Author: albarclay

Normally when I come to Jersey I take the time to look at things. I go to the places that have made me happy in the past – places I remember from childhood.

It’s falling out slightly differently so far this time around. I have barely seen the sea since it threw me around all day yesterday.

I’ve spent a large part of the day in a damp room sorting through clothes that, in 7 and a half years, have somehow remained free of moth, even if there’s occasional damp spots. He liked his brands, my uncle. It’s a shame he was quite a lot bigger than me, or I’d come home with a new wardrobe.

There are a load of suits, all of which are lovely but wouldn’t fetch much on eBay. Some of them feel like they’d wrap around me twice. Someone in Jersey is going to walk into a charity shop and find themselves in heaven, unless I’ve got a friend of the right size who needs a few good suits. A good home is a good thing and I’ve got a pretty big car so I can take back a fair amount of stuff so long as it’s not worth much. I don’t want to upset Tweedledum from yesterday.

Peter’s waist was a 38. His inside leg was 31. He tended to buy XL tops.

His collar size matches mine though so his shirts fit. Some were in their laundry packets having just been mailed back from the dry cleaner. I took off my worn red lumberjack with the missing cuff button from the Rimula job, and swapped in a lovely Cerrutti cotton shirt crisp and fresh from the dry cleaners 8 years ago. I figured I’d hit the town for Saturday night in some of Peter’s clothes. Such as the town is.

I’ve been much better at this than my usual, thus far. Even if I’m looking for ways of repurposing this stuff, the charity shop can do that and my primary focus is on getting it cleared. That’s what I’ve been asked to do and I haven’t got long to do it.

I’ve got two van loads of stuff to empty from storage in London quickly after I get back. The pathways are being established. I’m getting better at deciding quickly what’s useful and what’s junk across a whole range of categories. I wish I ran a theatre company that had its own building. Although mostly that’s to do with storage.

Tomorrow will be mostly about throwing away. My poor uncle – he’d carry a bag with him everywhere filled with tissues and rennies and plasters. He’d then check into some unbelievable hotels – wonderful, but the opposite of where I’d want to stay every night unless I was sick or exhausted. He’d keep all the check in information in that bag. The card key for the room. Any business cards he got. Any information about the job. Papers he picked up. All receipts. Then he’d get home and put the bag in the wardrobe with the plasters unopened and the Rennies often scattered loose. And over unwatched decades of summer and winter and summer again, the unfoiled Rennies would disintegrate and stick everything together in the bag with their gelatinous ick. He couldn’t have predicted it would’ve fallen to me to have final say on his renniestuck things. I couldn’t either. But it has. And I’m trying to do it tenderly and ruthlessly. I walked his rosary to Santiago de Compostela.

Now I’ll honour his taste by ensuring his possessions find people that share those tastes. But not the Rennies. They’re going in the bin.

I was born in Jersey. I lived here until I was ten or eleven or so. My first school was here. I loved Mrs Pickles. My grandfather had an appointment as ADC to the governors here for many years and for many governors. My grandmother was a vast personality socially, capable of inspiring tremendous love and tremendous distaste. She self-described as crippled, although was too proud for a wheelchair. She never walked without assistance, and I was her regular prop. She taught me to hold my arm like iron. She taught me to say “mein granmutter ist krank,” which isn’t German for “My grandma is crippled” but I used it without correction when she came and visited in Switzerland so I could get them to show me where the service lift was or explain away bad behaviour…

My family is written in granite here in this island. I understand tides based on this place. I understand weather based on this place. I miss this place all the time. If I could, I’d live here and fly back for auditions and jobs. But I’m not famous enough yet fukkit.

Readers, you might be getting confused about all these islands. So yeah. Jersey for first ten then overlap Jersey and IOM and Switzerland for another five years, then less Jersey, more IOM and suddenly more Switzerland, because of dad’s work bobsleighing and then I got my first job out in St. Moritz. Then IOM for ages.

For me, though leaving this island – that was the wrench. This island feels like my spiritual home. I miss it in London. I miss it everywhere. It feels … right. Mine.

The bastard ferry took about fifteen hours. They give you 30 minutes / 100mb internet free over your fifteen hours. Thereafter they are asking ungodly prices – throwback prices. Condor ferries still live in 2002 where WiFi was some sort of witchcraft. Still, I sorted some stuff out and finally had time to stop and chill. If the weather hadn’t been atrocious it would’ve been restful. As it was we were being lifted and dumped all over the place. My sea-legs are generational and perfectly wobblygood so I’ll roll with the boat, but there were a lot of people yakking and the bathroom stank.

