On parkrun.com

There is a wonderful thing called parkrun.com and, once you've registered on their site, you can turn up and run one of their free, timed Saturday morning 5km runs all over the UK whenever you like. Its a wonderful idea, and, unlike communism, I'm pleased to report that it works even better in translation. I turned up at Richmond Gate this morning, locked my bike to a tree and joined the assorted group of runners strewn across the grass accompanied by dogs, kids, families, etc. At an indiscernible signal the group began to flow together and down the hill. The grimly cheerful smile of the organiser had no-nonsense creases of efficiency etched on either side of it, and once thoroughly briefed, we began to run. I started, as I always do, telling myself that I'll run easy and just aim to complete the race. This is my get-out clause, my way of dealing with the fear every runner secretly harbours that you may not be good enough; that you may not measure up to the field or, infinitely worse, your own expectations. But then a slim back up ahead in perky pink Nike shakes the alpha female within awake and I begin to pick up the pace. I start to feel the lactic acid from yesterday's run swirling through grumpy thighs, and then the lungs start to protest. I think I can't go on, and I go a little further. She must be passed, and then a hill appears under my feet and I tell myself I love hills as I ignore the protesting glutes. She is passed, but there is another lithe body slicing the air up ahead, and I must pass her too. Then I see the finish line and cross it with a burst, but my watch informs me that I've taken 28 minutes to run 5 km and I feel defeated. I stood in the queue to register the token, handed to me as I crossed the line, with the people on the laptops. The Labradors were frolicking and the chatter of the middle class Londoners talking about their jobs and their families and the bargain air tickets they'd found online brought me back to a sense of calm; the mundane, the unhurried, the reality of the lives around me. People were congratulating each other for showing up and running, and I remembered I needed to do that too. And then I took myself off down the path to Pembroke Lodge, that gorgeous piece of the past perched above the Thames, with its sweeping view of the river snaking its way into the city. This is where King Henry VIII stood to watch the smoke arise from the Tower, announcing the demise of Anne Boleyn. I sat on the sunny terrace, briefly alone but for the bold rooks, and ate delicious scones with jam and cream. But the real treat came in the mail; when parkrun emailed my actual result I was quite surprised to learn that my watch had lied; my time was 23 minutes, and I was the 10th fastest female of about 70. Which tasted rather sweet, for a little run around my favourite park.

On the red and the white

On a wild whim, I nagged my hair dresser into transforming me from a pale blonde into a raving redhead just before I emigrated to England. At first, I enjoyed comparing the weird differences that I noticed between the way men treat blondes and redheads (they were a little warier, possibly even a bit afraid...) But going back to blonde a year later was a relief. I felt like I had come home, like I had stopped wearing someone else's clothes. And now my agent has gone and got me an audition for a role in a new HBO series, requiring me to be a redhead again. And such is the nature of my crazy business that I am actually going to dye my hair red for one audition and then go back to blonde for my upcoming show! I have visions of myself as an octogenarian begging her hairdresser for a lavender rinse.

On finding Jerusalem in Sloane Square

I had managed to forget how utterly draining it is to be part of a creative process. This is the end of our first week of rehearsals for Popo Gigi, the new musical that opens at the Ashcroft Theatre on September 14th, and I'm all wrung out. As an early birthday treat, Amber got tickets for us to see the new Jez Butterworth triumph at the Royal Court Theatre in Sloane Square, but I was truly worried that I would be the girl snoring and drooling in the front row. How I've giggled inwardly when, from the other side of the footlights, I've seen elderly gentlemen in the audience blissfully snoring through Chicago, or King Lear, and even, impressively, Popcorn, which features live gunfire. We raided Partridges on the Kings Road for salmon quiche, juicy peaches and baked goodies and ate al fresco in Duke Of York Square in the waning sunshine. The girls tripped by in things I only usually see behind glass on Sloane Street, and one ambitious lady was wearing the kinky inverted wedge heels that made me turn the pages of Vogue 90 degrees the first time I saw them. I love the fact that people dress with such care in that part of town. The denizens of Sloane Street do not throw on people-shaped bits of cloth and go shuffling down the street; everyone is trying to beautiful, to say something striking with their look, and the grooming elevates the act of dressing to an art form. We fought our way through the scrum of hipsters and shakers in the theatre foyer as the bell was clanging. From our front row seats we could hear the excitement rising to boiling point on both sides of the safety curtain. Its the same moment I adore as the one in which the plane's thrusters shove you, breathless, into the back of your seat. Then began three hours in which I was never in any danger of falling asleep. Such productions are rare, and life-changing. This is what people go to the theatre for. From the opening, a montage of three gleefully contrasted scenes culminating in the charismatic central character drinking a hangover cure of raw egg, milk, cocaine and vodka that he had mixed by sticking the glass in his waistband, to the moment when he was struggling not to be seduced by the fifteen-year old girl dressed as a fairy and counting down the final minutes of her reign as the May Queen, and the closing moments when, blood-streaked and freshly branded by the town thugs for daring to humiliate their leader, he cuts his five-year old son's hand to show him the precious blood that flows through his veins too; I was with it every breath of the way. Jez Butterworth is a great writer. And the cast was magnificent. But in particular the actor Tom Brooke; he played a sweet, sensitive and rather lost boy off to Australia to find himself. His entrance from out of a sofa where he had ostensibly been asleep while the other characters were unaware of his presence is one the funniest entrances I've ever seen. Then he stopped the show with his character's mental stumble over the phrase "And then, right..." which reduced the audience to helpless laughter for a couple of minutes. As an ensemble member, he was impeccable. His utter absorption in the world he was playing in was perfect and while he never pulled focus from where it needed to be, he was fascinating to watch. I hope to see a lot more of him, and to work with him would be thrilling. Afterwards, we walked through Sloane Square to where we had parked our bikes and Amber lent me her cardigan to get home through the suddenly chilly night. I'm still reeling from the things I saw and felt, and can't stop returning to that evocative world. The bar is so much higher than I thought it was, but I want to be able to broaden a girl's view of the world and people in it as this play was able to broaden mine. That's why I can live without Prada shoes and a new sofa.

