Tag Archives: The Ex

Yes yes yes, there has been a notable absence of Ritzi in the online world of late. Why? Because it’s freakin party season, that’s why. How we make it through this time of year I really have no idea. So far, in the past 22 days, I have managed to stumble my way through;

• 4 press nights
• 8 ‘business Christmas lunches’
• 2 first previews
• 6 theatre visits (not including press nights/previews…)
• 4 ‘company’ parties (ie, cast/crew/celebs et al getting smashed post-show)
• 1 show birthday party (messy night that one)
• 2 fancy movie screenings
• 22 hangovers

The problem with this time of year is that you’re so bloody busy celebrating ‘this time of year’ that when you twin that with actual work and plenty of 6am alarms, you reach the penultimate day of work before the West End closes down for Christmas in a sort of daze, surviving only on mince pies and corporate gift wine, looking like you’ve been run over by the very courier that dropped it off.

Thank fuck for dry shampoo.

One particular party night, I relied on dry shampoo rather a lot. See I’d already managed to make it through two Christmas dinners, a first preview and a press night that week. Throw in a VERY tense conference call and the last thing you want to be doing is dragging yourself to a party where you know your ex is going to be in attendance, on the day that he’s just cancelled the end of year dinner plans that you hadn’t particularly wanted to attend in the first place (curse my stupid girlish tendency to never let go of the bastard).

But I am a professional. So of course I went. And it was totally worth it, because I got to do two very notable things.

The first, was save some poor gullible girl from the clutches of the ex’s charms. Alright, so I didn’t intend it to go that way, but when I spotted him at the party chatting up some starry eyes front of house girl, I made damn sure to put my fabulous self into his line of vision and sharpish. Then he did that thing.

“Hey! Ritzi! This is… oh, I’m so sorry, I can’t remember your name…”

Poor girl. I know that move. Fuck knows why it works but of course she goes all giggly – of course the big West End star doesn’t know her name, she’s only a lowly front of house girl after all! I rolled my eyes and launched into a conversation, and pretty soon the pretty girl got whisked away by someone else.

I promise you sweetheart, you’ll thank me in the morning.

Then, a couple of hours later, slightly sloshed, I get a tap on the shoulder while I’m chatting to a very attractive chap who’s apparently in Downton Abbey (I should really watch that sometime) and turn around to see the ex, wanting to include me in some kind of drunken hilarity.

Sorry silly boy… can you not see I’m talking to this dishy star of a popular period drama? Honestly.

Another hour later, I swanned out of there, sending a quick ‘g’night’ his way but absolutely not seeking any kind of drunken physical contact. I awoke (grudgingly) the next morning, feeling all empowered, until around lunchtime, when my blackberry buzzed with a text.

‘Hey babe! Got in at 5am in the end – crazy night! When can I see you in 2012 then?’

I lasted approximately 4 seconds before texting back.

Sucker.

RitziCx