I get hungry on the ferry. I get a pie. Pie, chips and peas? I can get away with having a pint with three hours left, surely? Even though it’s an unfamiliar vehicle? I have a pint.

Hours later the boat gets into port, and I get ready to go.

Remember. I was born here in this small island.

The guy I talk to at passport control is hostile. Last time I came here I almost got buttsearched at the airport. I sat in a room for ages before hostile questioning. As a teenager I’d get pulled over every time I flew in with my overcoat and my long hair. Every time for ages and every time for no purpose despite searching everything, to the extent that I got a letter of apology once from mister Renouf after the third consecutive time being the one they “randomly” chose. He was head of customs at the time and knew my grandad. He explained my rights. I’ve remembered them ever since They’ve come in handy.

“What are you doing in the island?” Says mister border to my fucking HOME. He is almost certainly a grockle by his accent. “I’m sorting through my uncle’s stuff.” “And then you’re exporting it off the island?” He targets the word “exporting”. “I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully. I’ve no idea what’s there. Hopefully I’ll take most of it to charity shops.” “Is this your vehicle?” “No, it’s rented.” … “Move along.” He’s probably made a note to harass me on the return journey. He’ll be welcome to go through basically a pile of old shirts and letters that I haven’t got the heart to chuck…

Literally five minutes after I have that arsehole conversation with Tweedeldum, a police van turns out to have followed me into the parking lot of the Airbnb I’ve booked five minutes from the ferry port. Another one – Tweedledee gets out with all the same attitude. Ok. When the sidelights are on in the hirecar it gives it more light than most headlights. “You were driving with no lights,” is Tweedledee’s opening shot in the “not from round ‘ere Olympics” I’m genuinely surprised by this news, although I’ve never driven one of these monsters before. “Fuck really?” I say. I could see perfectly well. I actually thought the lights were on and a bit shit.” “You seem a bit unsure.” “I don’t know this car at all yet. Plus I’m trying to remember where The Savoy is from childhood because I’m right next to it. Plus I’ve just come off the ferry.” I say about a third of what I want. “I can smell alcohol on your breath.” “I had a pint of John Smith’s with my dinner.”

My car didn’t have Jersey plates. I got breathalysed. I was under the limit. But basically Tweedledee pulled me over partly because it wasn’t a Jersey plate. 2 officious twerps in under ten minutes of being in the island. Fuck you, home.

This is what the uk is heading for? Where the woman on the tube attacked me for having “dark eyes”. Where the woman when I was floor managing at Ascot said”You’re not from round here, are you?” ” From Berkshire, no madam.” “No you know what I mean. You know … er …” “Touch of the tar brush is it madam?” “Yes! Yes!” “Well … My mother was Spanish … ?” “Yes! Yes, you see Graham, that’s it I told you.” “Will that be all madam?”

I’m Jersey born, I think of myself as belonging to this island, but it’s a small island with a weird border and a weird attitude. And it means that something potentially lovely is being fucked by small-mindedness. “He’s not from round ‘ere. Must be up to no good.” Still. I’m glad to be home, properly home, at last.

“I’ll be in bed by 8.” I said to Tristan. He had come to lend a hand as I tried to get as much of the stuff from the van as possible into a temporary storage. I’m off to Jersey tomorrow. Up at around 4.30am to drive to Portsmouth in time for the ferry. I needed to empty the van as much as I’m able so it can be used to move set on the day I get back from Jersey. I’ve rented a car from Enterprise to get to Jersey because I’ve not had time or cash to fix the bloody jag yet. My poor friends in Sussex have had it sitting wounded in their driveway for way too long now. This whole Jersey business has turned into an expensive logistical nightmare but there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

I haven’t even thought about where I’m going to sleep in Jersey yet. I’m there for a few nights. I have to clear my poor uncle’s effects out, and speak to some people. I was going to look around online this evening for a place to stay or perhaps I’ll find time on the ferry if there’s internet. Frankly I’ll probably just try and sleep in the hire car, at least for a night or two, if I can find somewhere where I won’t be arrested for vagrancy. It’s a strange thing to contemplate on the island where I was born – the fact I have no home there now.

