The Rake’s Progress

Art breeds art breeds art breeds art.

This one kicked off sometime before the 1730’s when the London artist and observer William Hogarth did the thinking that led to a series of paintings showing the progress – or perhaps lack of progress – of Tom Rakewell.

These paintings doubtless have their roots in older art. John Bunyan’s influential and moral Christian life journey story The Pilgrim’s Progress, which in turn come out of Dante and Everyman etc etc until we don’t have it written down anymore. The heroes journey. Let me just start grinding my Joseph Campbell again…

Hogarth painted his progress in living memory of Bunyan’s very different progress. Shortly afterwards, in France, Voltaire wrote his Candide. A new rash of these ancient allegorical journeys for the modern age of the mid to late 18th Century. Fables. Cautionary tales, perhaps. Hogarth was a very eloquent satirist for his time. The paintings survive, unlike his earlier “Harlot’s Progress” which was destroyed and exists only in etchings.

Cut to the 1950’s and Igor Stravinsky the Russian composer has ended up collaborating with WH “stop all the clocks” Auden – the extremely prolific Anglo American poet who is recently largely associated with one (excellent) work, for such is the power of cinema. Stravinsky has decided to make an opera of the Hogarth paintings, and pulls Auden and Chester Kallman in for the libretto. An opera in English, of these English cautionary paintings, and told with a twinkle in the eye. “For idle hearts and hands and minds the Devil finds work to do,” the piece concludes. It premieres in Venice in 1951.

Cut to 1974. I get born. More or less around this time John Cox is the creative producer at Glyndebourne Opera House and he persuades the artist David Hockney to design a unique production of the Stravinsky. With all the sets painted by Hockney, all the props and busts and costumes, painted by Hockney, this show enjoys a good opening in 1975.

Cut to this evening.

This Hockney Opera has only been performed 146 times including tonight despite the age. We managed to get into the slips, right at the edge of the stage in the upper circle. Lou and I brought the average age of the audience down by a fair few years. The house was packed, and I reckon if we had pooled the collective wealth of everybody in that room we could’ve bought much of the Southern Hemisphere. The singers were running around with props that might have six figures next to their prices if they ever found their way to auction. I cricked my neck with the terrible view but, surprisingly, I loved it. “I don’t watch opera,” I’d have told you a year or so ago. My reason? “Too expensive. Not accessible. Nothing to recommend it.”

I like it now. I’ve loved these reasonably regular chances to witness opera done well without having to mortgage anything. I’m not immune to the fact I’m a lucky sod to have somebody able to get me these tickets. It would be good to see the shows somehow appealing and being accessible to people who are not so fabulously wealthy as most of the presentation and conversation I witnessed in those gardens today. But I guess with all the musicians and staff, and more silence about The Arts in today’s budget, the easy way for the model there to survive is to keep doing it like it has been. Rake’s is proof at least that it works. This show was conceived before I was born and I didn’t find it egregious. It was colorful fun. The singers were enjoying it. The house was enjoying it too. I would say go see it but you can’t. It’s about to go on tour. I think there’s one night where it’s affordable for under thirties. I imagine the rest of it is sold out already. And if it’s not it’s gonna be PRICEY.

Maybe also I loved it as I wasn’t paying, despite the restricted view. Free opera. Free hard to get opera.

My phone accidentally snapped the apron as I switched it to silent.

Huzzah.

Fitness

Brian has taken up boxing.

When we went to the cinema last night I ate tons of popcorn and I drank most of a huge glass of cola and then I woke up this morning feeling like I should do something about the fact that somebody has stapled cold blancmange around my bellybutton. Brian looks fitter than a butcher’s dog. I’m not sure if I’m cut out for boxing. But…

I drove through exploding roads out of London this evening. Three hours from mine to Lou’s, and sirens and trails of smashed up bumpers and broken glass and people standing in lay-bys blankly looking at fucked up cars just sitting where they stopped, waiting for the ambulance or the fire truck or whatever happens to you after you total yourself. Is it the heat? Who knows? It’s hotter at night than it usually is in the daytime at this time of year. It all felt a bit Mad Max as I drove to Brighton. Maybe that’s why I want to get myself fighting fit. I’ll have to defend myself with nothing but a claw hammer and a bit of perspex once the Brexit Water War commences.

