Fistral. Great big sky and a line of coast. I’ve been standing in my balcony with red wine running my tomorrowlines against a recorded version of myself reading all the other lines in. They’re in, I think. I’m allowing myself a dinner break and then it’ll be another hour before bed. Important to appear effortless on set. I’m hoping I can get into The Fish House for dinner but you have to book forever in advance. If they call me I’ll indulge. If not I’ll likely end up having Rick Steins dodgy fish and chips.
Cashflow is not good right now after Mr Clutch threw the book at me to fix Bergie. Needed to be done though, and even if there were too many hours charged, at least the work is guaranteed for two years. This experience puts a fuse on Bergie though. If he’s that much of a bastard to work on, I’m better off with a Qashqai. I might get some of the overcharged hours back, but I honestly feel right now that I’m tiny and the Mr Clutch machine is huge and stupid and inevitable. I’ve got some basic quotes on time, but I’ll need to contact Nissan direct and yadda yadda yadda.
As I write I’m getting messages from The Atacama desert where I would be if I wasn’t here. There’s a sliding door, as I sit in my suit in Fistral wondering if I’ll get a table at the posh restaurant while my friends work their fingers to the bone burning and sweating their way through a huge villagebuild into another desert race. I’m getting photos of nothingness. Apparently the night sky is incredible. I’m sad not to be there, but also I’m so happy to be on set again. I sat by the monitor for a while today and just made sense of the feeling on this film. Much of the same people in the same roles. I’m gonna enjoy slotting in and doing my job.
The call sheet just came through. Pick up before 7 and my biggest scene first. Ain’t it always the way. No callback from The Fish House, so I’ll wander back up hopefully and if they are still chocka I’ll go get overpriced undersized unpopular tourist fish from mister famous.
And then I’ll go to sleep in my incredible cottage. I’ve got the whole thing to myself. It’s huge. It’s self catering, which would be relevant if I’d known about it, and will be useful next week when I’m back again and will have my car with me. So long as the clutch doesn’t burn out on the way.
I flew again this morning, to Newquay. This time the plane didn’t break. It’s a pretty good way to get here, frankly. Very quick compared to any other route and, in keeping with the ridiculousness that we have been enduring for most of my lifetime, the train will be more expensive than the plane. Thatcher.
I’m gonna watch the sunset. Then eat. Then work. Then sleep.
I ended up in The Stable. It’s a pizza place with a panoramic view of the sunset. Fish House lady stood in an almost completely empty restaurant and told me the was no room for me, and I’m sure she might fit me in at the end but I’m gonna need to be back to work before then. There’s no way she could every know how fast I’m capable of eating…
It’s interesting how I allowed myself to get exercised about the chance of eating in an expensive restaurant when I’m cash broke. Gotta watch that tendency. I had to divert investment funds this morning to pay for my pret coffee at Gatwick. When I say I’m broke these days it’s different from what I meant by the same word a decade ago. Thank fuck. But… My service charge just went up this morning in my block which means that now, to stand still, with council tax and service charge I need just under £600 a month to stand still. Considering I am supposed to own the place, that’s fucked, no?
Anyway. Food. Then bed.