On the Albanian invasion

This morning, I was perturbed to look up from my muesli (currently addicted to Dorset Cereal's Super High Fibre) to see a friendly-looking man waving at me from the sidewalk. I'd conveniently forgotten all about the builders coming to attend to the 'slight' damp problem in the spare room. So, having let them in (God bless Albanian labour and immigrants from the rest of EU to do the dirty work the English can't be bothered with) and made them coffee, I watched in horror as they proceeded to hack the plaster off walls in the bedroom, passage, bathroom and kitchen, merrily insisting that it was all necessary, while coating the entire house in fine dust. I am girding my loins to have a word with our landlady about this. I've lost the knack for standing my ground, I think. I seem to remember being far more bellicose when I was younger. But my views on faith were given succour by a phone call today, offering me a job I applied for a week ago. It seems 'resting' actors like to work as market researchers because it takes advantage of their well-trained voices, while offering them highly flexible work that they can fit around auditions and performances. So I'm happy to have a way to put money in the kitty while networking with other actors, albeit out of work ones! And if that were what was required for Danny Boyle to offer me the lead in his next film, I'd be happy for the rest of Albania to invade while I was still in my pajamas...

On rush hour in Richmond Park

London, like all big cities, is both a horrible place to be poor in, and almost ideally designed for such. Particularly on a Sunday, when fresh coffee and croissants waft from every corner cafe. So, having nothing better to do, I set off for a run. My training schedule; one of many suggested in what passes for the bible in our household, The Lore Of Running by Tim Noakes, requires me to be doing heavy mileage on my weekend runs prior to my first marathon in Paris on April 5th. So I planned a route on mapmyrun.com that took me from Battersea, around Richmond Park, around Wimbledon Common and home again. Of course, I promptly got lost and had to stop at a running shop in East Sheen for directions (which were enthusiastically supplied) but I still managed to end up doing my target distance of 30km. The lap of Richmond Park was the highlight. The ducks are so picturesque in their ponds, and a lovely palomino was being given its head down the sward ahead of me. But it seems that Londoners, when not thronging the streets during the working week, decamp to Richmond Park on Sundays to run and cycle and stroll and push weird buggies ( they seem to develop increasingly bizarre ways to transport one's offspring every week ) and yell to no avail after their rampaging canines. Its a good place to be. The best things in life really are free. Well, almost. The victory burger I was treated to by Proud Husband at Gourmet Burger Kitchen was a juicy, close second...

And now I have another week yawning ahead of me. I need to find a job purely to put bread on the table, which is a hideous concept alone. This is something I never anticipated in my fairytale of Moving To The Big City To Find Fame And Fortune. But the good stuff only tastes good when its been fought for; that little I do know. There's something wonderful and freeing about looking into a new week and not knowing where your next job, or paycheck is coming from. Because, somehow, I just know this is where the great moments happen. It has something to do with faith, I think.

On Discord in the greens aisle

Saturday morning we troop off to Sainsbury's with the rest of the neighborhood for a week's worth of hunting and gathering. Grocery shopping can be an intensely soothing hour - just me and my list and the tactile experience of fondling every avocado. But add one's spouse and a very tight budget to the task and it quickly becomes baguettes at dawn over who eats more expensively. So there we were, in the salad aisle, having a muted domestic, while the good citizens of Vauxhall manoeuvred their trolleys blearily around us. And a woman happened past, took us in at a glance, and grinned. "Enjoy your argument", she said as she breezed past. We looked at each other and had to smile. And we ended up getting succulent roast chicken for lunch. I never could get my head around the idea of being frugal...

