Month: March 2019

Back from Jersey and immediately into driving again. I’m losing track of which vehicle I’m using. I tried to sleep on a recliner last night and kept on waking up with dead legs. Thankfully the sea was gentle so I slept a few hours, but today was mostly about coffee.

Portsmouth to my house, where Max was waiting to help unload all the boxes into mine for the next stage in the process. Now my bedroom is full of boxes. It’s not ideal but it’ll spur action. Once unloaded I took the car back to Enterprise.

In Jersey an old family friend told us how an ambulance took the side of his car off doing a night time pick up. There’s just no space on that island. “Poor bugger”, I thought. But I woke up with a dink. Just a dink, but Enterprise take the whole excess and then pay back what you don’t use, so suddenly I’m out of overdraft. Also the paperwork takes forever, but thankfully they drive me back home and I’m immediately in the Soul Van and driving with passengers up to Cambridge to get loads of stage flats. This is for the Rotterdam tour, coming soon to The Rose in Kingston and then onwards around the country. You should catch it. I’m not in it, just helping out. But it’s a lovely crowd to help out, and the play is beautiful. Still, it’s a big set. They’re programmed into some big venues. Next to the old Theatre 503 set, it was a lot of work, especially on not enough sleep and with the emotional baggage of dumping a grand into a bit of paintwork on a car that isn’t mine while the Jag sits.

We played Tetris and got it all in the van, but it was touch and go to get Ethan’s lovely steps back in at the end. And I’m going to have to go to Cambridge again pretty soon to get that filthy rocking horse and throw it away. There was nowhere else to put it so I had to leave it there

Once fully loaded, we had to schlep  the flats over to the workshop at Battersea Arts Centre and take them all out again to be touched up and made good before Rotterdam goes all around the country. There’s so much work behind the scenes of these live stories we tell on stage. Every time I help out on the back end I think about it more. It’s lovely to be under the lights being brilliant, but if nobody can see you or the set falls on your head or there’s nobody watching then it’s pointless

Now I’m home feeling shell shocked. I’m going to get the boxes off the bed, lie in a hot bath, and then sleep like a baby.

Last time Max and I were together in Jersey it was springtime. We bought some daffodil bulbs, and then went for a walk on the beach. I found a scallop shell – a big one. I carried it with me as we drove up to mum’s grave. “It’ll do for a shovel.”

We planted the bulbs in the soft soil above mum’s grave. We carefully replaced the turf. Better than flowers that die, a planted bulb. I left the scallop shell there, propped up on the grave. At the time I didn’t have an inkling that I’d be going on Camino in the coming year, walking so long for mum and for Peter and for me. But returning there today, the shock of that shell went right through me. In Camino terms the scallop shell is the signal that you’re on the right path. And on Camino you get up every day and follow the path until you’re spent.

There it was, that shell, waiting for me after a year’s journey and a years progress. Maybe the seeds were sown with the bulbs. Often our unconscious knows more about the future than our conscious.

The bulbs we planted? They are turning into beautiful flowers. “Keep going.” “One step at a time.” “You’re on the right path.” A touching reminder of how wrapped up mum was in my whole walk, and delivered in a timely fashion just four days before the anniversary of her death, which can be a tough time.

My car is full of shirts though… Yay?

I have reached and exceeded my stuff capacity. If someone was to call up and say “Bring your van, The Queen is throwing away all her junk and she thought you might be able to use it in theatre,” I’d probably have to say “Thank you marm,” but take it to the dump and charge her for the rubbish weight. And gold is heavy.

Every spare moment now has got to be for sorting, categorising, jettisoning, donating, selling or repurposing. The hourly rate will be worth it if I can list a lot of things even if I only sell them for a tenner. But I’ll have to put the hours in. I’ll need to know what we have for plates for Carol. How many busts and of whom. What potential costume wonders… Done right it’s a very very big job indeed.