Horse riding? I’ll need access to a horse that can carry me. And it’s not very cardiovascular. And it’s expensive. I could go do a ski season somewhere but… acting and money… Too much time. Plus I could tear my leg off. Fencing? There are no adult fencing classes in Chelsea and anyway it’s mostly detailed wrist movement and lunging. Besides I always found fencing classes catastrophically boring at school as everybody wanted so desperately to divorce it from violence that it just became about talking and safety equipment and you never learnt technique. Judo? Hmm. Ow.

I’m not running. I hate running and my ankles are pronated. Maybe climbing, but my beautiful hands will be ruined. Gyms need you to have a 9 to 5 job and charge as if everybody is on 60k a year. Then you come out of the pool smelling of sick and immediately get a cold. I’ve often thought of trying to crew a tall ship round the world. I’d come back ripped, grounded, zen and better at the accordion. But time…

Or I need to get a job where they make me dance every day. Even just a decent hard hit of the Shakespeare. Outdoor summer Shakespeare is the ultimate accidental fitness job. I suppose I’ll lose a bit of weight Scrooging it but that’s just December and I’ll put it back in with post show audience wine : “Oh really there’s no need, but if you must then a glass of red wine. What? Well, large I suppose. The bottle? Oh go on. So long as we share it. I’ll pour.”

Maybe I should just start doing press-ups. Go to my friends online barre class. Hang upside down from a bar above the door by my boots like dad used to. I could join the Territorial Army. The Foreign Legion.

I’m writing this in bed. Today I walked up some stairs and changed the sheets on this bed. Apart from that it was just driving and pottering. I’ll sleep on it. Anyone for tennis?

Dune (no spoilers)

I had forgotten going to the cinema.

Picturehouse Shaftesbury Avenue. A dark and unseasonably warm October evening. Dune.

First I have to get there, which involves the underground. It’s still not as crowded as it used to be down there. I still don’t like it. “Remember, some people find it harder than other people to socially distance,” says a prerecorded announcement at Sloane Square, and it reminds me how we have normalised staying away from each other now. I sit alone and am glad to get back out under the sky. I grab a hotdog, and wait for Brian. Three hours in the cinema, coming right up.

8000 years in the future, and nothing makes any fucking sense but it’s beautiful. The plot is full of holes but it’s gorgeous. It’s a huge bright weird world, and it’s lovely to spend a few hours in it just wondering what in hell is going to happen next. I find it mildly perplexing that they all have such ordinary names. I’ve grown used to names like Thardrak in films like this. In Dune we’ve got Paul and Duncan. It somehow just shifts the brain into a more pedestrian world.

The look of it is great. I remember being struck by the crazy big Lynch film of the same book. This can exist alongside it really, as a huge modern view of a very odd world, with less Sting and more CGI mice. It’s psychedelic space opera. Spice is basically intergalactic psylocibin. It’s all a big trip. They’ve put some amazing faces in this film – uglies and beauties. There’s loads of arbitrary stuff that just happens. You have to just let it wash over you, and don’t ask too many questions. It’s a big old noisy world. I’m looking forward to the second one.

For a long time I avoided buying popcorn in the cinema. It’s so overpriced, but I’m happy to do it right now when the industry needs propping up. By shoving sweet and salty mixed into my face I can tell myself I’m helping keep the building open. I was glad it was pretty crowded in there. We stood in the queue and loaded up on sugar. Nuts. Chocolate. The corn. A large drink. We made an absolute mess of our seating area with our clumsy popcorn antics. And it was just great to be in a public place with a friend, surrounded by other actual people, sharing this absurd and wonderful piece of big screen story. I’ve got the taste for cinema again now. Perhaps I’ll go and see the Bond film. I’ll see if I can persuade Lou…

This man is not in Dune. It’s a commercial.

Peaceful Robin

Next to Hampstead Heath station, tucked into a layby between the road and the train tracks, there is a little oasis of calm called “The World Peace Garden”. I’m sitting here, looking at the corralled nature. Some of the flowers are in bloom. There are wind chimes ringing in the autumn breezes. The sun is bright this morning and if I raise my face I can soak up the warmth and bask in direct light. To my right a young man is sitting smoking and reading “Carrie” by Stephen King. To my left, a robin is trying to work out if I’ve dropped enough croissant to make it worth risking a close approach. A small orange child just ran past, followed by the mother and her friend, but normally you can sit here for ages and see very few people.

