my stupidity. I know, I am too.

For those of you who don't know either of us, sorry about that. That's a tough burden to carry.

Alex is from Liverpool, therefore by association, he's difficult to impress, has a Titanic sized bullshit radar and is as blunt as a broken arrow. He will also always ALWAYS speak the truth. As many of my girlfriends on a night out will testify to. This is great when you're walking down the aisle to the guy, but terrible if you're hoping to bask in some comfort and niceness in a bout of uncertainty.

I on the other hand, asides from being stupid, am currently performing in my first "comic" role in a play called 'Unreachable' at the Royal Court. I'm also a glutton for punishment and one of those annoying people who always has to seek perfection and never takes a compliment for what it is. "I'm being nice to you. Just smile and enjoy it you ungrateful cow."

Yep. I could definitely write a good tinder ad.

Whilst copulating in my current bout of self-pity, I also woke up on Saturday morning and my hearing aid had decided to die on me. I wear two, so there was still some lopsided hearing, but with a matinee and an evening performance that day, the faithful spaniel-like hearing aid that had borne with me sweating on it, sitting on it and even pissing on it (once and by accident) for three years, had decided to up sticks and join God with his ginormous Henry the hoover.

Unfortunately my audiologist on Harley Street doesn't work on Saturdays and no degree of urgency or appeal of self-importance was going to change that. But on Monday, I went in and presented my bastard hearing aid in a box with some tissue, and asked them (tearfully) if there was anything they could do. Soberly, they tried everything from CPR to putting another battery in it (those patronising arseholes), before announcing that they would have to send it to Switzerland for intensive care (AKA the Phonak Factory).

I parted with my hearing aid woefully, reaching for my ear muffs which would prevent my ear from feeling lonely and exposed to the environment, even if it was the hottest day of the year. I would not let my ear feel ABANDONED by the world. (I am slightly exaggerating here).

A few minutes later, they kindly provided me with a replacement - a dozen years older than my current one, but still nonetheless one that would provide me with a degree of hearing on both sides of my head. Useful when you have the audience laughing in one ear and the actors speaking in the other. Unfortunately, because the hearing aid is slightly different looking, I'm vain enough to now worry about whether I look a bit of a nob.

The Terminator 

I have named my replacement hearing aid "The Terminator". I hope I don't need to explain myself to you.

Going back to the conversation that I had with Alex earlier today, where I asked him whether he thought I was a funny person, I now understand that (according to him) I as Genevieve Barr am not funny. However, what has been written for my character is. Which took my mind down the path of how much we live at the mercy of what writers give us to say on stage.

If the lines are funny, maybe you could just deliver the lines and all would be ok. In a natural performance - if the language is right, then you shouldn't need to do anything to milk the audience for a laugh. That can be kind of scary for an actor who likes to measure how hard they are working by the amount of nuance they try to portray or the range of their emotional journey.

As someone who hasn't been to drama school, also, I have that constant nagging doubt rapping at my brain like a woodpecker, or a hangover, am I doing enough? Does the fount of knowledge that three years of training gives you make you that much better or prepared for the roles you take on? I certainly think that being accepted into drama school (not that I even tried) gives you enough impetus to think that you're good enough.

If you read anything about acting or comedy, you will be led to believe that there is a huge amount of craft in creating successful comic characters. Everything needs to be said in the right tone, with the right pitch, the right mannerisms and most importantly, at the right time. Right? It requires a strong commitment to character. And a strong awareness of the differences between who you are and who your character is.

I suppose all that reading and at the root of it, a lack of conviction, is what led me to ask Alex today whether he thought I was funny. Because I thought if I understood how I, Genevieve, bring the funny, I could decide how much of that to put into my character on stage. Let me be clear right now, Alex didn't say what he said to be cruel or because I, Genevieve, am not funny; he said it (I think) because there is an artifice in a lot of comedy roles and not many people are actually naturally comic - they are just smart with words.

I think I can write funny. Sometimes. You'll have to tell me whether you laughed in this blog. Maybe I was trying too hard to earn your amusement - I don't know. But I know if you ask me to tell a funny story, I will freeze up or reel off a diatribe reminiscent of monosyllabic and monotonic diarrhoea. So dead in the water. Ha! And I don't think I have the face of a contortionist that makes you want to giggle. So everything Alex said was fair.