The Jersey hospice shop have the sorting thing sorted. It’s a wonder to behold, but they have an army of people volunteering and it is so well organised. I dropped off many loads there. You are met by efficient retired men and women, experts in their field. “Books over there clothes over here.” They take everything. I expect their grandchildren are round the back googling things. Surely some of it goes on eBay but enough of it goes out on the shop floor to lure people from all over the place to buy it. I used to love it as a kid. “Aladdin’s Cave” was always a phrase associated with it. It really is.

For the people on my end, you need to be in a particular headspace to go through everything as forensically as I just managed to do. The few items Peter had with some resale value – I found them. I might keep them, I might not, but I know what they are. His Gucci loafers. They’re in my shoe size. His trilby. I’m wearing it…

I don’t have an army of volunteers to sort the rest out, although Tristan and Jack have variously lent a hand already but with loading more than with triage. But as soon as this is written I’m going to break out my diary and start blocking in official units of time where I treat it as my job to sort and sort and sort and move and move and move. Once it’s done the pathways are in place for me to do the same with my mother’s stuff in the attic, my own stuff from childhood, my grandmother’s stuff, my father’s stuff in the Isle of Man… I’m not moving into a big house anytime soon that will need furnishing. All these things could be making money rather than taking up space or costing money. And if I ever feel the lack of stuff I can go to auctions. It’s all about the pathways. The first time you do something it’s hard. The next time less so. And every time after that it’s easier and easier until you wonder why you ever thought of it as hard in the first place.

I’m in the boat again, on the dark sea between Jersey and Guernsey. In an hour I’ll crash out on my expensive recliner and hopefully sleep a happy night before loads of driving tomorrow and carrying heavy things for fun and profit. Off again. I’ll be back in a month I reckon.

Just after Tweedledee breathalysed me within five minutes of arriving home on the island with a visibly “not Jersey” car, I arrived at my Airbnb. I then drove around the block once because even though he tested me in the driveway of where I was heading, he told me “no it’s not here.” When you’re lost ask a copper? Ha. There’ll certainly be no pregnant women weeing in policemen’s hats with my guy. Although, out of context, Tweedledee was actually a very pleasant human. It was just his timing, five minutes after fifteen hours in a horribly rough ferry, and the extremely abrasive customs guy.

But dammit I wanted wine when I got in.

Justyn, who partly runs the place, was walking down the front stairs with a bag of packaging gubbins when I arrived. He had a face mask on, and looked preoccupied. He had dropped a load of polystyrene everywhere in the hallway, taking the opportunity to unpack some new equipment for his hairdressing business in the hallway while making a fish pie. He was apologising all over the place. “I just want wine,” I told him.  “Sorry for the state of the floor,” he attempted, surrounded by beautiful clean walls and high ceilings with comfortable shared rooms all around. “You should see my flat.” I finish. “I’ve got a bottle of wine.” “So have I.”.

We sat and had both. We got on very well. Too well. I’ve never landed so well in an Airbnb.

His brother’s in my industry, flying by all accounts. I think he might have directed a Star Wars. Justyn runs his Airbnb out of a typical Jersey stone mansion, right by The Savoy Hotel, great big beautiful well appointed rooms with high ceilings. Light and height, in the centre of town. Considering the lack of space in Jersey, there are lots of houses like this. Either Justyn or his partner has inherited this glorious place and has chosen to share it with people like us. It’ll keep the Aga warm and pay the heating bills, and it means that from time to time someone will come and have a night like we did, for better or for worse. It was a great tonic to my fraught arrival. Although the poor bugger had to cut hair for two clients in the morning, and I had to sort boxes full of rennies. “It’s your fault if I cut somebody’s ear off.” That was his parting shot to me. (He didn’t. He’s a pro.)

If I had my way, and my big property, I’d do something similar. There’s always someone on my sofa in London. If I had spare rooms they’d be full. “Just finding my feet in London.” That sort of thing. Big house, fill it with artists, make things possible for people, put a time limit on it being free to motivate resourcefulness, “leave a picture here”, “put a show on in the living room” “you need how much to make this short film?” Have a lovely life, make stuff with some of the people, cover your costs, die with a smile on your face and lovely things that were made because of and by you, that could last forever or just be written in air. Win. I just need to win the Euromillions or play the British Walter White or something. I’ll get there. 3 years. Bring it.