My early bed plan has been shattered. Minnie is in a show and I’ve consistently failed to get myself there every night of the run in spite of my best intentions. I’ve been distracting myself with work, exhausting myself with play and forgetting myself. But I’m not going to miss her first run of a show since she became a mum. She rang me this afternoon and told me it was ok if I didn’t make it. To hell with that. I’m on the tube. My head is swimming. I will leave right after, get home and crash hard. Then tomorrow morning all I have to do is get that bloody boat.

Unless I’m going somewhere, I’m not giving myself time to stop at the moment. It’s probably not healthy. I’m eating terribly as well. I’m writing this on the tube so I can sleep faster after Min’s show. I’m really excited to see her work again, so that’ll keep me awake I reckon. But I’ll be sure to message her telling her that I’m definitely leaving as soon as the play ends. I want to feel reasonably human tomorrow morning. I really don’t want to miss that boat. But I’m excited to get the chance to support my wonderful friend. She works with her whole heart and her whole body. And she has been fundamental to keeping me from sinking into despair in the dark times. It’s downstairs at The Hampstead, a great little studio space where I’ve seen friends do good things before. I feel a bit tired and a bit sick, but I’m glad I’ve made it…

And I’m back in London. Another long drive.

I haven’t really stopped for ages now. But I might be about to get a slower pace, where I can work at my own speed doing emotionally difficult but physically easy work. I’m off to Jersey for a good length of time. But that’s not happening until Friday. For now the randomiser keeps rolling in Rochdale.

Today was up and into a rainstorm. I had slept beautifully though in the huge bed in the Premier Inn. For cheap accommodation they do great mattresses. And the company had paid for breakfast. So I tried to get their money’s worth. Two of us were there, but my colleague couldn’t eat anything on offer. “Surely you have a banana?” “No. Sorry.” Her words stung with “I’ll just have nothing.”

That left me carrying the breakfast onus. My reaction was to overconsume. She was worried about me. “Slow down!” No. Two poached eggs, two bacon, two sossidge, beans, tomato, toast. All, essentially, inhaled in the space of about 5 minutes. I wanted to get off to work. I was leading a thing I haven’t led before. It’s just workshop delivery though. I’ve been doing it for years. Stand up, speak clearly, don’t show weakness.

Driving home I was thinking about it in terms of my craft. My job, if I’m leading workshops, is to bring information to the people listening. I’m “delivering content”, and then I’m going round following up on it, and helping individuals before going back to deliver more content. Similar to the corporate work I’m doing where I’m serving entertainment to the people at a conference large scale, and then going and being charming to individuals, before going out large again. In both of these models, I have control of a thing and I want to send it to the people around me. It requires me to radiate. Which is fine as I’m a habitual radiator. I radiate this blog every day – haphazardly structured thoughts about my day. I still don’t send it wide. If you find it you find it. If you take something from it then my work is done. I somehow feel it’s a part of my job as a human to put things out there. I’m looking at finding ways to use other forms, but often that needs money at the outset, and time. You’ve likely noticed, oh constant reader, how quickly and indiscriminately I say “yes” to the majority of things people ask me to do. If it’s physically possible, I’ll do it. But that squeezes my time.

I don’t want to just radiate anymore. It neglects a whole facet of my work. I am going to start looking for ways to draw people in instead. It’ll be helpful to balance. With one hat on I can stand in a three-piece and be larger than life. But I want to focus on chances to bring people in with me as well, now. Smaller, tighter, more focused work. I really crave some interesting tight screen work. It’s what I was playing out in The Isle of Man. Once I’m back from Jersey I’m going to try and assemble some of the more recent screen footage, particularly the piece they screened at BAFTA where I played Shakespeare’s angry ghost. I haven’t updated my showreel for years. It still starts with a montage for Christ’s sake. Time to make it work for me, so strangers who check me out don’t get a random selection of scenes from a decade ago. Groundwork first.

I’ve been helping people reach their full potential today, in Rochdale, and helping them understand how, to a stranger, there’s nothing they can use to work out who you are other than what you give them. And that material can be curated. I need to get on that. Nothing like teaching others to help you teach yourself.