But I'm still left a bit stuck and I'm on stage in a couple of hours. I would like to know that by the end of this run of 'Unreachable', I've given it all the funny I've got. Without looking like I'm trying to be funny. So will it be the path of the least resistance - react as I would react or will I try and bring more specific comic characterisation to the stage? Undecided. But you're at the Royal Court and in an Anthony Neilson play? That's pretty special. Enjoy every moment.

Panache

"I hope we can deliver the same panache this time."

"Panache?"

I repeated this word to Amit, our director, as we scanned over a newspaper article in the Plymouth Herald by which he sets out his new ambitions for 'The Solid Life of Sugar Water' ahead of the formidable tour we have ahead of us.

The word he has chosen to describe his visions for the show is panache.

Just so I'm clear, it wasn't the pronunciation that confused me. Panash? Pan-ache? PanaCHE? It ought to since it derives from the French and the French language is not particularly friendly to deaf people. (Rendezvous being such an example).

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines panache as: "flamboyant confidence and nerve". It also describes it as "a tuft or plume of feathers especially on a headdress".

I think it's pretty clear which one Amit meant. But you never know.

'The Solid Life of Sugar Water' indisputably has a lot of panache. It graphically spells out a difficult story on stage and leaves you hanging there unapologetically. It's incredibly brave - it takes a lot of confidence for artists and a production team to take such a fragile subject and deliver it to the masses. Jack Thorne's intricate writing and Amit Sharma's tender direction have provided the creative input that breathe life into what's such a stark and unspoken subject: stillbirth. I'm so proud to be a part of this.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I might have spoken a little disparagingly to Amit when the Plymouth Herald unveiled his 'masterplan of panache' during technical rehearsals at the Theatre Royal earlier this week. Because it is a word that helps encapsulate 'The Solid Life of Sugar Water'.

This week has seen the official start of tour with audiences returning to the Theatre Royal Plymouth. We've had such a welcome, it's been amazing. I've been pretty nervous - not in the dressing room like I was at Edinburgh, of forgetting my words or doing the show a disservice. I've been getting nervous in the middle of performances when I suddenly want to know if the audience are with us. The nature of the play is that we talk directly to the audience - Arthur as Phil and myself as Alice - two intimate monologues that weave themselves over 90 minutes on the stage. And as an artist, you want to feel reassured that the audience are with you - they understand what you are trying to tell them. Sometimes we don't feel so brave about the subject we're talking about.

Next week we go onto Birmingham, then Manchester and onto other places. That's a new journey, because who knows what we can expect there. Right now, I'm loving the dusk of Plymouth when I walk down from the Hoe, through the Drum's stage door and get into my pyjamas. Before I know it, it's time to get onto the bed and captivate a new audience with the panache of 'The Solid Life of Sugar Water'. I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations.

Granny Piano - an epitaph on a tyrant

"'I am not an angel," she asserted, "and I'll not be one until I die. I am myself."

'Jane Eyre', Charles Dickens

These words could easily epitomise my Granny Piano, though I suspect she would vehemently deny she was anything but the paradigm of goodness if any of us were present. After all, she was terribly stubborn - a trait which has filtered down from child to grandchild and I suspect that all of us possess it to some degree now.

It has been a few days since we learnt of Granny Piano's passing and I have been resisting the temptation to plagiarise W.H. Auden and gently name this 'Epitaph on a Tyrant."

That would be cruel and otherwise inappropriate. And typical of me, if I'm honest. (I can see her looking at me horrified, but I would just wink from the bottom of the stairs and she would not be able to resist a small smile.) That was our relationship.

It's a funny thing being an adult grandchild. You hold onto the memories past. Because there is a moment when you are growing up, in my case the later teens, when the penny drops and lo behold you realise that your grandparents and your parents and all adults in fact are people all on their own and actually possess (dare I say it) personalities. You blink in horror and rub at your eyes to double check. They have pasts and presents and futures. And not necessarily ones you want to know about.
Your parents and grandparents actually exist...beyond their direct relevance and usefulness to you.