I think this place was the fevered retirement dream of some rather fabulous artsy Hampstead ex councillor type person. “Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but pictures, kill nothing but time,” we are told by the laminated sign tied to one of the trees. Somebody else has stuck a “No smoking” sign on the laminate, and both signs are rebuked by a sticker that reads “plastic kills”. A reminder of the febrile nature of this city. Conflicting agendas, overlapping one another and struggling to be seen. I’m fine with the guy smoking. I’m amused at the “Plastic kills” because it answers my immediate feeling that the laminate is twee, ugly and out of place. If you’re going to go to all the effort to make the garden, just get some local artist to carve you a wooden sign with your trite motifs. Or trust people not to be arseholes. The kind of people that are going to steal your flowers, throw shit everywhere and kick the birds are going to do it whether or not there’s a sign suggesting they don’t. They won’t read it anyway.

Still, it’s pleasant here. The path is strewn with woodchip and autumn leaves. Bamboo and ferns, old and young trees, and a little bit of life. Some of the stumps have bracket fungus, and I find myself wondering if there might not be an interesting mycology lurking here somewhere.

I’m just here to procrastinate. I’m supposed to be hauling boxes down the stairs and taking them to my friend’s garage. But the weather is so perfect. Another rare bright autumn morning. After a shit summer, at least the memory of summer lingers here.

I just had a little moment communing with the robin. It came and sat opposite me, close enough that I could see its throat moving as it made its eloquent mimbling twitters. It found a bit of my croissant before two men talking loudly shoved past me and it went and hid in the bamboo.

It’s easy to forget the nature that is waiting in the city. It’s easy to overlook the fact that if we all went to the rapture, the streets would be overgrown in a matter of months. I’m glad I took the time to sit here. Now I’m going back into the throng. Flat white, boxes, cars. I’ll miss the little robin.

More scary walkies

Inevitably now in Hampstead, some people who live in the houses near where we play out to short scenes have cottoned on to the fact that the walk is happening. This evening’s Hamilton Mohun duel was done to the accompaniment of an extremely drunk sounding teenager shouting half remembered bits of Shakespeare from his bedroom window. He might become a regular obstruction, in which case I’ll have to build him in before the audience get to him. “The whole time they fought, the ghost of the actor previously killed by Mohun was attempting to distract him by shouting random lines of Shakespeare. You may find he appears again tonight. Ignore him. He’s a prat.”

If that’s the worst thing we have to worry about we will be fine.

I hate to jinx it, but damn we’ve been lucky with the weather. This would be a very different fish if it was pouring with rain. As it is, so far we have just had lovely clement walks across the heath and through the streets. We have been happy, and we’ve been reasonably warm. Everybody has got nicely tanked up. The mood has been positive and warm.

At some point I’m going to have to do it with the rain hammering down, with thunder and lightning, angry wet audience, very little shelter. I’ve worked outdoors so much I know how much energy you need to beat weather like that. If I had a direct line to the gods of Halloween, I would beg them to be merciful, as it’s exhausting. We only have five more evenings to do. We are exactly halfway through the run. At least the beginning has been kind. We all know what it is now, so our focus can go on the detail instead of the big picture, so long as the weather holds.

The first few walks, in the dark on the Heath, it was a very real possibility that I was going to lead the audience in the wrong direction and end up profoundly lost with a bunch of people following me. Siwan placed lights on important turning points, but then sometimes the lights got moved or taken. I had a couple of moments of panicked uncertainty, but thankfully never led the audience off a cliff and even knew enough that when a light got moved to the wrong staircase I could ignore it.

Now I’m secure enough that even if it was sturm and drang, we would get to the right place. The only thing I haven’t thought about is shelter en route. Making sure when possible that I stop in places that have cover. Perhaps that can be my side focus tomorrow. It’s supposed to be dry, according to BBC weather. Whilst I’m conducting the dry tour tomorrow I can have one eye on contingency stops for when it’s pelting it down. Pretty much all the places I am stopping in have no shelter for the audience should it be a rainstorm. I don’t matter. I can stand where I get wet. I’m a ghost. But I’ll lose my audience if I stop them in the rain, especially if they can see potential shelter.

