It is important for me to know concretely that my acting is my priority. It’s also useful for my agent to know this. So even though it was just a commercial casting, I blew £112 on a day return from Sheffield to London today. Think of it as a statement of intent. If I turn it down citing “Too difficult” or “Too expensive” it’s another time I’ve let things get in the way of acting. If I say “Yes I will fucking make this work, practically and financially” then irrespective of the result of the audition I’m making that commitment to the universe that my career in all its forms is my top priority, whilst satisfying my lovely new agent that I’m not taking their agenty work for granted.
East Midlands trains are taking the piss charging £79 for this single ticket before 5pm from London back up north. But that’s the world. The grey people have the money. Spontaneity is expensive. We should all know exactly where we are all going to be, every day.
It’ll be worth much more than £112 if I get the job. It’s already worth it for me to tick over with that casting director, with whom I’ve come so close so many times, to vindicate my agent soliciting the meeting, and to remind myself that, even for an advert I care about being present. The director won’t only do adverts. The other actors won’t only do adverts. Work breeds work. Fingers crossed for Christmas Dad. Besides, commercials pay for creativity. I get this and I can do a month making something without having to scramble around like a maniac saying yes to random weird jobs. Although it’s so ingrained in me that I’ll likely still keep doing exactly that. Particularly as I enjoy the unpredictability.
I’m enjoying this little unexpected train journey. It’s a good view up through the fields. Everything is parched but beautiful.
I bet the next stage of the year will be hurricanes, flooding and apocalyptic rainfall. Hopefully not when I’m at a festival, which looks like it’ll be twice in the coming month. Let’s see if this weather can hold until September, even in Brecon Beacons, where it is normally, in my experience, a total washout.
I think my tent is broken. I seem to remember one of the poles totally shredded from wind damage when I took it down last time. There might be some form of hideous zombie tent in that bag now. I would do well to replace it but this train is the same price as a good tent so perhaps sleeping in a zombie tent for two festivals is payback for getting to this casting today. I’ll bring some gaffer tape to shore up the holes. Gaffer tape solves everything. And I’ll arrive early enough in the day to improvise some kind of solution if the thing is impossibly fucked which I suspect it might be. Worth a try, I say. If it’s like this I can sleep outside.
I’m almost back to Sheffield, to pack the van in the evening sun and then mission it to London as the night falls. I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight. And have a territorial squabble with Pickle who always thinks she’s finally won the bed when I go away. And hopefully I’ll get a nice Christmas advert…