With some relations that's a marvellous thing - having an adult relationship with your mum when you are so hoping she will buy you those high heels you've been dying to get or give you permission to get into the nightclub that all your friends are allowed to go to... (Your ulterior motives don't always change after this momentous discovery). Or what about that mysterious uncle who never said very much to you growing up but gave you terribly nice presents. All of a sudden, you're propped up on a bar drinking a glass of wine and talking about the last play he'd seen at the theatre.

Sometimes it's ghastly, like when your dad tells an inappropriate joke and one part of you is like I can't believe we're talking about the "s word"like grownups and the other part is like ewww, don't ever say that to me again!

But for me, thinking about Granny Piano and in spite having had that stark discovery of "she has a past and a present too", I can't see her in any other way other than when I was six years old and a very young child. And those are some of the best and most vivid memories I have.

Her kitchen in Boston Spa where our art took focal point on her walls. Those wonky calendars we had made out of paper plates and string when we were very little. There were always pictures everywhere of her family - and her favourite stories were always when her grandchildren or her boys had been extremely naughty. These were our favourite stories too. She would retell these to us whilst we were tucked up in her waterbed, toasty warm from the electric blanket and hugging Marcipaloni. (Marcipaloni was this old wrinkly teddybear that had a very exotic history - how much of it invented, I'll now never know). Maripaloni's bed of tissues was always right next to us under the bedside light. I remember jam jars of rose petals and running naked under the hose pipe in her garden. Jam jars of water and squiggles of paint covering both paper and tablecloth. The raspberries and sweets and cream by the bucketload that were always just there in her fridge as if magically she knew we were dropping by. Swinging on the garden seat and how soft and squidgy she was to cuddle - not only her cashmere, but the powder on her cheeks and the handcream she swore by. She would stroke the inside of your wrist very gently. I remember watching her play the piano when there was still room for both of us to squeeze on the velvet stool. The hours of playing Happy Families - (the irony I could only appreciate later) - and Wimbledon and poor Uncle John.

Those are the things I remember. If I'm honest, that's how I want to remember her - and having been so lucky to have had her in my life for thirty years, I have the luxury to choose where she sits in my memories and where she sits in my heart. So I think I'll be six.

I might also cheat and add a few snippets from when I was older - it would be unforgivable not to laugh over her startling black eyebrows or her bizarre fashion for wearing sunglasses indoors.

Sometimes I wish I could have asked all the questions I wanted to ask and tell her all the things I had to say, but life doesn't work that way. We never manage to quite do our goodbyes (saying it is so hard after all) and even if I had asked all the questions I wanted to ask and told her all the things I had to say, I probably wouldn't understand any more than now. She was a mystery in many ways. The stubbornest of us all.

As an adult, I can't like all of the things I know about her now, but she was a truly special grandmother. I loved her with a huge piece of my heart. She left me enraptured and charmed, pampered and loved. And I feel very lucky for having had her.

I hope she's at peace now. And I will feel her absence sorely.

Hurtling towards Opening Night

"Yes it's coming....AAAAHHH."

Having never given birth myself, it's probably not an equitable comparison to the insurmountable task of putting together 'The Solid Life of Sugar Water'. But after many hours of...labour (sorry), we are now in Plymouth where the days counting down to Opening Night are in the single digits.

Deep breaths.

This week is "Tech Week" - where the set design, lighting, music, choreography and - of course - the acting, all come together. The days are long and the process arduous but for Arthur and I (or maybe just I) it is like hurtling through space through a post office queue, a cinema, a bridge on the Thames and crashing onto earth in a hospital bed. Monday is looming.

"It's there...AAAHHH."

It has an incredible privilege and experience working on this show, there's been ribaldry, tears and hissy fits (but only one), and the extraordinary efforts that has gone into building this bed on a wall is truly remarkable. I have no doubt that the audience are coming to come into the auditorium and gasp with awe, and hopefully will continue to revel with the help of my masterful acting skills.

And if not mine, then certainly Arthur's.

The challenges of tech week have brought about a new experience for me - that of having an interpreter. Being deaf and growing up in a hearing family, I've always been very well adapted to finding coping mechanisms when there has been lots of people talking or sitting around a bonfire in the dark or listening to music. But having the support here this week when a million different sounds, lights and movements have been thrown in my face on stage, it's been really helpful.

Though people do seem to forget that I'm not very good at sign language. And so sometimes, I'm left even more clueless than when I started!