The good thing about driving is it gives me time to think. I didn’t realise that I’d be doing it for 5 hours each way when I agreed to do this job tomorrow. But … that’s how it fell for me. I had to get myself to Rochdale somehow. The company send a car. They do it through Enterprise, and sometimes you get a free upgrade and something flash to drive. But today it was just a basic ford. I felt really small and low in the road after all that time in the van. But much nippier.

I love listening to radio 4, driving and sorting out the contents of my head – which are jumbled at the best of times. I had some useful insights into patterns of thinking I’d fallen into. I’ve been keeping myself busy dayjobbing and corporating and acting and I’ve not been letting myself think very much. Work can be an avoidance tactic. But driving, although you have the very active task of not getting yourself and those around you killed, is always a good time for me to work out what I’ve been avoiding.

I’m in a Premier Inn. I did an advert for one of their competitors a few years ago in which I forgot my toothbrush and because of their “forgotten something promise” they magically provided me with one and made me the happiest human being on the planet. Life imitated art this evening, when I realised that I’d only taken what I need for work, my charger, a change of underwear and something to sleep in.

But I’m up super early tomorrow and I still need to plan what I’m doing. It’s another whole day doing something I’ve never done before, but on tracks that I recognise. It’ll be fine. But I’m going to take this precious hour before midnight to work at it, and drop a short blog. Until I know the timings tomorrow I can’t properly relax…

There’s the problem with driving. Sure you can think. But you can’t write.

I’m getting so confused. I just… what the … who?

I’m back from The Isle of Man. First thing this morning I pulled myself from my sheets. Seems I ran a bath last night when I got home from the delayed flight. I went into my room (for a towel?) got undressed and passed out under the cat. Glad I switched the taps off. This morning I was momentarily surprised by a full cold bath with a glass of wine on the side. “Did I run that? Must’ve…”

I stumbled to Imperial College where I found out I was having to run a room with 200 people in it for a few hours, with a load of co-workers who had never done it before. The whole time, my brain was switching from immediate problem solving to learning the lines I knew I’d have to speak this evening and the work I’d have to do for an audition and back to “No, Itô’s formula isn’t provided on the formula sheet because the academic would assume you already know it.”

The audition involved having to do a little cry. So I was keeping the emotion close to the surface all day. Tears are always close in Spring, but there’s an odd issue with the old cry on demand, in that when they come to you a bit of you thinks “Hooray! There they are, great! I’m really happy I’m crying. Oh shit stop being happy.”

I left the college climbing down from adrenaline, went straight home, and immediately got a load of bags out of the attic to source costume for this evening. Around doing this I shaved and sorted audition clothes, and twice had to stop Pickle from randomly weeing in my drawer or my case. The clothes from the attic smell of other cats and it must have triggered her.

Then “Does this tie work?” “What about this pin?” Fuck it. It’ll do. As long as I feel good. And sad. Sadgood.

Jon and I head off to The Globe where four of us run lines, me in my sharp suit and them in casuals. My alarm goes off to remind me to leave and I’m walking across chilly London, making myself feel vulnerable on purpose again while making sure nobody calls the Samaritans on me. Into the audition room, tuned and ready.

“We won’t read that first character. There’s been a change of thought on it.”

Ach. I could’ve felt happy all day rather than singing Ave Maria and looking at daffodils. We bash out the rest and put it on tape. It feels like a nice respectful meeting. It ends and I’m out the door and stamping back across town mumbling to myself in Elizabethan. I get back in time, change out of my smart suit into scruffy red military costume, and run a load of unfamiliar lines with friends. Then it’s up and at ’em, with high octane clowning to drunk people. We are mostly finished now. I would like that glass of wine and that hot bath now please.

Here we all are, four silly plonkers having fun for money.

One more scene and I’m done. Another early start tomorrow and then driving up north to do something unfamiliar. Hellfire. It won’t stop me saying yes. Better knackered and confused than bored… If only I could sleep bathe in hot wine…

Well there we are. I’ve done my factfinding. It seems that The Isle of Man is still there. And the weather is as fast as ever. And a few people still want to tell visual stories. And so they bloody should. But the weather changes so extremely and so quickly.

Wind, calm, rain, hail, sun. We’ve had it all today. “When you write your memoir you’ll remember this,” says the director after I’ve chased down one of his bags that was blowing towards the river while he held the tripod.

