On running and running and running

I haven't posted recently because I'm either running or in a dance class. Mornings and weekends I run, evenings I go to ballet, jazz, tap, contemporary...whatever is available after my new job selling advertising. (I have to ring universities all over Europe, which is working wonders for my mastery of German and Icelandic.) I don't know where the wind came from, but my sails are full, and I simply can't stop. Last Sunday was a perfect example - I planned to do a long training run by myself around London, and I loosely plotted a 21km tour of my favourite London parks. But the Indian summer was sheer heaven and the city was like a pleasure ground. So I ran through Regent's Park, where the Eid celebrations had drawn a crowd of white clad men, and little girls in party dresses. Then I did an extra lap, before heading over to Notting Hill, where the last chocolate halva croissant awaited me on the shelf at Gail's Bakery and I munched as I jogged through the weekenders thronging the stalls of eclectic tat. By the time I got home, three hours and twenty minutes later, I had run 36km. And I felt like doing another 30.

On the lure of a few Loonies

Year after year, Grandma and Grandpa sent me a birthday card, a newsy letter and fifty Canadian dollars. The card is always floral Hallmark, the letter full of love and stories of their busy, ordered lives and the money usually buys me a little treat of some superfluous kind. Not this year, however; in this moment of financial pinch, I have never been so happy to open an envelope because it meant I could afford another week of dance classes. Since my descent into doubt as a dancer sometime in 2006, roughly when I broke my foot on stage, it has taken me too many painful years to piece myself back together. And its the mind that is the most stubborn muscle. But I've just realised that the habit of their faith is a great example that blooms regularly in front of me.

On postponing birthdays

I have a time-honoured birthday tradition, a tradition I uphold despite my valiant attempts to do otherwise year after year; the Birthday Bawl. At some point during my birthday, I know that something, be it a kitten, dead or alive, or the sheer weight of a year's worth of hopes and expectations, will reduce me to weeping rubble. This year was no different, but this year I had good cause (or so I believe). I spent the day cycling around London alone in the rain, going from interviews to auditions with a light purse and boots heavy with endless precipitation. My birthday celebrations were formally held on Sunday, in an overcast Hyde Park, where a circle of the truly interesting, lovely people I have come to know in this wild town gathered around a picnic rug to drink champagne, share their food and indulge in the cupcakes and afghans that Amber and I had baked. This was a dream come true, and I had a wonderful day. Just looking around the circle of bright, animated faces and knowing that I had gathered this unlikely bunch together was enough to make me joyful, and it was a better present than I could have hoped for (although the beautiful vintage Oscar De La Renta scarf from Frances was pretty close!). But the ugly reality of trying to celebrate my birthday on my own on a grim Tuesday was too much for this girl. As I stood with my head under the hand dryer in the Ladies' at the Tate, trying to dry out my hair (at least in this I wasn't alone; a young American tourist was vainly trying to dry her socks at the unit next to me), I decided to give up all pretence of celebration and postpone the act of birthday-ing to another day. That done, I got on with life. I looked at some exquisite British portraits in the sumptuous caverns of the Tate (I lingered over Sarah Siddons, and some glorious society portraits by John Singer Sargeant and the beautifully enigmatic Cholmondeley Ladies, which depicts a set of twins who were born, married and gave birth on the same days). And, having fed my soul, I went off to Pineapple for a jazz class with Linda, who gives a solid, thorough, professional class. And then I went home and indulged in The Birthday Bawl. I felt tired, and entirely lacking in hope. I suppose birthdays can always be postponed until a more fortuitous time. Sadly, though, they can't be foregone altogether.

On the danger of self-made gurus

After four intense weeks of rehearsal, we were so close to getting our musical on the stage I could almost feel the heat of the lights on my skin. I've always loved that artificial sunburn. But Tuesday morning I discovered that my first rehearsal cheque had bounced, and I felt a horrible knot of unease bloom in the pit of my stomach. I cycled over the river to rehearsals that morning, sailing over the wide, untroubled Thames in all its grimy glory, and broached the delicate matter with the director. He hadn't received a cheque at all, and knew nothing about it. Then the stage manager walked in with a face like thunder, and the material we had spent a laborious, frustrating, exhilarating month creating unravelled like a jumper snagged on a runaway train. By the end of Wednesday, we were in a huddle on the floor of the rehearsal room, having just stumbled through a very rough run of the show, and awaiting the arrival of the producer, who had until 5 'o clock to come up with the funds. The piece was his brainchild. He had written a weak script, but assembled a strong, eclectic mix of creative people, and we had taken ownership of the material, and spent a lot of time improvising, devising and reworking. The premise of the show was that we were a rag-tag entourage following a self-made guru from Mumbai to London to produce a Bollywood-style Romeo and Juliet. It was a crazy idea, but it was turning into a strangely tasty dish. I was having a ball creating a Russian gold-digger and Juliet-wannabe, determined to upstage the piece and have my share of the limelight. The choreographer, Ash Mukerjee, was an exceptional classical Indian dancer, as was our Juliet, Khavita, a beautiful girl who originally hails from Malaysia. Khavita was working as an engineer before being cast in the part, and had given up her job for the chance. The two male dancers were jazz and ballet trained, Rain having danced in Matthew Bourne's acclaimed all-male Swan Lake, and Sam is fresh out of college and a wonderful tap dancer and singer. Zoe, the other female dancer and actress, is a bright, talented American. It really was a case of life imitating art; through the process of giving birth to this multi-racial child, we had become the unlikely team we were depicting. We had laughed and sweated and sighed together. But as the producer slowly walked across the floor to face us that afternoon, we knew instantly that it was lost, and our child was stillborn. We had been deceived by a self-made guru and fantasist. He hadn't been able to stump up the cash. Hopes dashed, we discussed the ugly realities of going to the small-claims court to get our contracts honoured, swapped contact details and each slowly left the room. I stopped in the sunny park on Kings road on my way home, and practiced my lines for an audition on Monday. I can't bear to look down or back; I know how dangerous that is. Today, I wake up free as a bird and flat broke. I will need all my wits and chutzpah to get through this, and I choose to have faith that this hiccup is a challenge and a veiled blessing. I hear the words of my character ringing in my ears; "Crisis, what crisis? Let me show you what I can do..."

On the death of the summer lawn

Summer is being hustled out of town as, right on cue, the autumn winds begin to send skirts and leaves swirling. A little squirrel was so absorbed in his urgent foraging that I nearly ran over him on my pre-breakfast tour of Clapham Common this morning; I was so busy marvelling at the overnight transformation in the park to notice him until our brief, startled face-off. With a flick of his tail, he scampered up an oak tree in a huff and I ran off home over lawns that were green yesterday. A lonely pink feather lingered after the party, discarded from someone's feather boa, and found itself in new company as it slowly drowned in browning leaves. I was nearly overtaken by pity for myself and the dying season as I cycled home this evening, after a crazy day of rehearsals and dance class, through a city full of bedraggled people sheltering from a sky full of rain. But then I was home and the hot shower was a glorious gift, and I remembered that I love being alive in the wet cold night, particularly when I get to come home to my wonderful husband and our little nest.