Oh fuck.
I’m in the bar at The Swan.
Tomorrow I’ll have to drive to Hay Castle. Early. It’s a long drive.
I’m doing a show tomorrow. Playing Gratiano. In Merchant. I honestly don’t know if I’ll still know my lines. My focus has been this event at The Underglobe. A wonderful thing, and a difficult thing. Fights in a dinner space. Some exceptional physical control. As actors we have to be aware of the space we take up and why and how. I recently auditioned for a well known musical where I just let them see my body unconstrained. Didn’t get it. Note to self: pretend to be better than real. I feel foolish for enjoying that audition. I felt supported in the room but evidently I wasn’t. Didn’t even hear back from the casting director.
And so we muddle on.
I’ve been very happy to fill my address book with new humans. This tiny corporate gig is just a tiny corporate gig. But different people attack things in different ways, and it is easy to see the people who will still be slugging in a decade. These guys and gals are recent East 15 graduates. I’ve always loved that place. It makes possible people. Nobody is crushed by their own bullshit. I hope that a fair few of them will still be doing this silly job in ten years time.
I’m drunk again. Oh goodness me how I’m drunk. And I have to do something unfamiliar tomorrow. I’ve done it before. But fuck. I’m tired. I have to sleep before I drive.
Witness me writing this now. I’m missing out on “social time” to log words. I could just stop the hand to mouth. Why do we need to drink after a gig? There are other ways of dealing with adrenaline…
They’re talking about tattoos. I’ve never inked myself. I change my mind too often.
I’m gonna plug back in…
—
Nightbus. Well traveled route but they’ve moved the 11 route and so we are just on the 26 to Victoria. Makes sense as the fuckers used to ignore the St Paul’s stop anyway and just bust past us at speed in order to mock our optimism. This is an old and well trodden route but changed. I’ve carried so many of these events now. The bus routes shift but in the end there’s only so much London. Here I am, crossing that bastard again.
AlBarclay 