Author: albarclay

It’s so warm in London. It took going back over last year’s blog to remember just how bum-clenchingly cold it was in town this time last year as I was trying to staple material to a wooden frame inside a van in a parking bay in London Bridge. This time last year was a frantic freezing few days, making a space for something that we didn’t even know the shape of at Vault. Today has been calm. Peaceful. I have neither done anything nor have I felt the need to do anything. If I hadn’t gone to the shop almost just for the hell of it then I wouldn’t have left the house at all. I didn’t need to go to the shop either. I just found myself putting my boots on and walking out the door in a vague attempt to trick myself into thinking I was achieving something.

My bedroom is a pleasant cocoon where I can wrap myself in sheets as the winter wears away and read books and plays and play games and write out these thoughts and keep the world at bay for a day or so. Sure I’ve been emailing and writing and even booked a little bit of work for tomorrow. I was meant to meet a friend for evening drinks but her kid isn’t well so she had to rush straight home to take care of him, so I just stayed at home and took care of me. It’s only just 9pm and I’m winding myself towards sleep. I don’t start work until 2 tomorrow. Ahhh mild winter laziness.

I have too much stuff at home, accumulated from so many different sources, much of it with a story. If I’m trying to get things done it can be very distracting as there’s just loads of things to pick up and become momentarily fascinated with. It’s perfect for a lazy day like this though. A bit of Spitfire fuselage that I’m using to keep coins and dice inside? Check.

“Our Lady the untier of knots” taken from a voodoo altar in New Orleans? Check. A papier maché bust of my head wearing my father’s old battered trilby? Check. Great big intricate model boats, multiple busts of Gladstone and Disraeli in cast iron or red stone. Check. Guitars and accordions and a very sophisticated steaming iron that I honestly don’t think I’ll ever use particularly considering I threw away my ironing board when I noticed it had an asbestos heat-plate. Old stuff mixed with technology mixed with mystic stuff mixed with things of beauty mixed with junk. Thankfully always in the back of my head is a voice telling me to keep moving stuff on. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to move in here. I’m a stuff conduit. Annoyingly it isn’t a maximum £1 listing weekend on eBay or I’d have made better use of my time. But it’s always nice to do nothing until it gets repetitive. I’m glad I’m busy tomorrow. But this has been a fine January Friday.

“Your blog doesn’t show on my Facebook.”

“I used to like reading your blog, why did you stop?”

Grrr

This is me embarking on my fourth year of a semi-documented existence. I’m still here. This is still happening daily. It’s still hit and miss. I hope it still helps people frame their random shit, or helps them find fellow feeling, or sheds a different light on an old pattern. I sometimes get surprising messages from people who are touched by it. These messages are the main reason I continue to write. That and the fact that the habit is so deeply ingrained…

Three years ago I had just moved to a hostel in Venice LA and had walked up the shanty town by the river in Glendale. Two years ago I was fretting about my health, my career and the cost of gym membership in a cold London. Last year our show in the van went on sale and Ethan built me some stairs. Come to think of it, did I ever pay him for that?

I’ve inadvertently created a journal – an aide memoire for when I bang my head and get amnesia. It’s far from comprehensive as I usually try to avoid naming people unless I’m certain they’re ok with it or I’m pissed off with them. I’m also frequently writing around the subject, avoiding NDAs or hurt feelings or ruining surprises. Frequently I dash this out on my phone before bed in whatever state I’ve got myself into. Occasionally I try to give it time and craft something. The thing I don’t do is miss it. Even if I’m really not feeling it.

Today’s a bit like that. It’s been dark and I’ve been back in pain. I went for brunch with an old mate and couldn’t see beyond it while we were talking. I’m trying to use painkillers only when I must as it’s been a long time now. He’s no stranger to back pain. We are all getting old… He told me that if the x-ray turns up a blank then he can hook me up with a good physiotherapist for cash. I’m kind of hoping the x-ray gives some clarity as if not I’m properly stumped. This pain is way too acute for it to be going on much longer.

