On seeking refuge in the din of Babel

Friday night found me on Oxford Street, taking a dash down the red tunnel of double deckers and black cabs on my bike. This is what I do for an adrenaline rush; the city spills onto the street and it becomes a neon obstacle course of burka-clad women toting Gucci bags and exquisitely hip fashion students and day-tripping teenagers and suited men shouting plans for the evening into their mobiles. And they all jostle for space with the smell of caramelized nuts roasting outside the Tube stations and the seeping miasma of underground effluvia; the din of a thousand SALE signs and the Babel of every language spoken by humankind. The surge of speed and noise and bright light and colour is a powerful stimulant. I can think of no better way to distract myself from that awful abyss that lately yawns in my life, the one I run all over town from ballet to Bikram yoga to acting class and back again to avoid: Where am I going? And when will I get on stage again? This awful voice at the base of my skull is beginning to deafen me, and not even a marathon can drown it out, which means that it must, finally, be faced. And facing myself in the mirror at Pineapple or in a yoga studio has become easier, but in every other mirror I still see no reflection of the woman I know I can be.

On chiseling with Cleopatra

I have started a weekly Shakespeare class at the Actors' Centre, focusing on Anthony and Cleopatra. What a girl she was! The Madonna of her age, a perfectly stage-managed figure in a gloriously tumultuous age and a skittish, greedy girl with a raging thirst for attention. Playing her in my jeans and scruffy Ugly boots (a grotesque invention that I abhor as a lover of sartorial beauty and embrace as a cyclist with chilly feet) in a dingy room in Covent Garden on a damp Tuesday night requires a colossal assault on the imagination. And after another day spent punching the phone and watching the clock, meeting a circle of like-minded fantasists and attempting to summon the sweaty, voluptuous, volatile world of Cleopatra's court is soul food. I've been a member of the Actors' Centre for over a year, but have only managed to summon the courage to attend a handful of classes. This is due to a ridiculous shyness that overtakes me in front of my peers. I'm completely happy to gambol out on stage in front of two thousand strangers. Shove me up in front of three fellow actors with a script in my hand, and I'm a dribbling mute. Alright, I'm exaggerating a tiny bit. But, somehow, without my being aware, something has finally grown up within me, and I have realised that I am not afraid anymore. I admit that I am an actress, and not nearly the actress I can or want to be. Which is what the Centre is all about; its a hot bed of people at every level of development, there to pursue the better person they sense inside. We are all there to chisel away at the superfluous that surrounds and stifles. And it feels so good, at last, to stand up, pick up the tools, and begin to chip.

On the wonders of multi-tasking

Further to my previous post, wondering where the time is to be found to add football to my repertoire of physical exploits, I have been recounting the myriad ways I multi-task. While cycling around town, I practice accents, rehearse monologues and songs, and file my nails and apply lipstick (usually only at traffic lights!); I read while applying make up in the morning or putting my hair in rollers (currently reading short stories by David Foster Wallace, Uta Hagen's Respect For Acting, the plays of George Bernard Shaw, Shakespeare's Anthony and Cleopatra); iron while watching dvds and waiting for my cupcakes to bake, and of course, blog while I'm eating breakfast. The only time I really relax is while I'm in a dance studio lost in the music and the frustrating limitations of my body, or out on the road running, where all I can do is think, and think, and think.

On the beautiful game

I went to a girls' school, where we were only allowed near a ball when we were wearing skirts that preserved the modesty of our knees, and then to a specialist ballet school, which viewed sport with great distaste. Therefore, the magic of the game of football has remained a mystery to me thus far in my life. Until today. Today, at lunchtime, the balding, paunchy, middle-aged men that work in the sales office I have recently joined as a way to fund further drama classes, trooped off to the local football field and very grudgingly allowed me and another girl to make up the numbers of the teams. Carla, a plucky young Australian, at least has the benefit of three older brothers. I have no such advantage and couldn't explain the offside rule with a gun held to my head. But we were both keen. And we outran our puffing bosses without breaking a sweat; it felt as though I'd been playing all my life. Alright, so I tended to misread plays and couldn't trust my feet to send the ball to the right man and not accidentally tip it onto the foot of the danger man (James, the quiet lad from Accounts) of the opposing team. But I understood the idea and I loved the feeling of being one small part of a whole with a common desire. Netball never had quite the same swerve and sway. The strategy and skill involved are fascinating, and a whole new world of challenging possibilities has blossomed before me. The only problem I face now is working out where the hell I'm going to find time to play the game in between ballet classes, marathons, Shakespeare workshops, jazz, tap, running races, singing lessons, ironing my husband's shirts, editing my next audio book and working 9 to 5. And, of course, once in a while sitting down to a a good book and spending a bit of time with my poor neglected husband...