The other challenge has been really pulling together all those different elements to the character I'm playing to make one cohesive whole.

The number of people who have lost children whom I have spoken to since starting this play have given me a very stark realisation of the pain and grief that such a tragedy can bring and for me, the responsibility of conveying that has been very hard to shoulder. On top of that, so much of this play is comedy - a hilarity and playfulness that makes the entire ensemble smack of pathos.  This is a play about the love that two people share for one another through the good times and the hard times. This is a rollercoaster like one I have never been on before - steep summits and plummets, twists and turns and we will take you, the audience, with us on this journey from start to finish.

So savour the moments we give you and cherish them with us. Live through our pain and our joy and bear with us sometimes - it's a difficult journey to share. Although there are moments of abject terror and a brace of nerves, we can't wait to start 'The Solid Life of Sugar Water' next Monday. And if we don't see you here in Plymouth, we hope you'll catch us in Edinburgh!

The workings of a new play

Exploding boxes, pyjamas, licking necks and lots and lots of baked beans.

After six months overseas, I returned to the UK last month to start rehearsals for a brand new play written by Jack Thorne, 'The Solid Life of Sugar Water'. I play the part of 'Alice'. My wonderful counterpart, Arthur, plays my husband 'Phil'. And that's it. There's two of us. And sixty-six pages of script staring at us.

A tumultuous journey so far, we are finally reaching the end of the second week and gasping for a few days off - but there will be no resting on our laurels. Next week is the last week at Graeae before we take the production to Plymouth, and a dawning of dread is already starting to swirl around my ankles.

So let's not talk about that.

I am fortunate to have some very supportive friends, whom this week, have kept me in reality check. For when asked about my day, the other day, I said:

"This morning I was experiencing the beginnings of foreplay in bed, this afternoon I went to the cinema, an art gallery and had a kiss on a bridge. I don't know which one - the text doesn't say."

Bless them, because rather than get bogged down the details, they turned to me and said:

"Gen, what on earth are you talking about?"

And that's the real struggle as you get more and more immersed in this beautiful play, you start to go slightly insane. Acting isn't about playing the role, it's about becoming the role. And so, every day 'Alice' becomes more Genevieve and Genevieve becomes more 'Alice'. You might as well start calling us 'Genalice'.

Thank goodness my character's name is not 'Tilda'.

Probably not that funny. Sorry.

When I first read the play, two things became immediately transparent to me:

1) This would be one of the toughest roles I've had the fortune to play.

2) My granny was definitely, firmly, assertively NOT allowed to come and see it. Our relationship would never recover.

To pinch some of Jack Thorne's words when he was talking about the play the other day, it is a story about recovery. The couple are trying to deal with a very traumatic event - with the death of a newborn baby and through their grief, their relationship has deteriorated. They have to rediscover why they loved each other in the first place and deal with having sex for the first time since it happened. We will take you through a journey of our relationship - flashing back into the past, but also trying to have sex- an uncomfortable experience both textually and literally.

At least for me - I can't speak for Arthur!

For while Phil and Alice have been married for a few years, Arthur and Genevieve have only known each other a couple of weeks. The trust and amount you have to give each other in a very short period of time is immense. It isn't always easy - but we are getting there.

Amit, our director, does a great job of keeping me sane (ironically, for those who know him). He understands which buttons to push with me.

At the start of the week, I was really grappling with with the physical aspects of the play - the movement on the bed (for the bed is upright against the wall, so when we are lying down, we are standing up and when we are standing up, we are lying down)...the mind just boggles. There are a lot of technical aspects to figure out - for the play jumps back and forward, in fact it just hops all over the place. During all of this, I have been trying to understand who my character is and why she feeling the way she is - in every word, sentence, paragraph of the play.

We are getting there - and I am proud of the amount of progress we have made - though there is still a way to go. So it is with excitement, tremulation and slight trepidation that I look ahead to next week and what it brings.

Call the Midwife

Beehives, bouffants and sack dresses - a month in the life of the 1950's - awesome.

Fat suits, faking labour and chinese dolls were a little more unexpected.

Though it is Call the Midwife.