On the South Bank

There have been concentrated efforts to bump up the playground atmosphere around the South Bank. The tree trunks are garlanded in red and white polka dot fabric (each white dot now featuring the sentiments of any member of the passing populace with a pen). On the skimpy lawn in front of the concrete megalithic dinosaur that is the National Theatre (why are theatres of our era determinedly drab, and more akin to prisons than places of creative release, could someone please explain?), I am amused by the oversize sofa, armchair and lamp that have been covered in astroturf and left to the imaginations of Londoners and tourists. This being Friday afternoon, the city was shedding office and they flocked to the riverside to partake of the movable feast they made. The air was ice creams and high heels slipped on on the tube and I took a seat on the turf with a cup of wine and the script of the musical I start rehearsing on Monday. I was distracted by a young German father rolling around on the fake green like a puppy with his tiny smiling son, who was greatly intrigued by my wine cup. It is another dream fulfilled to be a real part of this city; to be a working actress in this billowing patchwork of need and creativity and survival. I feel so strong and full of light; I can scarcely believe that I am the same girl who, a few months ago, could barely lift her gaze beyond her toes. Of faith, hope and love, it is hope that is the vital ingredient to me. And I have hope again.

On bumping into Bill

There I was, awaiting the producer of the musical I am about to start rehearsing for, on the steps of the Comedy Theatre in Panton Street on Saturday afternoon. He had invited me to use a spare ticket he had for the matinee of a musical about Hemingway's final days called Too Close To The Sun (but renamed To Close On Sunday by one of many scathing critics.) I went along game to learn what I could, which is easier to do from bad art than good; when art is good, its impossible to see the seams. My producer was late. Idly, I watched the bustling throng and my eyes met those of a well-dressed man who was reading the poster on the theatre wall. It was an awkward glance; we had both crossed the lines of looking a little too hard, and we couldn't back away from it without flouting the unwritten social code. He put his glasses in his blazer pocket, extended his hand and said "Hello, I'm Bill". The penny dropped; I was shaking hands with Bill Nighy. Bill "Let's get pissed and watch porn" Nighy. Wonderful actor. See Love, Actually, Pirates Of The Carribean (Davy Jones), Notes On A Scandal... I shouted down my inner schoolgirl, and we had a lovely chat. He's quiet and passionate about Hemingway and generous. He's also an actor biding his time until he becomes a writer... He said he would love to come and see my show, and ambled off into the crowd to see an exhibition of landscape paintings at the National Gallery. I went inside and subjected myself to an hour of a cringe-worthy show. They weren't far wrong when they said that its not even bad enough to be good. At least I know what not to do when I start rehearsing my musical next week. And I've invited Bill Nighy, so I better be good!

On sunsets

The sun here sets in buttercup and pearl behind Westminster, and Big Ben sings to me as I float home on my bike down the Albert embankment. I've been to a tap class, which is a new challenge and I like it, but it makes me so angry with myself. The pretty sunset cheers me up, but I remember the rampant flames over the Johannesburg skyline, and it is a memory I can never shake. Those sunsets are scorched onto the souls of those that breathe them. Africa never lets you go.