This island is 46.14 square miles. The population comes in at 100,080. That’s 2,169 people living in every square mile. Compare that to The Isle of Man. 220.9 square miles, 84,287 people. Fewer people, well over four times the space. Ok, so the middle of the IOM is an almost uninhabited race track. Still only 381 people per square mile. That’s a hell of a difference. 5.6 times less dense in The Isle of Man. You can feel the space out there. It’s tight here. Although nothing compared to London.

Here, you go for a walk down the country lanes and to your right 20 people are pulling potatoes out of a field by hand. Six people walk past with dogs in half an hour and say hello. You stand aside for five cars and a tractor and wave at all the drivers. And you don’t really think about it. You just do it. Because everyone here is used to it. I took this photo to illustrate. It’s a normal sized two way road. They get much smaller than this, with much harder edges:

And added to that, it hasn’t stopped everyone driving around in great big SUV’s, honking their horns as they go. It’s worse than Chelsea. One of my friends over here has it completely right, nipping around in a mini. Why would you choose something else, unless you were anticipating taking loads of stuff.

I’ve got an SUV. It’s going to be full of shirts, bags and jackets. My uncle had so many shirts. Terrifying. He used to get them posted to him by the dry cleaners and then collected. But he probably had one for every day of the year. I’ve given so many of them to the charity shop it felt like I’d devalue them if I dropped them all. They fit me. I’ve got about 4 boxes of nice shirts that I can guiltlessly wear once and then drop in the charity shop. I won’t have to steal Brian’s when I’ve got an audition. He was the same shoe size as me as well, so now I’ve got variety in my audition shoes and I can chuck out some of my existing crap pairs. I’ll have to be more ruthless with the jackets, depending on how much I manage to ferry through the narrow lanes to the hospice shop tomorrow. It’s closed on Tuesday.

And boy the roads are narrow. Every inch of space is colonised, and the residents build low hard granite walls to demarcate their property. My car has a lane assist. I switched it off immediately. Hyundai is getting us used to automatic cars. If you cross the centre line without indicating it tries to correct you, while making disapproving beeping noises. If you take your hands off the wheel it keeps you on the road, and shouts at you. Handy for long distance motorway driving. But in Jersey it’s often either drive over the centre line or take a chunk out of your car on the edge of someone’s property. They’ll probably charge you for the wall repair as well, and they’ll turn out to be a multimillionaire retired lawyer with time on their hands into the bargain.

The population density though – it’s why there’s so much theatre here compared to The Isle of Man. Unless it’s TT season over there you haven’t got the numbers to recoup the investment of getting everything over on the ferry with box office. Four Poofs and a Piano can just about get away with it in the IOM because they’re off of the tellybox, as I discovered only after meeting them briefly. But here in Jersey there are friends of mine who aren’t from the island but bring freeform slightly experimental Shakespeare plays over and sell tickets for them.

I dunno, maybe I’m an island boy at heart still. I had a walk on the beach this evening and I felt totally at home. Just like I did in The Isle of Man I thought “I could live here”. Here more so than there, frankly. 100,081? So long as I could afford the regular flights to London I’ll be that one… Just a bit more profile please. Gonna land one of those tellybox jobs…

Normally when I come to Jersey I take the time to look at things. I go to the places that have made me happy in the past – places I remember from childhood.

It’s falling out slightly differently so far this time around. I have barely seen the sea since it threw me around all day yesterday.

I’ve spent a large part of the day in a damp room sorting through clothes that, in 7 and a half years, have somehow remained free of moth, even if there’s occasional damp spots. He liked his brands, my uncle. It’s a shame he was quite a lot bigger than me, or I’d come home with a new wardrobe.