It started with the wind. There were seagulls trying to make themselves flat on the pavement outside the guesthouse this morning. They didn’t even care that I was walking by them. Humans. We present danger to gulls, but only some humans. If the wind is actively trying to rip your wings off then I understand how you as a gull might make yourself as small as possible to ensure that the bastard wind doesn’t snag a feather and wrench you into pain, and risk the humans. In this weather they know that they’re more likely to get hurt in the air than on the ground. So there they sit, eyeballing my boots.

Weather is so sudden in this island. Massive solid slams of wind just happen, unexpectedly shutting the open car boot, rolling your heavy bay, easily blowing over the camera if nobody’s there to hold it – (someone always is). Even if the shot just involves walking across a street, if one of those gusts hit you, you swerve.

There was hail this morning again. In a beautiful bright day. The clouds just shout their moisture when they hit the west coast of the island, and if it’s still frozen then they can puke it out all the harder. I was in a car when the biggest hailstorm hit and it was spectacular. Trevor, driving, barely noticed it. Out of practice, I marvelled at the aggressive extremes of the environment, whilst he, in the driver’s seat, just levelly continued the conversation as if he wasn’t having to skate over an ice rink as he drove, ice slamming into his windscreen.

The place really is just a dot surrounded by a very nasty sea. Sure, dad waterskiied across it from Scotland to Ireland way back when, which I didn’t even know until his obituary. But he’d have chosen a very calm warm day, and likely have taken his time. Mostly, the Irish Sea is a cold and unforgiving bastard. It’s not like the English Channel at Jersey where my grandfather swam every morning no matter what the weather. Essentially, the Isle of Man is man vs weather. Lots of people just shave their head so they don’t have to care about hair. It’s almost constantly blowing.

My guesthouse filled up since the first night. Alongside me they took in “Four Poofs and a Piano.” It’s a revue act, by the look of it, and very good I’m told. Four musicians. Likely all pianists making use of that double-entendre. When I saw the name I assumed they must be local. They’re not though. They’re just marketing to a small town audience. They’re touring, bringing a solid act around the north. They’ve placed visible vinyl adverts on major interchanges throughout the island. And everyone was talking about them.

I thought about asking them about their marketing and their deals, out of curiosity, but I was just a guy having breakfast while they broke down their previous night’s show and it didn’t seem the time to put a producer hat on.

Here’s a break in the weather where the birds emerged to see what food the wind might have brought. Have a great week everyone. If you have a second around 17.10, send some positive energy my way.

I’ve finished work and I’m sitting in a little pub in Peel, close to my guest house. The director and I were going to go to Selby to have a spot of beer and dinner, but I needed to clock off. Something I ate is playing havoc with my stomach. I’ve been in pain for much of the day but keeping quiet. Maybe it’s some of the mercury amalgam from the filling the guy had to drill into. Or maybe it’s the three pints of Okell’s Ale I had with my supper last night. “Okell’s: only for locals”.

Also the cold has got into my bones. There’s a constant cold blast from off the sea. They packed up the camera just in time as the hail blew in. They have an instinct for it. “Hail’s coming,” they said. I saw no evidence of it. Then suddenly it was spanking down and I was glad to be under cover.

I honestly thought the film industry was going to explode in this island when I was living here as a kid in the nineties. You’d think it’d be the perfect regeneration, but owing to bad management and probably the wrong heads reading the scripts, it didn’t work out well. Now someone would have to do a Peter Jackson scale thing and find funding elsewhere. There’d be no help from Tynwald anyway. They’ve dropped 27 million or so in duff investments and caused so much rage that investing in film is a bête noir – or perhaps more appropriately a Moddey Dhoo. Who was reading those scripts? Who was greenlighting this huge investment? Here’s the problem. When there’s no art in the island, all the artists leave. So if there are creative decisions to be made it falls to bureaucrats or retired artists who are out of touch to make them. It’s a shame.

At least they tried. They made things. They employed lots of artists, many wonderful makers. But the formula didn’t cook. It all haemhorraged money. “Me and Orson Welles” ended up costing the island ten million quid. As an industry insider I know what Welles did in film. And to a generation above me, he was a game changer. “Who is your Rosebud?” someone asked me just the other day. But as a 12 million quid investment, nowadays? Not everyone reads Empire Magazine. A lot of people think of Pulp Fiction as a classic old film now. Citizen Kane is still a fantastic movie, but it isn’t being talked about. I watched it on a plane. But in dollars, Waking Ned total investment was 3mill. It turned in over 50. Nothing compared to Full Monty which was 3.5 and pulled in over 250. Film can do it. But who thought 12 million would come back?