Filming Call the Midwife was a fabulous whirlwind into one of the BBC's most successful television series' of the decade and appealingly dominated by a sexy, sassy female cast. So prim and proper on screen in starched uniforms and clicky lace-up heels, it was a little bewildering sitting in hair and makeup with Helen George (who plays Trixie) dressed glamorously with a fox fur stole wrapped around her neck at 6am in the morning.

And a little awkward at first, knowing she's going to be fake delivering your fake baby out of your fake tummy. A rather intimate moment to happen between two strangers.

But I should be used to the strange world of acting by now.

Driving out of London and down leafy country lanes in Chertsey, Surrey to the film set, I was a little lugubrious due to the fact that Alex and I had been due to go on holiday that very day (which we postponed to enable me to film this role). I was also a little daunted for I was to have a labour rehearsal with the consultant midwife and a lesson in 1960s British Sign Language.

Why?

I've never given birth and even though I'm deaf, I am not fluent in sign - my modus operandi, communication wise, is certainly verbal. There was a lot to learn and it was important to get right.

I have also been traumatised by graphic delineations of labour by three wine-fuelled ladies from Liverpool - you know who you are. Thank you for the extraordinary detail. I will never forget it.

My family were also delighted that I was filming this particular series, not least because there was the potential prospect of my meeting one of their favourite stars - Miranda Hart. Coaxing and wheedlings from them for autographs from the tall lady went no where - with extreme blackmail at one point when asked "in the name of charity". Suggestions that I invite her to join the Hackney Rugby Ladies Team also strangely were forgotten.

Standing in my underwear in the trailer with Ralph Wheeler-Holes, the costume designer, there was a mild moment of bafflement as, in spite of sending my measurements ahead, nothing actually fit once I got into the fat suit. Whilst adjusting the bulk of pennies laden in the crotch (to hold the baby bump down), I asked whether this was par for the course.

"Of course, but most people's bust and hip sizes stay the same whereas yours seem to have expanded along with the baby."

Alex (my boyfriend) will never be using the tape measure again.

The perm mishap 

Once the hairdresser had said decidedly that I was not suited to ringlets, but more to quaffs (think less Judy Garland, more Audrey Hepburn), I became a 'June Denton' faced with the prospects of bringing a child into a deaf world, or a hearing world. June is torn between the baby being able to hear, but she not being able to speak to it or vice versa - the baby being born deaf and therefore living in a silent world. A cruel dilemma - accentuated by the fact that hearing aids were not readily available and cochlea implants did not exist. A deaf person could not learn to speak so easily without those resources and segregation and discrimination were rife in society.

We are fortunate that life is not quite so hard for deaf people now.

Those who know me are familiar with the 'bubble bath' story - when I was little my mum would sing nursery rhymes to me in the bath. And one day, in spite of being born deaf, I started mouthing the words back to her.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star."

It was a turning point in my mum's battle to teach me how to speak - even though I had no concept of sound at the time, I understood communication and lipreading was to become as familiar to me as being able to read and write. This was in spite of the doctors telling her that I would never learn to speak and that sign language was the only way in which interaction between mother and child would work.

When I found out earlier this year that my mum had breast cancer, it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to come to terms with. A few days before the audition, I had a conversation with her, when she said that struggling with cancer and chemo was better and easier than her discovery that I was born deaf.

It struck a blind nerve.

How could the tragedy of being diagnosed with cancer be remotely equivalent to being born deaf?

Somehow, after long days of filming, I couldn't quite turn off the character of June Denton. Her story. How will I feel when I am pregnant with my first child, facing the possibilities of them being born deaf? How did my mum feel with the predicament of, well me?

I'm sure as June Denton found out, that love holds the answer. What they are doesn't matter.

So grunting, straining, covered in a sheen of fake sweat (and some real) I had my first experience of pretending to give birth on Call the Midwife. And I have no delusions that it is anything like the real thing. Genevieve wanted to look reasonably sexy on camera, but it was not to be. There was also a little caginess as I had heard that there had been several incidences of being peed or pooped on by babies during filming.

Shouldn't there be a hazard sign for that?

The baby actually had no accidents and looked gorgeous - a tiny two month old with jet black hair who had to be lathed in baby oil and fake blood and hidden cunningly under a cloth between my legs. The baby's workload was considerably lighter - 30 minutes of work with an hour's rest in between.

During those breaks, they used a fake baby - which happened to look Chinese. Imagine my confusion when that popped out.