We went for a walk and soaked in a bit of vitamin D, which cheered me up and distracted me from pain. I even took a photo, which is rare.

Then I headed back home. Tristan was bringing my microphone back and I wanted to help him make sense of how to use it. It’s a good bit of kit, if only I didn’t live on a main road. We did a bit of recording and then both slunk off to our respective dry Januaries. He’s going to a fiftieth birthday party on the weekend and is going to give himself a free pass. I think I might do the same. It’s too cold and dark to deny myself nice things just for the hell of it. Sure, I’m not going to get mashed up. But a glass or two of wine with a good friend might be just the ticket…

Meanwhile another blog year. Despite Facebook’s attempt to make me vanish unless I pay them. I still hate that. I might start sharing these manually, although I’m still not even sure if I’m writing them to be read or just writing them for my own weird reasons.

Nevertheless, if you’re still here, thank you. If a tree falls in a forest etc.

I go in to my GP to meet a young doctor for shoulder diagnosis. The receptionist gives me a feedback form to fill in on how satisfied I am with the treatment. The doctor has a young woman observing her practice. I think the young woman might be a student.

I’m determined not to underplay the pain I’m in. Yes, I have high tolerance but this definitely hurts lots. I tell her so, and that I’ve deliberately come in painkiller free for diagnosis. She manipulates me until I reflexively swear at her and then she refers me for an X-ray. “Go after 5 pm,” says the receptionist. “It’s less busy.” The form says that it’s open until 19.45. I fill in my feedback and go home for a few hours.

At ten past five I am in reception at the hospital. One receptionist is behind the desk.

“We’re closed now. Didn’t your GP tell you? Since September this department has started closing at 5.”

“Oh. It says later on the form…”

“We had to change it. It’s Brexit. In 2017 Theresa May sold the NHS to the Americans. Boris is no better. In two years time there’ll be no NHS unless people mobilise and they’re doing nothing. There’s supposed to be two of us here, but they can’t afford it. I’ve referred you to ED downstairs and checked you in. You can get it done there.”

The doctor is also the receptionist at ED. She is 25 minutes with a patient before she can check me in. She then takes my details and I sit down to wait. I have a feeling that I’m going to be here for a very long time waiting, but I’m still lucky enough to get this referral and by the end of the night I’m likely to have an answer. I’m curious to know what they find. The painkillers have worn off and I’ve no more with me, and after two days of relative respite the pain is back with a vengeance today. I must have slept badly on it. I wish I’d brought a book now. Because of the early closing I’m in A&E essentially, and because I was sent from upstairs I’m a low priority patient. You can wait in these places for days as a low priority patient, but it’s worth it to not have to pay for the x-ray…

It worked out quicker than I anticipated, but because the radiologist is a one woman army, working through the patients kindly one by one without a nurse or a receptionist. She was having to position me, photograph, position me photograph etc. She can’t look closely at the images herself with the time she has, so now they’ll get sent to someone for review and I’ll have to check in with my GP. Hopefully it’ll turn up whatever is wrong, as if not I’m going to be very confused. I wonder how long before I can check in with her… 

It’s so understaffed. It’s such a shame. And they are all working so incredibly hard, these kind generous thoughtful considerate healing people. What have we done?

The boiler guy came round in the morning and changed all the remaining parts but then he called me in, with doom in his voice. It’s to do with the water pressure. I now have a number on it. I get 2 litres a minute of cold water through my taps. It’s not enough to top up the boiler properly. He told me that the boiler can’t run.

It can run, and it is running. But now he’s told me that I need to do something about it as any damage taken from it running on empty is likely going to obviate the insurance. The flat is warm again at least.

Some years ago there was a water pumping system put into my block. I was quoted £1,200 to get connected to it, and I declined. Now, a decade later, it seems I can connect to it for the cost of a plumber – although if I were to get my share of the freehold I expect the system cost will be added to the total cost. I am going to connect to it and hopefully that’ll solve that. It’ll just cost me a plumber’s fee.