I’m at the Hampstead flat again. Hopefully I’ll get some good work done tomorrow. For now, it’s early to be in bed by my standards, and considering how many people offered to buy me a drink, I’m remarkably sober. I was worried about this job clashing with something else, and was imagining having to apprentice Tristan into my role with half a day’s notice. But I’m glad it’s working well. These are lovely people. I’m glad to be tangled up with them for this Halloween silliness.

I frequently get asked where I got my costume from. It’s incredible how much you can do with so little. Just two good items from the costume haul. They are both so commanding. A coachman’s cloak that could’ve been made for me. Eloquent and swishy. And a tall silk stovepipe hat that fits me perfectly and adds about 3 foot to my height.

I have very little space in my living room right now, and my wardrobe is full of half sorted costumes. So there’s positive and negative. But they’ve started to go out. There’s another London ghost walk partly costumed from the haul, and tomorrow I’ll be dropping off some bits… At some point I’ll properly engage with moving it off. Mostly right now I’m distracted with other things. Twas ever thus. X

Strangely sleepy

I’ve been back on The Heath. Home now and feeling enervated. Not the best state to be in when I’m going to need to sleep. But ain’t that always the case with the old adrenaline.

A big old group tonight, but not so drunk they weren’t playing. This little old walking tour is joyful in its way. The only issue, as so often, is winding down afterwards.

I’ve had my hot bath. That’s likely got my heart rate down a little. Now it’s the old staple of chamomile tea and then I’ll just lie down, close my eyes and hope for the best.

It’s always such a variety of personalities on the tour. But the thing that binds it is that everybody seems to be there to have uncomplicated fun. We are covering a lot of ground so I’m throwing out energy. But I’m starting to really enjoy myself within this bombastic character I’m making. I’ve given myself license to be pretty broad, and depending on the group I’m dialling up or reining in the sinister. Tonight’s lot got a much jollier version of me than many last week, but I arrived at work in a good mood, and they didn’t seem to be the spook crowd, so we just had fun together.

I’ve had such a lovely relaxing couple of days in the process of saying farewell to Mao. Lou and I really made the most of it and all the noise I was carrying fell away. To be honest I think I’ll probably sleep very well despite my concerns. My body clock has been shifted earlier by synchronising with Lou. I can feel myself just drifting off as I write. All I did was drive back from Brighton and then do a few hours of fun-shouting! Maybe I really AM getting old…

Tomorrow and the rest of the weekend looks to be a bit more work as I’m back to Hampstead again. Believe it or not I forgot the keys to my friend’s place again. Same as last week. I think perhaps a little part of that was on purpose, as it’s really lovely to be home in my own bed with all my strange things around me.

Yeah… This is all I’ve got today. Sleep is climbing up my legs. Here comes Dreamland and I’m not setting an alarm. I’ll be asleep when you read this, probably having more of the wild and crazy dreams that the last full moon seems to have sent my way. Night night.

Weekday pottering back down south

“I might have to get a hamster,” says Lou. “It’s not the same,” I warn her.

We just got back to her flat, empty of a slow and twitchy hairball cat for the first time since May.

We woke up in Benson, picked an arbitrary route vaguely towards Brighton, and struck out through the Chilterns, on the lookout for interesting things. After a little stop at the lovely Norman St Helen’s Church in Benson, we stopped in the Saxon town of Wallington. “The Castle Grounds are Closed for Health and Safety,” barked the sign after we had already paid for two hours parking. Thankfully a local in his active wear clocked us. “It’s ridiculous. Just go up the road, round the corner and hop over the fence.” We do. Thank you to that man.

The castle was vast and important once, so Cromwell tore it down in The Civil War. This is why we were able to get in. You can bet that the whole place would have been Windsored if it was still an important dwelling. We’d have been shot for even trying to get in. We leapt over a fence and stood at the top of a vista of green. The earthworks were, of course, still there. The stoneworks were tumbled.

Most of the stone is long gone. Occasional corners are still defiantly standing. The centuries have brought it back to nature, and recent excellent trends “rewilding anyone?” have helped nature return. We walk through a huge sweeping green area with lush grass, and a wealth of trees and birds. Cows graze the earthworks, mushrooms pop up, red kites swoop. Even though we climbed a fence to get in, we are very much not alone in these castle grounds. Nobody runs at us waving their arms and panting. It turns out that most of the ways in to this gorgeous vast space are still open. We’d have been fine if we’d come from the riverside path.