The final day of filming (for it is rarely chronological) was the most important scene, where I would inevitably have to cry and simultaneously sign a long monologue. A typical scene takes about three hours to film, and this was probably going to take longer. Preparing for this had me in a dark place. Trying to put myself in June Denton's shoes.

It's not an easy thing being deaf, and I know that more than most people. If it is a burden, then I carry it most times without being aware of it. If it is a burden and I am aware of it, then I carry it with pride and determination, therefore not really feeling it. But June's grace in her deafness, her delight in the small victories, her realisation that love can be conveyed without sound and without sound left me with more confidence than before - that regardless of which way my children go in the world, they will be loved and know they are loved.

Playing 'June Denton' in Call the Midwife

Sleepless in Siem Reap

Cupcakes, pancakes and fruit shakes. Batman Tuk Tuks, Jianzi, dollar massages. Baby Alligators. Temples.

Welcome to Siem Reap.

Known as the gateway to Angkor Wat, Siem Reap is a big tourist destination. With treelined streets, a river and you know it's coming - French colonial buildings, it's a handsome town filled to the brim with great little cafes and the more schlocky Pub Street for the younger, drink-fuelled backpackers.

We arrived by the notorious night bus, in spite of having been warned of how dangerous it is by every single travel guide and blog I had found on the internet.

Why then, you ask, did you go on it?

Because someone convinced me that I was being a... cluck cluck. And I'm too easily riled.

Having been promised a spacious double bed, air con, free water and all the perks (am I sounding incredibly naive at this point?) we found ourselves in a vehicle which could have masqueraded as a sex parlour. And probably did. Dark red curtains and tiny cells not fit for a life-term convict, we found our bed directly under the engine at the very back of the bus. Air-con out of action. Hairs on the pillow. Shady stains on the mattress.

Relatively claustrophobic, having once had a complete paddy climbing the staircase to the Whispering Gallery at St Paul's Cathedral, I found myself breathing pretty short breaths in muggy air convinced that the mephitic fumes of the engine would probably kill me overnight. The corridor reaching our budget boudoir was so narrow, all passengers had to walk crablike. One escape route, with us at the back of the bus.

Currently agnostic, I cannot say I 'found God' on this journey but I did pray multiple times overnight when I was suspended in air or spooning the wall when the driver slammed the brakes down. (Being at the back, we were sideways on).

The Remedy

Sleep deprived with a rats nest on my head and desperate for a wee, we arrived at a sunny 6am in Siem Reap. At this point with no placable sarcasm apparent, Alex said:

"Well that was much better than the night bus in Laos!"

Genuinely. I wanted to kill him.

At least he didn't say 'What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger".

But food always cheers me up and two pancakes with berry compote, creme fraiche, maple syrup and bacon at Cafe Central did a grand job.

You know that I can't write a blog about Siem Reap and not talk about Angkor Wat. And whilst we took some incredible photos, they will probably look just like everybody else's - no matter how much time is spent editing them. So I will attempt to not to go into minute detail about every temple we saw but share the more entertaining bits. But prepare yourself for lots of photos, tough luck on that side of things.

At 4.30am, my favourite time of day to wake up, we took a tuk-tuk which we had negotiated down (good cop/bad cop routine is still working) to 15 dollars for the day. We had decided to leave the best til last, so we maturely turned our heads to the left whilst passing Angkor Wat on the right.

First stop 5.30am

Baksei Chamkrong was our choice for the sunrise, an early 10th century Hindu temple which looked a little like an Apocalypto head-rolling sacrifical slide. Our driver got out his hammock and hanging it on his tuk-tuk, went back to sleep whilst we peered blankly into the dark at the very steep stairs we were standing in front of.

Having climbed to the top, whilst murmuring about health and safety hazards in a very British way, we sat and ate our breakfast of pineapple and mango whilst Alex listened to the bats that were chirping in the temple. I protected my hair with a sarong.

Breakfast time in the dark.

Having been to Petra in Jordan, the capabilities of what humans can do never ceases to amaze and when you stand amongst the faces of Bayon that awe and splendour really hits you. What was all the more special was that because all the tourists had flocked home after sunrise for breakfast, we were pretty much the only people there. Passing it a couple of hours later, it was like a sea of faces.