There are a load of suits, all of which are lovely but wouldn’t fetch much on eBay. Some of them feel like they’d wrap around me twice. Someone in Jersey is going to walk into a charity shop and find themselves in heaven, unless I’ve got a friend of the right size who needs a few good suits. A good home is a good thing and I’ve got a pretty big car so I can take back a fair amount of stuff so long as it’s not worth much. I don’t want to upset Tweedledum from yesterday.

Peter’s waist was a 38. His inside leg was 31. He tended to buy XL tops.

His collar size matches mine though so his shirts fit. Some were in their laundry packets having just been mailed back from the dry cleaner. I took off my worn red lumberjack with the missing cuff button from the Rimula job, and swapped in a lovely Cerrutti cotton shirt crisp and fresh from the dry cleaners 8 years ago. I figured I’d hit the town for Saturday night in some of Peter’s clothes. Such as the town is.

I’ve been much better at this than my usual, thus far. Even if I’m looking for ways of repurposing this stuff, the charity shop can do that and my primary focus is on getting it cleared. That’s what I’ve been asked to do and I haven’t got long to do it.

I’ve got two van loads of stuff to empty from storage in London quickly after I get back. The pathways are being established. I’m getting better at deciding quickly what’s useful and what’s junk across a whole range of categories. I wish I ran a theatre company that had its own building. Although mostly that’s to do with storage.

Tomorrow will be mostly about throwing away. My poor uncle – he’d carry a bag with him everywhere filled with tissues and rennies and plasters. He’d then check into some unbelievable hotels – wonderful, but the opposite of where I’d want to stay every night unless I was sick or exhausted. He’d keep all the check in information in that bag. The card key for the room. Any business cards he got. Any information about the job. Papers he picked up. All receipts. Then he’d get home and put the bag in the wardrobe with the plasters unopened and the Rennies often scattered loose. And over unwatched decades of summer and winter and summer again, the unfoiled Rennies would disintegrate and stick everything together in the bag with their gelatinous ick. He couldn’t have predicted it would’ve fallen to me to have final say on his renniestuck things. I couldn’t either. But it has. And I’m trying to do it tenderly and ruthlessly. I walked his rosary to Santiago de Compostela.

Now I’ll honour his taste by ensuring his possessions find people that share those tastes. But not the Rennies. They’re going in the bin.

I was born in Jersey. I lived here until I was ten or eleven or so. My first school was here. I loved Mrs Pickles. My grandfather had an appointment as ADC to the governors here for many years and for many governors. My grandmother was a vast personality socially, capable of inspiring tremendous love and tremendous distaste. She self-described as crippled, although was too proud for a wheelchair. She never walked without assistance, and I was her regular prop. She taught me to hold my arm like iron. She taught me to say “mein granmutter ist krank,” which isn’t German for “My grandma is crippled” but I used it without correction when she came and visited in Switzerland so I could get them to show me where the service lift was or explain away bad behaviour…

My family is written in granite here in this island. I understand tides based on this place. I understand weather based on this place. I miss this place all the time. If I could, I’d live here and fly back for auditions and jobs. But I’m not famous enough yet fukkit.

Readers, you might be getting confused about all these islands. So yeah. Jersey for first ten then overlap Jersey and IOM and Switzerland for another five years, then less Jersey, more IOM and suddenly more Switzerland, because of dad’s work bobsleighing and then I got my first job out in St. Moritz. Then IOM for ages.

For me, though leaving this island – that was the wrench. This island feels like my spiritual home. I miss it in London. I miss it everywhere. It feels … right. Mine.

The bastard ferry took about fifteen hours. They give you 30 minutes / 100mb internet free over your fifteen hours. Thereafter they are asking ungodly prices – throwback prices. Condor ferries still live in 2002 where WiFi was some sort of witchcraft. Still, I sorted some stuff out and finally had time to stop and chill. If the weather hadn’t been atrocious it would’ve been restful. As it was we were being lifted and dumped all over the place. My sea-legs are generational and perfectly wobblygood so I’ll roll with the boat, but there were a lot of people yakking and the bathroom stank.

I get hungry on the ferry. I get a pie. Pie, chips and peas? I can get away with having a pint with three hours left, surely? Even though it’s an unfamiliar vehicle? I have a pint.