We spend some time among the trees and then it’s off back into the car to drive and be distracted by signs. The Maharajah’s Well was a quick stop – donated from Varanasi to a village in the Chilterns. Practical for two hundred years, and glaringly out of place in a little sleepy English village. This was our Thursday, while the world was working. We puddled through pretty villages saying “ooh” at pretty things.

Just as sun was setting we arrived at Halnaker Tunnel, which is an old Roman path up a hill, with the tops of the trees bent across. “It’s not ready yet,” a photographer tells us. He’s come with his big camera hoping to find that the leaves were turning, but they are still too green tonight. We are still glad to schlep up the hill and catch the sunset at the windmill.

There won’t be many moments like this where Lou and I are both simultaneously free and mobile over the next few months. There won’t be many days like today, when it really is a spring light in autumn despite the cold wind. An opportunity taken to catch more tiny snatches of how the ancient character of this land sews itself through all the nonsense we’ve stuck on top of it. I feel both tired and well rested. And happy.

Fyfield Manor

It hasn’t been terrifically easy for Lou and I to simultaneously not be with Mao overnight, so this evening – to help soften the blow of his return to his family – we booked an Airbnb. Not one of the ones I tend to book for work, where I have to live in a shoe for 0.20p and my ears are eaten by spiders. There are spiders here, but they’ve got room to roam. The ceiling in this room is too high to reach by jumping. The room itself is vast, and softly covered with plush and comfy cream carpets. The bed… Would you call it a super king? You’re not gonna find a mattress for this in IKEA. It’s gargantuan, all set about with soft feather cushions. We just had a hot bath in a bath with a built in chair, and now we are curling up for a night away from The Chairman.

We will both miss him. He will likely miss the superabundance of soft things that he is allowed to spend all day on in Brighton. We will miss his twitchy face.

But for tonight we will lie in this vast bed and drift away in the knowledge that we won’t be awoken by his hairy bum in our faces.

Fyfield Manor… Lou has an uncanny instinct for places like this. Slowly rebuilt from semi-deriliction starting in the 1970’s, this place is OLD. The dining room where we will take our breakfast dates from the 1100’s. Now it’s comfortable and well appointed, and the keeper of the house is instantly likeable and recognisable to both of us. Residents here can get 20% off a Pilates class from her, or one on Alexander Technique. Her husband is a builder. Her children include an architect and a mathematician. This has been reclaimed slowly over time, but done to a high standard. I feel like the big ticket price I’m paying for the room will go right back into some sort of positive project.

I’m looking forward to my breakfast in that room. Reading the blurb we are drawn to the ethos with which they’ve driven this refurbishment project. When they lost the Elm trees to Dutch Elm Disease in the ’70s, they had the wood sawed and preserved for the renovation. Sure it’s nice to have the barns. But this has been a lot of work, you can tell. And rather than keep the beautiful medieval stonework covered, they’ve found places to expose it without making the place freezing and damp. This building is in the land and of the land, plus it feels still and ancient and wise. The blurb they have was written in about 2004 and yet it touches into so many of the things that we have learnt to really care about now. The place is powered by solar panels. They are actively trying to compost things and I’ll bet they’re using the compost. They are careful about power usage but not in an ostentatious, shouty or virtue signalling way. Plus it’s warm and cosy.

Lou is dozing off next to me. The bed is as big as a football field so I can write without disturbing her. Outside, I can hear the rain coming down again – that comfort of being in the warm when it’s raining.

It’s only fifteen minutes to Oxford Parkway Station from here. I’m imagining how it would have been if I’d stayed here when I was working for Creation. Impossible of course. Four nights here is a weekly wage there. I’ll just have to find my own semi-derelict manor house, do it up and carry it around with me for when I get jobs out of London…

Here’s Mao, loose in the back of my car, with some of his favourite things…

Sad evening and bins

It’s sad this evening. It’s that time of year when we all feel sad. Even though the moon is waxing, the nights are getting darker and darker. Before long the clocks change, and we all start coming together in order to burn things and go “ooooh!”

I’m back down in Brighton, sitting with Mao, our last evening together. He’s off back to his family tomorrow up near Reading. I am going to drive him, and Lou is coming. He senses there’s upheaval in the air. The mood is fractious, the dark is closing in, and this small fluffy calm and kind lockdown companion is going on a journey tomorrow back to a woman and a little girl who love him very much, and out of our lives.