I pride myself with having a good vocabulary, but after seeing a couple of temples you do struggle for words to describe them. Rock. Stone. Carved. Sculptures. Buildings. Temples. Meh.

Alex bitterly disappointed me at Ta Prohm for refusing to be videoed pretending to be Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. He was never going to be Angelina Jolie but he could have been a very believable young Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones.

Later that day, we discovered the best cupcakes we had ever tasted at Blossom Cafe, so we ate lots of them. Though my sister is not a bridezilla, I still have to watch what I eat apparently so I am not a fat bridesmaid so I won't mention how many we had or how many times we visited in our week in Siem Reap.

Two of .... many!

Wednesday was a good day as it was a chance to see a face from the past - David and his wife Vina. Both his daughters are close friends of mine. They were both staying at a hotel a considerable upgrade from ours - the Victoria Angkor Resort which boasted a very nice swimming pool, those seriously cool old-school elevators which you have to slide the door to close and a baby alligator pond. We had a bizarre moment when discussing my failure to break Hollywood and it materialised out that one of the few people I had met was his best friend from school. (The only person he knew in LA). It's a small world.

Another day at the Angkor Wat Archeological Site involved riding 'the Grand Loop' - 30km on mountain bikes. The ride was brisk as Scouser Wiggins likes a good pace. I almost crashed into several bins that were waiting to be recycled on the road. Then almost did it again on the way back.

Trusty Steeds

Neak Pean was an island temple accessed by a long causeway and the views were reminiscent of the end of the second Lord of the Rings, when Isengard is destroyed.

"Some of my kin look just like trees now, and need something great to rouse them; and they only speak in whispers." (Treebeard)

Spooky stuff.

Isengard /Neak Pean

Alex's birthday falls on Valentine's Day and we were in Siem Reap to celebrate it. We spent the day doing most of his favourite things. We started with a pancake breakfast then watched a film in the Green Leaf Book Cafe (An Extraordinary Theory of Everything - is it only me who bawled their eyes out the whole film?) We then had a brunch of more pancakes with Alex's favourite Mango Shake. Lunch and the early afternoon was spent with Alex watching the cricket and rugby on two screens at the same time. Then we went for a Dollar Massage.

Massage parlours are everywhere in Siem Reap - to relieve the weary loins of tourists traversing Angkor Wat. Most of them have the same deal - a dollar for a ten minute foot massage. Being generous, we decided to go for three dollars.

It was not a pleasant experience.

The man who was lathering globs of unlabelled cream on my feet and legs had elongated molars - aka vampire fang dentistry and was giggling tonelessly in a high pitched voice to his neighbour. His idea of massage was to smack my feet and legs then place his pudgy gargantuan hands on my little toes and pull them out of their sockets as if he was having a tug of war with the entire Japanese Sumo Wrestling Team. This he then repeated two other times, once every ten minutes.

1$ foot massage. You get what you pay for.

Insanely after our dinner at 'Genevieve's Restaurant' - for where else were we going to go for Alex's birthday (it's also the number 2 restaurant in Siem Reap), we decided to go for another massage. This time I broke into hysterical giggles when both of them got into the downward dog position and put their hands on our groins, rubbing us in circular motion. The Khmer massage techniques are really not to be missed.

Then we watched Six Nations rugby well into the night with a few beers to help us along.

The Angkor Wat sunset was our last experience in Siem Reap before we took a bus and crossed the border to Bangkok. It was a marvel, worth waiting for. Alex took lots of pictures of the reflection of Angkor Wat in the lake whilst I made some friends.

Sunset at Angkor Wat

Making friends

Six weeks of travelling around Laos and Cambodia and it comes to the final thing we see to know that the crazy experiences we have been through have been worthwhile. That sitting under a bat-infested temple in the pitch black and watching the sun rise over Angkor Wat Archological Site made the entire trip worthwhile. There have been some incredibly unremarkable places. There have been some horrible, horrible bus journeys. There have been some gruesome, harrowing sights. There has been a lot of the views of the Mekong. That's all part and parcel of being a backpacker. But the majesty of being at Angkor Wat - and it only takes one time - leaves you feeling pretty special. That you've seen something that that old cliche 'once in a lifetime' truly fulfils.

A representation of 80% of photos taken.