The guy this morning was decent enough to leave me with a working boiler even though he technically shouldn’t have signed off on the job with it underpressured. Another good guy but it took some pleading and holding my ground. And then Ajaz came in to install a smart meter…

Now I have a little display that tells me exactly how much power I’m using per hour. I’ve been running around switching things on and off and working out what they cost. It’s a lesson. I can really see the difference between incandescent bulbs and fluorescent ones. Now I’m running a bath and I will be able to see precisely how much a bath costs to run. I’m expecting to be unpleasantly surprised, as my power bills have been very high for the last few years. It’ll probably be worth putting a powershower in for the savings alone.

I was meant to go to a market research group tonight. One of those things where you speak your opinions as a consumer to the people working out how to sell a product. The last one I went to was for Lilt and I swear to God they quoted me on the eventual packaging.

I don’t know what this one was for. I arrived way too early, so I sat in the pub round the corner. Better a busy lively place than a sterile silent waiting room. I showed up about ten minutes before the group started, and then someone read out a list that didn’t have my name on it. Everybody went in and a few minutes later they apologised to me. “We book too many people on purpose. You have been randomly selected and you can just go. Here’s £50”.

Well, that’s a result. “Randomly selected” my left testicle, I had “actor” on the form and someone wanted contributing members of society. Nonetheless, I’m very glad of a crisp £50, and I’m home in my expensively warm flat running a £2.00 bath…

It’s like I predicted what was to come when I called yesterday’s blog “Nice Warm Flat”. I booked a boiler service through the insurance. The boiler is the only thing I’ve got insured in this flat, remembering the long cold winter three years ago when I was Scrooging in a freezing warehouse and then coming home to a freezing flat. The guy came round, took the face off the boiler and swore. I got out of the way and let him work. I wasn’t going to give him any excuse to duck it. He cursed and spat and replaced a load of parts. But then he realised the gas intake was rusted at which point he lost his shit and condemned the boiler. “I should’ve called it at the start. I’m in too far now. You can’t switch it on. Someone will be back tomorrow. Sign this.” “Thank you.”

Again this culture of not doing it if there’s a way out. It’s to his credit that he persisted, and replaced all the parts that needed replacing until he hit a wall as he didn’t have a gas intake in his van. He’s a goodie.

He says he’s coming back tomorrow to fix it. Half of me believes him and half of me is expecting someone else to come around, tell me my insurance isn’t valid for whatever reason and plunge me back into freezing Hel for the rest of winter. It’s down to the individual, and that guy was a good guy. I suspect he’s in the minority.

I can’t wash tonight, but I’ve got an electric heater in my room so I can stay toasty. You don’t miss these things until you need them. I hope I don’t get one of those negative lazy bastards tomorrow like the oven guys who fucked my back.

Tomorrow I’ve got the guy from Bulb Energy installing a smart meter, and to double down I also bought a Nest Learning Thermostat on Amazon, so with any luck once tomorrow is over the whole heating situation in Barclay Towers will be more energy efficient, cheaper and sexier. Either that or it’ll be more than everybody’s job’s worth and I’ll end up installing my own boiler without blowing up the house, carrying the old one out of the flat and dying of apoplexy surrounded by expensive intelligent machinery.

Today was a big day. I woke up before the pain woke me. I held off taking painkillers and as it happened I got to hold off all day. There’s a persistent mild discomfort but the shocking laser of hard constant pain didn’t rear its head today. Perhaps bodies mend themselves after all. Perhaps I’ll just get better now. I’m still going to go to my doctor’s appointment on Wednesday and ask for a referral to a physio as I don’t want this shit recurring, but FUCK YEAH.