Hours later the boat gets into port, and I get ready to go.

Remember. I was born here in this small island.

The guy I talk to at passport control is hostile. Last time I came here I almost got buttsearched at the airport. I sat in a room for ages before hostile questioning. As a teenager I’d get pulled over every time I flew in with my overcoat and my long hair. Every time for ages and every time for no purpose despite searching everything, to the extent that I got a letter of apology once from mister Renouf after the third consecutive time being the one they “randomly” chose. He was head of customs at the time and knew my grandad. He explained my rights. I’ve remembered them ever since They’ve come in handy.

“What are you doing in the island?” Says mister border to my fucking HOME. He is almost certainly a grockle by his accent. “I’m sorting through my uncle’s stuff.” “And then you’re exporting it off the island?” He targets the word “exporting”. “I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully. I’ve no idea what’s there. Hopefully I’ll take most of it to charity shops.” “Is this your vehicle?” “No, it’s rented.” … “Move along.” He’s probably made a note to harass me on the return journey. He’ll be welcome to go through basically a pile of old shirts and letters that I haven’t got the heart to chuck…

Literally five minutes after I have that arsehole conversation with Tweedeldum, a police van turns out to have followed me into the parking lot of the Airbnb I’ve booked five minutes from the ferry port. Another one – Tweedledee gets out with all the same attitude. Ok. When the sidelights are on in the hirecar it gives it more light than most headlights. “You were driving with no lights,” is Tweedledee’s opening shot in the “not from round ‘ere Olympics” I’m genuinely surprised by this news, although I’ve never driven one of these monsters before. “Fuck really?” I say. I could see perfectly well. I actually thought the lights were on and a bit shit.” “You seem a bit unsure.” “I don’t know this car at all yet. Plus I’m trying to remember where The Savoy is from childhood because I’m right next to it. Plus I’ve just come off the ferry.” I say about a third of what I want. “I can smell alcohol on your breath.” “I had a pint of John Smith’s with my dinner.”

My car didn’t have Jersey plates. I got breathalysed. I was under the limit. But basically Tweedledee pulled me over partly because it wasn’t a Jersey plate. 2 officious twerps in under ten minutes of being in the island. Fuck you, home.

This is what the uk is heading for? Where the woman on the tube attacked me for having “dark eyes”. Where the woman when I was floor managing at Ascot said”You’re not from round here, are you?” ” From Berkshire, no madam.” “No you know what I mean. You know … er …” “Touch of the tar brush is it madam?” “Yes! Yes!” “Well … My mother was Spanish … ?” “Yes! Yes, you see Graham, that’s it I told you.” “Will that be all madam?”

I’m Jersey born, I think of myself as belonging to this island, but it’s a small island with a weird border and a weird attitude. And it means that something potentially lovely is being fucked by small-mindedness. “He’s not from round ‘ere. Must be up to no good.” Still. I’m glad to be home, properly home, at last.

“I’ll be in bed by 8.” I said to Tristan. He had come to lend a hand as I tried to get as much of the stuff from the van as possible into a temporary storage. I’m off to Jersey tomorrow. Up at around 4.30am to drive to Portsmouth in time for the ferry. I needed to empty the van as much as I’m able so it can be used to move set on the day I get back from Jersey. I’ve rented a car from Enterprise to get to Jersey because I’ve not had time or cash to fix the bloody jag yet. My poor friends in Sussex have had it sitting wounded in their driveway for way too long now. This whole Jersey business has turned into an expensive logistical nightmare but there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

I haven’t even thought about where I’m going to sleep in Jersey yet. I’m there for a few nights. I have to clear my poor uncle’s effects out, and speak to some people. I was going to look around online this evening for a place to stay or perhaps I’ll find time on the ferry if there’s internet. Frankly I’ll probably just try and sleep in the hire car, at least for a night or two, if I can find somewhere where I won’t be arrested for vagrancy. It’s a strange thing to contemplate on the island where I was born – the fact I have no home there now.

