At school there was a tradition that the junior boys performed, during the winter term, one-act plays, usually supposed to be comedy, for the school. And so, aged about 13, I found myself involved in a humorous play called In The Dentist's Waiting Room. My part was not large or central; it involved appearing on two occasions, in the first and last scenes, speaking a few lines which moved the plot forward in some fashion, and then exiting again.
Unfortunately, the occasion overcame me. I made my first entrance, in the first scene, and spoke my lines clearly. They were, however, my lines for the final scene. The rest of the cast, rehearsed to a Pavlovian level of response, followed on from my lines and completed the final scene. The curtains closed to a surprised silence from the audience. The play, which was supposed to last fifteen minutes, had taken four. And it had had no discernible plot. And it was not remotely funny.
Noone said anything afterwards. My excuse is that the two lines were very similar - I swear.
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