As if in celebration, Flavia came over this evening and we watched Kiss Kiss Bang Bang curled up under a blanket on the sofa. Old friends…

I’ve been very aware of the darkness today. This is the hardest month, and I’m glad there’s been distraction in the shape of this filming and various other projects on the horizon. I’m back at home and tired much earlier than usual. I’ve got an appointment with my GP on Wednesday morning, but part of me is tempted to just pay a physiotherapist. I really want to know what’s wrong. The mornings are still stark with pain and the over the counter drugs have stopped working so well now. My body has got used to them.

Today I was turning a friend’s flat over in North London. It looks likely I’ll be shifting my base to Hampstead for a month or so to flatsit for her. It’ll mean I can go for long walks on the heath on bright winter mornings, which can only help with the January blues. She had some guests over the New Year who trashed the place and ended up being so egregious that she’s not allowed to have anyone stay but me from now on – I’m ok in that I’m known to the landlord, and he understands that I’ve got my own place and am just there for maintenance purposes. So be it. It’s a lovely thing for me, to be able to kick around in Hampstead for a few weeks and see London from a different point of view, at the cost of occasionally changing a fuse or collecting mail. This city changes it’s shape geographically and socially depending on where you lay your head in the evenings. It’ll be good to see it North-headed for a change. I’ll probably end up seeing friends I don’t see so often living in the South West. London is basically lots of little self contained cities under one big umbrella, with excellent if expensive transport links connecting them together.

I’m back in Chelsea for now, again. Back in my warm flat and finding it much more like home than it felt when I got back from America and the cat was gone. Incense burning, bath running and I’ve booted up the laptop for a game of Half Life 2 just for the nostalgia while I work out where the fuck I put my Christmas book tokens after finishing my novel.

I’ve got plans for the flat now which I think I might finally be able to achieve in a month or so. I’ve been researching companies that could come in and sort out the bathroom. A shower, tiles, new carpets, new doors and a bit of work on the electricity and a bit of sorting in the kitchen and I can start to feel I’m living in a grown up flat instead of student digs full of antiques. Oh and a big push on eBay to get the rest of the random junk moved on. If I go to Hampstead I’ll make sure my room is tenanted and I can use it as practice for potentially lucrative Airbnb fun at significant times of the year, such as the Chelsea Flower Show, or if I book a tour…

I spent most of the day sitting in a perfectly realistic living room. Furniture and lovely ornaments, including some Wedgwood Jasperware pots and ornate antique vases. Big decorative pictures on the walls. Daylight outside the windows. A chandelier. It was only when you look up that the cracks begin to appear. The ceiling is torn to allow the cable for the chandelier, which runs up thirty feet in the air and more to the REAL ceiling. It’s only then that you might start to realise that the daylight outside the windows is burnt in by arrays of halogen bulbs. The walls are just flats. Outside it’s a box in a huge empty space. Inside there’s smoke blowing, heaters burning, cameras and microphones and so many people and all the paraphernalia of a set in full work mode. The other actors and I are milling around, coming in and out, doing this, doing that, talking and walking and sitting and fretting. The work of today will translate to just seconds on screen. I might see three of the many words I spoke make the edit. I might see none. It’s happened before. I’m not going to rule it out. But it’s a good gig for me right now. I’m thrilled to have booked it even if I can’t name it and don’t speculate publicly please. I’m up to my knees in non-disclosure agreements and leaky actors don’t get re-employed.

After the wrap I walked back to my trailer and was startled by the reality of darkness. It was DARK. After all the artificial light, I’ll probably end up with jetlag.

Now I’m in Mike’s Audi, driving across London to Shoreditch to see my best friend. I love how you get a driver for the day you’re on set. All the VIP treatment just for remembering words and doing a voice. Reality again tomorrow for a while. Boo hiss.

Now I’m installed in a booth at Busaba Shoreditch waiting for Minnie. Good on the driver for being okay with changing my drop-off to accommodate my need to see my best friend. If he’d taken me back home it would’ve been too late by the time I got back out here. I owe him one. I’ll have to get him a present for next time I’m on set. He’s a Manchester United fan. I’ll think of something.

This set is very much a community and I’m glad to meet it. Lovely people working together for a common goal. There is some wonderful work going on.