My early bed plan has been shattered. Minnie is in a show and I’ve consistently failed to get myself there every night of the run in spite of my best intentions. I’ve been distracting myself with work, exhausting myself with play and forgetting myself. But I’m not going to miss her first run of a show since she became a mum. She rang me this afternoon and told me it was ok if I didn’t make it. To hell with that. I’m on the tube. My head is swimming. I will leave right after, get home and crash hard. Then tomorrow morning all I have to do is get that bloody boat.

Unless I’m going somewhere, I’m not giving myself time to stop at the moment. It’s probably not healthy. I’m eating terribly as well. I’m writing this on the tube so I can sleep faster after Min’s show. I’m really excited to see her work again, so that’ll keep me awake I reckon. But I’ll be sure to message her telling her that I’m definitely leaving as soon as the play ends. I want to feel reasonably human tomorrow morning. I really don’t want to miss that boat. But I’m excited to get the chance to support my wonderful friend. She works with her whole heart and her whole body. And she has been fundamental to keeping me from sinking into despair in the dark times. It’s downstairs at The Hampstead, a great little studio space where I’ve seen friends do good things before. I feel a bit tired and a bit sick, but I’m glad I’ve made it…

And I’m back in London. Another long drive.

I haven’t really stopped for ages now. But I might be about to get a slower pace, where I can work at my own speed doing emotionally difficult but physically easy work. I’m off to Jersey for a good length of time. But that’s not happening until Friday. For now the randomiser keeps rolling in Rochdale.

Today was up and into a rainstorm. I had slept beautifully though in the huge bed in the Premier Inn. For cheap accommodation they do great mattresses. And the company had paid for breakfast. So I tried to get their money’s worth. Two of us were there, but my colleague couldn’t eat anything on offer. “Surely you have a banana?” “No. Sorry.” Her words stung with “I’ll just have nothing.”

That left me carrying the breakfast onus. My reaction was to overconsume. She was worried about me. “Slow down!” No. Two poached eggs, two bacon, two sossidge, beans, tomato, toast. All, essentially, inhaled in the space of about 5 minutes. I wanted to get off to work. I was leading a thing I haven’t led before. It’s just workshop delivery though. I’ve been doing it for years. Stand up, speak clearly, don’t show weakness.

Driving home I was thinking about it in terms of my craft. My job, if I’m leading workshops, is to bring information to the people listening. I’m “delivering content”, and then I’m going round following up on it, and helping individuals before going back to deliver more content. Similar to the corporate work I’m doing where I’m serving entertainment to the people at a conference large scale, and then going and being charming to individuals, before going out large again. In both of these models, I have control of a thing and I want to send it to the people around me. It requires me to radiate. Which is fine as I’m a habitual radiator. I radiate this blog every day – haphazardly structured thoughts about my day. I still don’t send it wide. If you find it you find it. If you take something from it then my work is done. I somehow feel it’s a part of my job as a human to put things out there. I’m looking at finding ways to use other forms, but often that needs money at the outset, and time. You’ve likely noticed, oh constant reader, how quickly and indiscriminately I say “yes” to the majority of things people ask me to do. If it’s physically possible, I’ll do it. But that squeezes my time.

I don’t want to just radiate anymore. It neglects a whole facet of my work. I am going to start looking for ways to draw people in instead. It’ll be helpful to balance. With one hat on I can stand in a three-piece and be larger than life. But I want to focus on chances to bring people in with me as well, now. Smaller, tighter, more focused work. I really crave some interesting tight screen work. It’s what I was playing out in The Isle of Man. Once I’m back from Jersey I’m going to try and assemble some of the more recent screen footage, particularly the piece they screened at BAFTA where I played Shakespeare’s angry ghost. I haven’t updated my showreel for years. It still starts with a montage for Christ’s sake. Time to make it work for me, so strangers who check me out don’t get a random selection of scenes from a decade ago. Groundwork first.

I’ve been helping people reach their full potential today, in Rochdale, and helping them understand how, to a stranger, there’s nothing they can use to work out who you are other than what you give them. And that material can be curated. I need to get on that. Nothing like teaching others to help you teach yourself.

