First official walk of the year across Hampstead in the darkness. I do enjoy it, but it takes more time than it needs at the moment. I prefer to get to places of work early. It’s a well oiled habit, crucially important. I was late once for an audition at Spotlight despite that habit. I walked to Sloane Square. It was closed. I ran to Victoria. It was closed too. I panicked, tried to wait for a bus, realised it was pointless, got an expensive black cab through terrible traffic, left it at the top of Piccadilly and sprinted the rest of the way, got there only five minutes late because thankfully I’d left plenty of time. I got into my slot but the casting director was miraculously running on time, and typically she was well known. “You should always leave plenty of time,” she said down to me and I bit my tongue. She never got me in again. Sliding doors. That was maybe twenty years ago. Funny I remember it suddenly as I write, I can’t actually remember which casting director it was and there’s no way she’ll remember I was late. It’s all very doesn’t matter, but nevertheless these things sometimes roost in the corners of our memory and sap tiny tiny bits of happy from our days until we notice them, causing them to immediately crumble to dust.
The “being early” thing currently means I’m getting to The Old Bull and Bush two hours before we start, and I don’t like being in pubs when I still haven’t fully kicked the hold of the alcohol on my daily habits. And I’m about to go on a long walk when I get there. Perhaps I’ll start to bring my book.
Only fifteen in the audience for the first night so they moved pretty quick. It’s nice the guide personality I’ve made for myself. I’ve made him just a slightly madder version of me in a top hat, so I have license to grind various axes in a silly way. It was very very dark on the heath tonight but we all came through fine and despite some brief interactions we haven’t picked up any streetlife types who know we are regular. They’ll emerge I’m sure.
On the way home I illegally parked outside a Kuwaiti place in Knightsbridge and got a mutton curry takeaway. “Do traffic wardens operate at this time here?” I asked, and they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I showed them a picture. I immediately went into Extreme-E getting things in Saudi mode. “Oh, police!” “Yes police for cars.” “No no not at night.” I thought the wardens might be nocturnal there near Harrods just because there are lots of rich kids who do stupid shit with imported sports cars in that area. No ticket for Bergman, and we drove home with mutton curry.
It was an excellent idea, I just scoffed it: falling off the bone, great quality, big portion, loads of veg too. While I waited in the restaurant I realised I was the only person in there that speaks no Arabic, even though it was packed at 11.30pm. Sign of a good Arabic place. Nom. You can get so much in this city.
AlBarclay 