I’ve just resisted the temptation to get some celebratory alcohol, and I’m making do with an Appley minty ginger thing, which is nice enough and won’t make me feel like shit in the morning. Roll in another photo of my drink.

I’ve learnt a lot today by observing. I want to be on as many sets as possible with people of the caliber I’ve just been on with. There’s so much to learn from watching people who have had loads of screentime. I remember observing an old Trojan years ago for just a couple of days in Bangkok and stealing the way he behaved on set. You always grow through working. This has already been a learning experience for me.

Yesterday evening I got a call from the second AD on my upcoming shoot. “You know that long bit that was divided up among six people? How about you learn it all for Saturday morning?”

I’m always game for a quick learn, and I have been known to describe myself as spongebrain. The gamble is, do I allocate the time? Or do I sabotage myself utterly, keep on putting it off, try to cram it just before I sleep, dream about it and wake up fretting? Well, it’s a friend of mine’s birthday party in Soho. Old Al would have four glasses of red wine in him before “oh hell, my lips, I’m filming tomorrow – oh shit the learn!” Shiny new Al still made a showing having got to a stage of relative fluency already. I got a present, had one non alcoholic stout and I was out.

And even that brief moment was a joy. I caught up with a few good friends, and even had a rare chance to catch up with Brian when he’s not working. He’s got a PA now. I think it’ll help immeasurably, and it doesn’t surprise me. He’s been non-stop for so long I’m amazed he hasn’t fallen over. He probably has, in fact. I’ve seen his migraines and they have names and speak in capital letters. We need another job like the one in Milan where we could eat truffles and drink prosecco and call it a work outing. He happened to have the spare keys on his person which is revolutionary. I’ve been gagging for them. Campbell and Tom and I have been working off one keyset, and hiding them in flowerpots when we go out. It’s neither ideal nor secure, but nobody can cut a new key for the upstairs lock as all the remaining ones are copies of copies of copies and they no longer copy properly – like mice that have interbred for too many generations and have legs on their heads.

I’m not cooking this evening. I stopped in Bodeans Soho to sit on my own with a 0 alcohol Brooklyn lager and consume flesh. Then it’s an Uber home, a few more times round with fluency and connections for the lines, bath, painkillers and an early bed.

I booked a doctor’s appointment at long last. It’s on Wednesday morning. My clinic is busy. The good news is it’s early so I can grit my teeth and go in painkiller free for full assessment. I’m not going to do my usual thing of talking it down and being stoic as I want a fucking referral and I want this fixed. It’s too much, to wake up like that every morning, never mind that it gets me out of bed. I have the broken rib to compare it to, and it is actually somehow worse, even though I can’t imagine anything is broken in there. My movent range is good or I’d be guessing a partial dislocation. I think either an X-Ray or an X-pert is the only logical move.

A very dear friend of mine lost their mum recently. I knew her a little, and liked her more. It was very sudden. It was a huge shock. I found out about the illness while I was in America. The funeral was last week.

The dad wanted to immediately throw away all her clothes, and I ended up volunteering to get a car and get myself to Uxbridge in order to fill it with clothing and other important things. I certainly know the value of a clothing inheritance. I was dressed up in a smart suit for my casting in the morning, and the shoes and shirt were both my uncle’s. The scarf I wore was my mum’s. I often wear my dad’s hat.

I never wear these lovely things without a thought to the departed ones.

First problem is, no car…

At Christmas I joined Zipcar before I realised that every single Zipcar in London had been reserved for the whole day already. I’ve sat on the membership ever since, thinking it might come in handy. Today it did. Up to Middlesex through angry roads full of shouty boys. Into a little roadway and up into the house where two old friends were sorting clothes into suitcases.

Mum died a long time ago now, and I’ll often tell you that my grief is “understood” or “processed” so I can avoid talking about it. Can we ever really recalibrate after the first contact that we ever have had with the material world took place inside their body? There was never a world without mum until there was always a world without mum.