The good thing about driving is it gives me time to think. I didn’t realise that I’d be doing it for 5 hours each way when I agreed to do this job tomorrow. But … that’s how it fell for me. I had to get myself to Rochdale somehow. The company send a car. They do it through Enterprise, and sometimes you get a free upgrade and something flash to drive. But today it was just a basic ford. I felt really small and low in the road after all that time in the van. But much nippier.

I love listening to radio 4, driving and sorting out the contents of my head – which are jumbled at the best of times. I had some useful insights into patterns of thinking I’d fallen into. I’ve been keeping myself busy dayjobbing and corporating and acting and I’ve not been letting myself think very much. Work can be an avoidance tactic. But driving, although you have the very active task of not getting yourself and those around you killed, is always a good time for me to work out what I’ve been avoiding.

I’m in a Premier Inn. I did an advert for one of their competitors a few years ago in which I forgot my toothbrush and because of their “forgotten something promise” they magically provided me with one and made me the happiest human being on the planet. Life imitated art this evening, when I realised that I’d only taken what I need for work, my charger, a change of underwear and something to sleep in.

But I’m up super early tomorrow and I still need to plan what I’m doing. It’s another whole day doing something I’ve never done before, but on tracks that I recognise. It’ll be fine. But I’m going to take this precious hour before midnight to work at it, and drop a short blog. Until I know the timings tomorrow I can’t properly relax…

There’s the problem with driving. Sure you can think. But you can’t write.

I’m getting so confused. I just… what the … who?

I’m back from The Isle of Man. First thing this morning I pulled myself from my sheets. Seems I ran a bath last night when I got home from the delayed flight. I went into my room (for a towel?) got undressed and passed out under the cat. Glad I switched the taps off. This morning I was momentarily surprised by a full cold bath with a glass of wine on the side. “Did I run that? Must’ve…”

I stumbled to Imperial College where I found out I was having to run a room with 200 people in it for a few hours, with a load of co-workers who had never done it before. The whole time, my brain was switching from immediate problem solving to learning the lines I knew I’d have to speak this evening and the work I’d have to do for an audition and back to “No, Itô’s formula isn’t provided on the formula sheet because the academic would assume you already know it.”

The audition involved having to do a little cry. So I was keeping the emotion close to the surface all day. Tears are always close in Spring, but there’s an odd issue with the old cry on demand, in that when they come to you a bit of you thinks “Hooray! There they are, great! I’m really happy I’m crying. Oh shit stop being happy.”

I left the college climbing down from adrenaline, went straight home, and immediately got a load of bags out of the attic to source costume for this evening. Around doing this I shaved and sorted audition clothes, and twice had to stop Pickle from randomly weeing in my drawer or my case. The clothes from the attic smell of other cats and it must have triggered her.

Then “Does this tie work?” “What about this pin?” Fuck it. It’ll do. As long as I feel good. And sad. Sadgood.

Jon and I head off to The Globe where four of us run lines, me in my sharp suit and them in casuals. My alarm goes off to remind me to leave and I’m walking across chilly London, making myself feel vulnerable on purpose again while making sure nobody calls the Samaritans on me. Into the audition room, tuned and ready.

“We won’t read that first character. There’s been a change of thought on it.”

Ach. I could’ve felt happy all day rather than singing Ave Maria and looking at daffodils. We bash out the rest and put it on tape. It feels like a nice respectful meeting. It ends and I’m out the door and stamping back across town mumbling to myself in Elizabethan. I get back in time, change out of my smart suit into scruffy red military costume, and run a load of unfamiliar lines with friends. Then it’s up and at ’em, with high octane clowning to drunk people. We are mostly finished now. I would like that glass of wine and that hot bath now please.

Here we all are, four silly plonkers having fun for money.

One more scene and I’m done. Another early start tomorrow and then driving up north to do something unfamiliar. Hellfire. It won’t stop me saying yes. Better knackered and confused than bored… If only I could sleep bathe in hot wine…