A tour hoe's tour woes

For the past two weeks, I have been touring Ireland with a group of other huns playing Irish music. We perform concerts in 14 venues over 14 days, and at the time of writing, there are 4 more left before we *sniff* finish up. I type this in a state of perpetual physical and mental exhaustion, sitting on a noisy bus, with the sun gleaming on the laptop screen as I contemplate what the tour life has taught me thus far.

One major life lesson I have garnered from the whole experience is to appreciate what you have before it is cruelly snatched away from you. I am, of course, referring to a good night's sleep, which, by the way, I rob from myself by staying up drinking and generally acting the blaggard with the rest of the gang until the wee hours of the morning. 6am bedtimes are routine, as is checking out at the ungodly hour of 10am, and hitting the road again. The sleep deprivation becomes so much that you'd be forgiven the next morning for pouring mayonnaise into your tae thinking it was milk.

Covering up the under-eye bags (designer, of course) is a tricky task too, considering, as one of the female performers, I have to look cute every evening. And I mean EVERY evening. I honestly don't know how the ones behind the department store makeup counters do it - painting your face daily (and we're talking lashes, highlighting, contouring, the works), making sure that your hair is presentable and your tan is in check. Needless to say, the tan took a back seat after the first few concerts. I was happy on stage to look like the most natural fiddle-playing yoghurt the world had ever seen.

But when your immune system is run down from the consistent late nights, early mornings, and general tomfoolery that tour life has to offer, the sneezing and coughing can really distract from how fabulous I've managed to make myself appear. You can go from looking like a million dollars to a measly €2.50 when you've a rake of spots, a tickly cough and a runny nose. The incessant talking, roaring, shouting and laughing has also led to the mysterious disappearance of my voice (*cue the chin-scratching emoji*). This can make joining in on the bus sing-a-longs quite difficult, as well as coming in strong for choruses during the actual show, which induce so much coughing and wheezing that I am in danger of falling off the front of the stage in a sickly, thrown-together albeit made-up and coiffed heap.

Of course, spending on average 4-6 hours on a bus every day with 14 other humans could hardly add to my quality of life. Trying to catch pockets of sleep here and there while leaning up against the hard, plastic frame of the bus with the seat-belt plug digging into your hip is, sadly, what most days consist of. As well as the incompatible seating space, your sleep-deprived body is also battling with environmental noises such as Spotify, and the crashing sound of items overhead coming loose and flying around the bus whenever it brakes or takes a sudden corner. No alarms needed to rouse you out of your sleep here. Motion sickness really is no joke when it's teamed with a raging hangover.

But I couldn't end this blog post on a negative note. As a teacher, I'll always find the uplifting life lesson among the dung heap. In the last few weeks I've had the best laugh with the best people, began to overcome my crippling stage-fright, and performed in some amazing venues in places I'd never been before. Any self-induced tiredness or headache is dissipated with the next funny anecdote, or lively tune, or wave of audience applause. When it's all over and I go home, and check in to the real world, it's the cure for the tour I'll be in search of. Whether it's at the bottom of a pint glass, or under the strings of my bow, or at the other side of the group chat with the friends I've made for life, I know it'll come to me eventually, and it'll be just what the doctor ordered. Well, that, or some Exputex.