I helped package the things and then I sat next to my friend in the car and we drove and talked. Only after the car was loaded and we were on the road did the rain start to fall. Torrential rain, battering London, flooding the roads, hammering onto the windscreen. Huge, hard, driving, cleansing rain. The Zipcar was excellent. Clever wipers keeping visibility good, tyres feeling solid and safe on suddenly nasty roads. It’s an argument against buying another £300 disaster-cart on Gumtree. We made the drop-offs and took the Zipcar back to Mornington Crescent where it sleeps. I had booked way too many hours, as I didn’t know you can extend your hours if you need to and I didn’t want time pressure to be involved in the process. Still it only cost me about £60 all in, despite driving into the Congestion Charge Zone, and up to Uxbridge and back. I think I’ll start to make more use of them what with temporary sober-Al.

Ending the day in North London, I decided to stay at my friend’s place as I’m taking care of it up in Hampstead by the heath. I stopped at Marks and Spencer’s in South End Green, and they are selling daffodils at the checkout. Daffodils. In January. And suddenly I’m crying at the checkout.

The last conversation I had with mum was about daffodils.

I don’t normally have to look at the things until late February and I know to get ready.

The wave passes very quickly as it can now. I don’t buy the daffodils, and I walk back to the flat simultaneously swearing and wondering at a world where they’re having to push daffs in January, likely because they came up too early and there’ll be another frost.

Here’s the view from my bedroom, because as ever I took no photos. Until now.

A long January day with no designated work. I woke bright and early with the pain and decided to use it to be productive. It’s amazing what you can save if you phone up and ask.

I’ve been overspending on my broadband to the tune of £15 a month, so that’s sorted now. I’ve sent in some meter readings and ordered a smart meter for gas and electricity. I’ve booked a free service for the boiler to change the magnaclean and make sure it’s all running well. Maria the cleaner showed up at 3 and has helped expunge the last of the Christmas horrorshow. The hob is pristine. The fridge is in order and all the off stuff is thrown into binbags which are out of the house with separate ones for recycling. Freezer isn’t done yet but it will be.

I’ve ordered a new vacuum cleaner. The old one finally gave up. I’ve ordered a little directional light to click onto my butsudan. My rotary shaver came in the post today but of course it only has a shaver plug on it so I can’t charge it up. I’ve ordered a convertor and I’ll have to wet shave for my audition tomorrow despite my new toy. I’ve put a calendar up and a few pictures on the walls. I’ve thrown a few bags of complete junk away. I’ve ordered a kitchen mandoline like the one that I jammed both my thumbs into about five years ago, a potato peeler and plenty more incense. I’ve thrown away more stuff than I’ve ordered.

Despite the pain I managed to bang the window frame so I’m not getting a constant freezing cold wind from the river down my back as I sleep. I laid aside my suit for tomorrow, learnt my lines and thought about approach. I’ll wake up early and do some more of that so I can go in prepared and have the best shot. I cooked good breakfast and good dinner and no lunch, as ever. I bought a half price diary and marked it up properly, then emailed possible day jobs. I unpacked the stuff I brought back from Carol and put it away properly. I tried to work out where the spare keys are. I burnt a lot of incense, had a good long chant, booked a car to help a grieving friend, and put Pickle Rick on the table in a silver platter.

I spoke to a physiotherapist but didn’t book the appointment yet. It’ll be £65 and I’m a little leery but I have a feeling it’ll be worth it to have a shot at not being on constant painkillers.

My tummy feels weird, even though I’m mixing the meds, or maybe because… It tends to be wake up to tylenol, afternoon with ibuprofen and bedtime with cocodamol on a very full stomach. It’s just as well that I’m off the booze, but my poor poor liver is getting no rest for the meantime. 

I suspect it was the sobriety that catalysed the change, although pain turns out to be a very efficient alarm clock. I’d sooner have one of those lights that go on gradually and play birdsong or whatever. But pain’s what I got, and it works fine for now.