This rock was huge as a Victorian seaside resort. It’s equally easy to get here by boat from England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales and Northern Ireland. It’s right in the middle of the map of this little group of english comprehending nations sharing a weird history of antagonism and conquest. Psychologically the island could be well placed as a beating cultural heart of this island group. It hasn’t worked out that way yet. It’s a desert.

Online poker, banking, gambling and money laundering. Fat men in suits. Self importance. Nothing even slightly interesting on the surface. Although there are people with depth here, for sure. Some of my dad’s friends are highly charged, highly intelligent, still curious, still shifting. There’s an audience for interesting stuff here if marketed well. Because everyone is so so so so unbelievably bored and nobody brings shows and certainly nobody makes them. But the Gaiety Theatre is beautiful, built in 1899. It’s run by Tynwald/ IOM government again. The same people who are reading the scripts. The programming reflects their taste. They need an artist somewhere  “Who is the artistic director?” I Google it.  As far as I can tell it’s someone in a suit with 3 other jobs, going “yeah whatever”.

They’re just receiving. It’s sad. This island – particularly Douglas – is made of empty accommodation. There’s room for a few big projects…

They deliberately planted a load of monkey puzzle and palm trees in the early 1900’s in order to make it all look a bit exotic. They can somehow survive in the shitawful soil and freezing wind.

Even though there’s nothing much here, again I’m tempted to come back and try and make some change. I’m not writing about what I’m involved in right now. I’m glad someone is making something and I’m going to support that enterprise, in my home island.

They’re doing something creative because they feel the lack of that in this island. They’re right to try and make it work.

I’m part of the problem though. I’m too hungry and too optimistic to stay here. I can’t drop the vigour of London for the beauty of Manannan right now. And when/if I can, I’ll be probably be too old for my voice to be relevant.

“That’ll be £204 sir”

Hideous. But I’d pay it again in a heartbeat.

My flight to The Isle of Man is at lunchtime. There is a sudden break in one of my molars. Night-time grinding of teeth. A bit snapped off right by the tongue root. Ow. Seriously. Ow. The tongue is a strong muscle.  The break is sharp. Every swallow forces the side of my tongue into the jagged fangs of the toothcrack. Sleeping is fitful, and punctuated with painful wake-ups when I swallow. Eating, I discovered, was to be avoided entirely. I considered painkillers, but in this case the pain is doing what pain is supposed to do. It’s warning me. “You’re shredding your tongue! Stop it!” I’d sooner sleep badly and not eat for a bit but keep my tongue intact than dose up on codeine, lose track of it, eat steak or dream of eating steak and wake up with a mouth full of my own blood and half my tongue grated off by a rogue tooth.

Mouth pain is hard to think past. It’s so close to the brain.

Problem is I only had about two hours in the morning to find an emergency dentist before I had to get myself off to Gatwick Airport and fly. I’m heading to the Isle of Man, where I’m going to have to do some filming that involves talking to people. Talking to people involves using my tongue. Using my tongue involves pain… It might come across as an interesting character choice, to lisp through the shoot occasionally wincing for no clear reason. But better to have it fixed so I have the option of doing the lines some other way if I’d prefer. Problem is, half an hour of dentistry at short notice is never going to be cheap in easy distance from my flat. But £204? Good God. Still. I’m out of pain now apart from the damage on the side and root of my tongue.

I’m flying to The Isle of Man on someone else’s ticket. He’s filming a short out there. A friend of a friend. “My actor mate grew up on the island” led to someone phoning me from the island, which led to a short notice offer of a flight over here. I’ve got no checked luggage, but I might buy a bagspace for the way home as I have a couple of things out there that I’d like to have over here instead.

Now I’ve been checked into a windy guestroom overlooking the sea in Peel. I just went for dinner with the director. He’s a good guy, trying to make something in an island devoid of artists. Once again I feel that pang I felt a couple of years ago when I came over here and looked at setting up a company and realised I’d have to BE the scene. There is none. It’s tempting, but time consuming.

There was the brief possibility of a film industry here back in Waking Ned days. There’s the infrastructure to make stuff here. There fuckloads of accommodation empty but for one week of the year. The tax breaks are not what they used to be though which is why the focus shifted. Most of the artists just leave.