He’s old. I’m glad I can return him in good health. When he came in April from the expensive cattery he was heavy and covered in tangles. He’s moving better now and his tangles are gone. I’ll miss his little pantaloons and his enormous eyes and his twitching tiny mouth. As I write he’s staring up at me and occasionally spasming like a pirate. He’s a comfort. First Pickle and now Mao. I’m liking how these little creatures seem to be finding their way into and then out of my life. But the ending is always sad.

The job didn’t land and so we go round again. Dammit. It means I can shave the ‘tache off – although I was growing strangely fond of it. Perhaps I’ll keep it awhile. I got a bit spun out by it and ended up being later down to Brighton than planned, so I arrived to get hauled out for thoughtless tardiness. Lou is working this evening. She had made pie for us both. I’m an oaf. She had her half on her own hours ago. I’m heating up mine now and is that rebuke I see in Mao’s eyes, or am I just projecting?

Outside, in the sad darkness, Brighton is slowly filling up with garbage. The bin strike is still ongoing. Every street corner now is loaded up with rubbish. Some private firms have been dealing with the worst areas in the city centre, trying to cut back on rats and stench. But out near Lou some of the piles are getting out of hand. Bags blown into the street and hit by cars mean that down the seafront now there is a liberal coating of plastic just waiting to be swept by the wind onto beaches and into the sea. Fifty mile an hour winds predicted for tonight promise that the area will be a total mess tomorrow, and more of our poison will go into the sea. It’s mostly packaging. It’s ALL packaging. And it’s vile. Too many people, too much stuff, too thoughtless, too tied to convenience. Yuk.

Waiting on a job

And so…

Monday. Traditionally the actor’s day off. I suppose that allows it.

I haven’t been very productive today, my dears. It must be partly to do with the fact that last night I decided that I would say yes to every drink I could say yes to, and stay until the bitter end with whoever was drinking whatever wherever.

It is telling that my recall is limited. I don’t think I did bad things. One tends to remember if one picked a fight with somebody, or randomly propositioned a friend. I believe that I’ve done both things in the past, while in my cups. Not last night thankfully. I think I wrote a ranty blog, but if that’s the worst of it then it’s fine. These word sandwiches get made every night before I go to sleep, for you to munch with your breakfast. Occasionally I say things which I feel are true as I say them but then the next day I feel differently. Other times, if I know what my cards are, I publish and be damned…

I’m trying to be honest here. That’s the key. Honest not popular. If I don’t show the cracks, I’m showing nothing at all and there’s no point in this exercise. Any plastic fuckwit can tell you their shiny shiny life that isn’t really shiny. If I’ve got a job to do with this mess of language, that job is to help us know how unpredictable this existence can be. Those of us in the performing arts can take comfort in me sharing the arbitrary mess of it. Those of you in other lines of work can either think “thank God I quit” or you can get to know the nitty gritty of a largely misunderstood industry, and be better at not being that fucker at the family gathering who says “You should get your agent to put you up for that Star Wars!” *genuine quote from my cousin* GAKKKK

I guess I’m in a bit of a mood, as I think that another lovely little job just went by me. With costume fitting etc I figured I’d probably know by the end of today. Perhaps not… Maybe it’s still all to play for. But I fear it’s gone the other way. I’m used to it if so, but it’s always disappointing… I’ve sent a few barnstorming self-tapes recently. And I think I nailed it in the room for this thing I’m waiting on. Maybe if I ask you all to collectively wish good fortune on me… The fee for this one would have been an actual holiday, to the Greek islands, with Lou and I together abroad, nice hotel, and change.

I’m used to the uncertainty, but when you get really close to a job landing, it’s harder. This one might still land. Maybe maybe maybe… But I was first in for the recall… Often they work out what to say with the first person, and then it’s perfected by the time the third is in. Ach. No point in fixating. My job is to bounce back. I will bounce back. I just so very desperately want a good solid well paid formal acting job thankyouplease. Right now I’d take things I might have turned my nose up at before. I just very much want to click back into gear with my industry.

Ghost walking will at least keep me oiled and occupied, and then off to Jersey with Carol so really – barring gaps for filming – I’m busy until January. November looks slim but it’ll fill…

Ach.

And that’s what happens when I have a day off. I spend most of it wondering how I’m going to get work next month. Relax? Reschmax.

Fingers crossed.