On Away From Her

Some savant decided to give this film away with copies of the Sunday Times (I think it was) the other day. A film about pensioners losing their marbles isn't the first thing that springs to mind regarding Friday night, but we were exhausted and we've watched our way through our dvd selection-several times. And what we found ourselves watching was a simple, exquisite portrait of true love. Its about being human; about our weakness and our bravery. I've often recalled that moment in our lawyer's office, before we drew up our ante-nuptial agreement, when he said to us, in his inimitably brusque way, "All marriages end. Its either death or divorce." It made me falter, and my eyes stung. What bizarre trick of the light makes us desire to walk along a path with the person we adore, knowing that in the end we shall be forced to watch them rot and wither, if we haven't already endured the pain of agreeing to pluck ourselves out by the roots and limp away? What funny creatures we are. So, this film wasn't an easy evening in. But a glorious one, all the same. Sarah Polley is a director with a delicate but unflinching gaze. Mamma Mia, a film so silly we couldn't stomach more than a third of it, eagerly rakes in millions. And a film like Away From Her, about hope and despair and discovering and love and dignity, they have to give away with the Sunday papers.

On a new season

Cycling through Hyde Park this afternoon confirmed my suspicion; that Spring is indeed abroad. Immaterial that the sunny spell lasted a hummingbird's heart beat - it was enough to convince the denizens of HP (who are experts on the matter, and the Met Office be damned) that the earth is turning over a new leaf. They respond in the time-honoured manners of throwing off clothing, bringing their families over from Italy to eat sandwiches on the benches and sucking each other's faces. Truly a moveable feast. Spring is a state of mind. I'm off to the studio to to plug myself into my ipod and dance.

On Vivisection

This morning I decided Spring is abroad. While running through Battersea Park I found I was too warm with my beanie on, and delighted in whipping it off. Oh delicious thrill! The simple pleasure of feeling wind in your hair after a winter spent cocooned in synthetic fabrics is worth the wait! Another reason I love living in a country with defined seasons... I squelched my way happily through a few mud puddles and the odd semi-bog and then I happened across a little monument. It was tucked away in a little path beside the English Garden. It is called the Monument to The Brown Dog, whose bronze likeness sits atop a plinth telling his tragic little tale. He died at the hands of vivisectionists in 1903, one of 19,000 such animals that year, after enduring two months of experiments. The monument was erected in his honour in 1985 by people concerned about the fact that animal experimentation still existed in our Great Britain. And it continues to do so. I don't devote much headspace to the idea of vivisection beyond Bastards, I hope you develop Irritable Bowel Syndrome, but henceforth I resolve to be stricter about reading labels and asking where my mascara really comes from. The early-morning drizzle had left its drops sparkling on the world, and it dripped down his bronze face. At least someone has the sense to cry.

On West End cattle calls

Monday kicked off with an open dance call for Wicked, a musical I've never seen but have auditioned for twice already, which is surely an advanced form of self-harm. I put my Killer Black Boots on over my dance tights and cycled through Clapham to the hall in Brixton where the chattering hordes were already assembled. The waiting room was a swamp of young, scantily clad hopefuls; 200 girls, all bronzed and rouged and buzzing with caffeine. The things people do while waiting their turn in front of the Powers That Be warrants comment in itself - people do sit-ups and Facebook on their iPhones and scream across the room as they recognise each other from last year's cruise job and iron their hair and try to act calm. Divine madness. I read and try to hear my ipod through the cacophony. But once up there, facing the mirror and a table of people trying to be pleasant and patient in the face of repeated displays of fear-driven idiocy, well, you're beyond the help of even the most uplifting of playlists. I particularly love the drummer's glazed expression as he bashes out the same counts of 8 all day... But amongst the under-trained adolescents and the over-confident old-hands, there was a Woman Of A Certain Age. I still don't know precisely what that age is, but this woman was no stranger to forty. Or possibly even fifty. Nowadays, you never can tell. And she carried herself with a bashfulness, aware that she was older than anyone else in the room by a decade. But she was there; could I have the balls to do that? And when she was called to the floor for her turn with the other four girls in her group, she didn't dance well enough but yet she danced. Was she wasting everyone's time? Or showing the new generation that you can do whatever you dream, and there is no such thing as too late? I'm not sure. But what is sure is this: after auditioning for that show three times and not making the cut, I've ascertained that I'm not what they're after! Perhaps I'm not green enough...