I’m the first guest signed into the guesthouse this month, but as a result they’ve very kindly upgraded me. My room is beautiful. The wind is coming in hard from the sea and the rain is up. Home weather! It’s only half seven. I’m going for a stroll down the seafront in the tempest. Then … beauty sleep without tongue grating.

Nice to see the windy island again. To briefly drive the old roads. To say hello to the fairies. It was only halfway through dinner that someone tells me “You know I’m a dentist, right? You should’ve told me. I’ve got a clinic in Peel.” Arse.

I’m beginning now to make my way through the remains of the lives of strangers. It’s odd work, as there are about 4 humans involved and everything is higgledy-piggledy. So I’m jumping era with every bag. Victorian plates are mingled with 1930s plates and letters and a lamp from maybe the 1950s and an unworn Pringle pair of socks from Harrods. It’s all covered in soot from the fire, which must’ve been huge. I got quite a lot done today but it feels like I’ve barely started.

Brian grabbed an etching of London and we loaded an old bedframe in to throw away. I went to the dump first thing, to make enough space for me to work in the van. My hope was that I could sling all the junk immediately and then stay there and work through the rest of it gradually at the dump. But the guy I met last time was on me like a burr. He has to be. “I took my eyes off one guy the other day,” he tells me “and next thing I knew he’d dumped a load of asbestos.” He’s making me very aware that I can’t stay there forever, especially as it’s windy and the door is flapping. Also he’s trying to make me rush. He has the same tendencies. His house must be full of junk. I’m trying to avoid taking anything into mine unless it’s going straight somewhere else…

I make my way back through London and park outside St Luke’s church. I don’t want to call attention to myself by sorting outside my block. Mostly there’s junk in that van, but it’s interesting junk and I don’t want some drunk tit throwing it all over the pavement at 4am hunting PlayStations.

One of the first things I find today is a hardback book of “Churches of London”. St Luke’s is in it and I’m parked right outside. Seems like a sign. I bring it over and give it to the woman in the café. She seems pleased. I’m not checking what it sells for on Amazon. Good to remove the notion of cash value from this work. I’m just going to look for other values like joy. I was paid to take it, and it was marked for destruction. The book collection is wide and, unless you’re a power seller on Amazon, kind of pointless to sell. I’m keeping hold of ones I like and I’ll be finding homes for many more. Charity shops after friends.  There are lots of books on embroidery, and on the history of fans. Someone loved their fans, that much is clear. There are some beautiful ones in random boxes, some ruined ones in sacks, and a broken one in a frame that belonged to the wife of a general who died at Waterloo. I wish I had an empty ground floor room for a week to put this stuff in piles of like.

One person collected busts and one person fans. Depending on the result of this sorting I think I’ll be able to fill one whole room with smoke damaged Victorian plaster busts, and at least one wall with mounted fans. But I’m going to have to get more efficient, especially as I’m very busy the next few weeks with day job. Nevertheless a good first day, and I realised a little way in that the dad was in “The Quatermass Experiment,” – early BBC sci-fi – which another friend of mine Toby could pick on Mastermind as his special subject. I just got off the phone to him and now I’m on high alert for the original call sheets. They’re just printed sheets of paper with locations and times and names. But he’d love them. If they’ve been saved  that’s one more random bit of joy from these objects, and this is before they’ve been made fair game as theatre props. As they say, one man’s junk is another man’s treasure. And it feels the right thing to be doing, and a pleasant use of my downtime. If I can find enough small objects with value, then my hourly wage will be acceptable. The clients all enjoyed the notion of the stuff going back into the world their dad was from. And first thing this morning I found twenty bucks.

It’s a useful discipline for me, this sorting, as a lot of the things here align with the things my brother and I are not looking at related to our bereavements. We have dedicated whole rooms to piles of boxes we’ll never do anything with until we die unless I do. I’m trying to keep the stuff that will be useful for theatre and categorise it, and get rid of the rest. But it’s a war with myself and my instinct to preserve interesting things. I still miss some of the things that were thrown away in The Isle of Man. But I’m a hoarder and I want my space back. This is me doing for someone else what I kind of wish I’d had time to do for myself back then. To say goodbye to the bulk of it and personally select a few talismans to carry forward.

I can’t quite believe I’ll be back on the island I grew up in tomorrow, staying in a guest house in Peel. But more of that when it happens.