On fishnets at noon

After 13 years of auditioning, I still lie awake the night before attempting to quell the butterfly army on the march in my stomach. They had been fluttering since my agent called with the news that Chicago were holding open auditions for their West End company. But my amount of preparedness always tells me exactly where I stand on the scale of How Badly Do I Want This Job?...last Sunday night, I had my carefully chosen outfit all laid out on my dresser. Fishnets, check. Heels, check. Bowler hat, check. I want this job very badly indeed, it seems. So on Monday, I sat down in the front room, where the most light is to be found in our little London flat on a January morning, and began applying the war paint. It feels perverse to be putting on fishnets and three coats of mascara before midday. Arriving at the Cambridge Theatre to join the queue of painted ladies that snaked out of the door and all the way down to the bottom of Mercer Street, I was amused to see that I had been modest in my preparations. I seemed to be the only girl not sporting false eyelashes and a spray-on tan in Tango orange. I put in my earphones (the inane chatter that goes on in audition queues is enough to make the bile rise), opened The Scandal of the Season and began to wait. And wait and wait. The weather at noon had been quite tolerable. By one, the wind had changed and the temperature plummeted like a stone. Girls who had friends to hold their places charged off to Cafe Nero for hot coffee, and H and M for thicker socks and bigger jumpers. Those who didn't have such luxury smoked furiously and tried vainly, as I did, to stop shivering. Four hours and umpteen chapters later, I was almost into the foyer of the Cambridge - ironically, huddled next to the little black side door that I take to climb the stairs to my agent's office, which is squirreled away at the top of the theatre. And then, glory, I made it through the velvet ropes and into the warm bowels of the building, where girls were shedding layers and performing bizarre pre-audition rituals and pinning on the crucial little paper number. The audition brief had said black, and everyone had taken it to heart; I saw black hot pants, and black corsets and black frilly things that looked suspiciously like nighties. I was attempting to recreate the costume I wore as Mona the last time I did the show; a black basque with suspenders. I did a few sit-ups in an attempt to erase the memory of Christmas cookies, and then I heard my number called and my group was taken upstairs to learn the routine from a lovely girl, with the most perfect bottom I've seen outside of Vogue, who is currently in the show and was due to perform Roxie instead of Ruthie Henshall that night. She was sweet and patient with us despite losing her voice and despite the fact that ours was the final group she'd had to coach after what must have been an interminable day with no end in sight. I can go through the motions of All That Jazz with my eyes closed, but I was grateful that she reminded us of Fosse's ethic; nothing overt, no frills, no extras. Dance like you are considering giving away your juiciest secret. And then we were herded downstairs and onto the stage to dance for the panel. The drummer, perched up in the band box, pounded out the opening bars of the number and we all launched ourselves at the one brief chance we had waited for all day. As each group of six girls danced, the rest of us stood to one side and politely applauded the effort that goes into getting yourself up there at all. And I was truly happy to be there. It felt like heaven to take my place on the stage, and gaze into the half-lit, hushed cavern of the auditorium and to be jolted into movement by the drummer. That brief moment was worth the raging cold I now have; that and hearing my number called to return for a second chance. Now I have only to face down my horror of The Singing Audition on Thursday... More, anon

On losing time

Time is a strange beast. A weird, elastic shape-shifter that is never the same thing twice. Compare the hour you spend on the phone with someone whose voice feeds your soul to the hour between four and five on a Friday afternoon... But in the past year, I attempted to stretch the elastic past all realistic bounds, and would try, in a heady blend of optimism and fatalism, to cram far more into any given moment than was humanly possible. A single minute was wasted in which I was not involved in twelve tasks at once. This usually ended with the twang of aforementioned elastic giving way and bringing me back to earth with a sharp snap. And it wasn't always me in the firing line. Picture my weary husband waiting to eat a meal while I dash back into the kitchen to whip up one more thing, or my amazingly patient friend Amber shivering outside a cold cinema in Clapham. There are an overwhelming number of such scenes to view from the past year or so in my life, as the people around me were forced to wait for me to stop scampering around like a demented hare. And so this year, while I abhor the idea of New Year's resolutions and think they are as effective as diets (Just Don't Do It!), I am determined to address the problem of my Time-Losing. And under the tree this year, I found a lovely sparkly Fossil watch. I now sport with pride this ally in the war against myself and my irrational urge to fill every second with Things That Must Be Done For Me To Feel Better About Me. Of course, its quite amusingly ironic that the giver of this pretty trinket is my mother; the worst time-keeper I know.

On being an Impatient

I've forgotten how to be sick. I've had such a long dry spell of health that I was beginning to get cocky; I sneered at the weaklings snuffling on buses and shot looks of disdain at people who dared to sneeze in the queue at Sainsbury's. And then Christmas came, and with it a houseful of family and a complete break from my usual routine and all the excitement and stress of Christmas (held at our tiny flat this year) and the emotional frenzy I whipped myself into at the prospect of seeing my mother and sister again after over two years. And so I succumbed. I snuffled and hacked and wheezed my way through the season of joy and merriment. Christmas day I spent ferrying dishes to the table while high on Sudafed. New Year's Eve I was asking our very amiable waiter to bring a cup of hot water and lemon to the table along with the champagne. And everywhere I go I leave a trail of Kleenex. But now that all the craziness has ebbed and mummy and sister have left (both with a party bag of my germs; sorry!) I just want to lie down and curl myself into a pretzel under a duvet. But January is cruel and relentless and bills need paying. How I wish we could draw a veil over the next two months and skip straight to March, when my knee will have recovered enough to allow me to start training for my next marathon and I shall be performing on a London stage in a piece of new writing. ..