Sunday, January 3

Twenty-five days till curtain up.

The festivities are truly over. Everyone shuffles into the rehearsal room looking sluggish and a few pounds heavier than before Christmas.

After a laboured run-through we huddle together to share stories and sip on some soup the Fairy Godmother has kindly made from Christmas leftovers. The director brings our musings to a crashing halt.

"In case some of you are unaware we are now three weeks away from opening night. Some of you clearly don't know where you are meant to be on stage, there's not half enough energy and you need to up your game."

We wander off home, with much to think about, and totally unaware we're all about to go down with a 24-hour 'Christmas leftovers' stomach bug.

Tuesday, January 5

Fairy Godmother is mortified. "It's the Evil Camilla who's meant to poison the cast, not you," mutters a still queasy Knuckles. We struggle on through Act 1. It feels as if we're on the Titanic in more ways than one.

Tuesday, January 12

The director's partner has been rushed into the Critical Care Unit at the RUH and is on a life support machine. The director's staying with us as we only live five minutes away.

At the hospital friends and family are arriving to support but no one has a clue what to say as we sit in the waiting room taking turns to go in. The silence is broken by the director's phone ringing. It's the Dame. He clearly hasn't heard the news and it's made worse by the fact that the phone is on loudspeaker.

"I was wondering whether anyone's put some thought into my shoes for the finale? Only the ones I've been rehearsing in are giving me bunions," his voice comes booming down the line.

I can't print the response he got, but needless to say the dame is still working on his timing.

The director and I stop for a large brandy in the Old Crown on our way home.

"What do you want me to do about rehearsals?" I ask, knowing that there is no way the director will be available for the next few days.

"The show has to go on," he says, "And you'll have to take my place for a while."

Time for another large brandy.

Thursday, January 14

I'm sitting in front of a room full of people looking at me for direction.

It's petrifying and I feel rather like you do in those dreams when you meet the Queen and you're not wearing any underwear. We go for a run-through of Act 2 and I sit making copious notes. By the end the nerves have subsided to anger and I call everyone over. "I'm sorry but it's just not good enough. We've worked too hard and too long on this to be fluffing lines. You owe it to the director and his partner to make this thing fly. From now on I am banning everything social that you do until you know the script perfectly. And that includes nookie."

I've forgotten my wife is in the cast. She quips back: "You've shot yourself in the foot there, love."

Sunday, January 17

I Want to Break Free is set. The cast love doing the Freddie Mercury impressions. Just hope the audience will too.

Tuesday, January 19

The stage is now up. The songs and dances are set and the lines are now (mainly) learnt.

All we need is an audience. For the evening run-through I've invited my brother, who loves comedy, a cast member's friend (who actually is a director and knows what he's talking about) and a 'grandfather' panel member to put a family spin on things. I introduce them to the cast as tonight's X Factor judges and explain that they will be asked for comments at the end of both acts. The cast start sluggishly and the energy isn't good. I sit behind the 'judges' getting more and more frustrated. The responsibility is unbearable (no wonder the director always has to go to the pub afterwards) and I wince at every fluffed line or ill-delivered gag.

Thankfully the feedback is fantastic and constructive. There are changes to make as a direct result but it's a really useful exercise. By the time you read this the curtain will be about to go up. If you're sitting in the audience watching, chances are I'll be "behind you" standing at the back biting my nails and wishing you were laughing a bit louder.

I hope and pray the director is standing beside me but at the time of going to press his partner was still in a critical condition.

Encore Northenders are performing Puss in Boots from January 28 to 30 and February 4 to 6. Tickets are still available for limited performances. Visit www.encorenorthenders.com or phone 01225 812202.