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September 2018 and a kind group of concerned friends clubbed together to buy me my feet. The pair of Berghaus walking boots that I was wearing last time I saw you.

I walked Camino in them to break them in. Had I tried it in my old Brashers I would have had hamstring issues as they were worn out.

Since then they have been mostly attached to me as I’ve run around in a few deserts with Extreme-e and in a number of other hostile environments, including the drunk streets of London and the muddy mudscapes of summer festival dance pits, not to mention endless days around the Sussex Downs or through the rocky beaches of Brighton. By the end of Sardinia last July, I knew they were dying. I clung onto them though. Today, finally, I spent the money that will allow me to wish them a fond farewell. “Those are basically like slippers,” observes Jason in Millets, Brighton, looking at those dear old Berghaus. They kept their seal. The soles are worn into wedges of cheese, the back is totally ripped, the innersole is loose, the seals are fraying but last week I stood in a deep puddle to wash off some clay and it never occurred to me that they might leak. Berghaus make good boots. My first pair were Brashers though, and they lasted me even longer than the Berghaus did. They had been discontinued when I went shopping in 2018, but BRASHERS ARE BACK, BABY – Berghaus bought the brand.

Lou and I were just buying potatoes. We had stopped at the fish place for sea bream and samphire and so obviously we absolutely needed potatoes and sticky toffee pudding and the ONLY place we could get them was Waitrose, dahling. Waitrose is walking distance from Millets and you get an hour and a half free parking at the supermarket so we wandered over and I immediately saw the boots I’ve been looking for. I bought them then and there. Even got a discount from Jason. Happy days. I got out for £127.50. Expensive for shoes, but I’m off to Scotland with Extreme-e and I’m expecting a shot at a few more deserts this year. No pilgrimages planned as yet, but these things will be welded to my feet before long. A snip at the price.

I broke them in this afternoon and even though they are a little bit young yet I smile when I look at them. This is how my feet USED to look. The Berghaus did a good job for five years but we have said goodbye and I’ve gone back to Brash. I’m happy with it. All will be well in footland. I’ll keep the old pair a while though even though with the soles like that they are doing untold harm to my gait. But it was my gait that did harm to them first. Clean boot slate. Thank you Berghaus, hello again Brasher. I should have thrown a load of links into this and then written one of those abject “I’m a blogger give me free boots” emails to Brasher. This is how I’ve been missing all the tricks. This is why I’m not making MILLIONS out of this blog, MILLIONS I TELL YOU.

Brasher Men’s Country Master. “Bar Clay.” “Lord of the forest”. My surname basically breaks down to “Country Master”. They should release Brasher Barclay Boots. Dammit, I need to sort out that celebrity status so I can pitch that kind of stuff. That’s the sort of thing that will allow me to keep myself in Waitrose potatoes, walking boots and sea bream. We need someone not made out of vanilla to replace the Palins and the Attenboroughs…

“Outdoors, with Barclay. A mystical stomp through the ancient sites of the world…” I’m off to dreamland with a cat on my feet and rain on the skylight. Tomorrow, more romping fun with my new boots. SEE YOU THEN, FOOTFANS! outro music 🎵 🎶

The old rejection email came in again. Another tape I was happy with. A project I was really interested in. Something unusual, something new, something entirely pointing to my skillset. We are all used to that shit by now, of course. I just pushed it down to the place where it doesn’t jump up and tried to look at the NOW.

The NOW involved driving some beautiful curtains that Lou has made from Ditchling to a lovely house in Lewes. My height was about to come in handy. I got to attach little plastic bits into little hooks above my head. It’s a shoulder workout, hanging curtains. Lou’s clients were a lovely couple. They seemed very happy, and I’m glad as I thought the curtains were beautifully done and a lovely material.

We were showing them to the client when one of them had to take a phone-call. “That’ll be his boss,” says the remaining client and names the TV channel I’ve just missed that job with. He works there. “Oh… funny,” I find myself saying,”I’ve just had an email regarding that channel.” I think I said it more for myself than anyone else. “What line of work are you in?” “I’m an actor. They’re doing this interesting show and I went up for a barrister.” A bit more of a back and forth leads to “that’s my husband’s show!”

So it turns out that an hour after getting the rejection email I find myself hanging curtains for the guy who is making the very thing I had been hoping to get but didn’t. Timing.

I held it together politely until niceties were dispensed with fully between the client and Lou. They really were lovely people. I said goodbye happily and drove round the corner, burst out crying in the middle of the road and had to pull over. A combination of things, I was raw already going into it interaction and has already been doing some unrelated crying earlier in the day. It’s all very close to the surface right now.

I’m glad to be getting the auditions. Plenty of my friends are hardly even taping these days. That little moment was just a bit too close to home. It pulled the old rejection back up into the light when it was still too raw. I love my craft. It can feel so stifling when the only way I can ply it is with a grey screen behind me in a friendly living room for a tape that goes nowhere.

I’m off to Scotland shortly for the eco-friendly off-road racing buzz, so it’s not like I’ve got nothing to look forward to. Sometimes it’s good to know it still hurts I guess. I’m harder than I was twenty years ago after ten years in the wilderness and now all the punches. I’d be worried if the emotion didn’t bubble up from time to time, mixed with all the existential dread and the deep realisation that these life choices I made are not quite carrying through in terms of even half of what I hoped for them back when I sat with mum on her death bed waiting for Bright Young Things to hit the cinema and assured her I’d be okay.

I AM okay. Just sometimes I’m okay and sad.

Theatre cheered me up this evening though. Laura Wade’s “Home I’m Darling” is back touring and came to Brighton Theatre Royal. Nothing like good writing and good acting to take one’s mind off not having the chance to do good acting with good writing again. I booked tickets for Lou and I on impulse and I’m glad I did. A beautiful old theatre, and probably dark a lot of the time or housing the likes of David Copperfield.

I’m not a great binge watcher. My attention span is too limited. I doggedly work my way through some things though, if they catch my imagination. I covered Breaking Bad forever ago, and loved the honest darkness of the performances. Better Call Saul is a worthy follow up and I finally finished the last one just now. No spoilers, don’t worry. It has taken me YEARS. I was interrupted by Bojack, and various other strange wonders, but with the prospect of everything getting very busy again imminently, this cold and rainy summer evening was high time to finish with Jimmy. I’ve occasionally been compared to Odenkirk, as a character actor of similar age. It’s a flattering comparison. These long episodes with no precise editing limit, made with whatever money and time they feel like spending – they have been a canvas on which some wonderful actors have painted long character arcs. Seehorn and Odenkirk in particular but the rest of the cast as well, series after series. It’s great what Netflix have made possible in terms of long term engrossing TV. I guess it’ll be Ozark next for me, and that’ll take me another three years.

Brighton again tomorrow and although I’ve made some small progress there’s just so much to do and I’m far too slow in here.

I’ve been taking big uppers and big downers out of the mix and feel a bit shapeless at the moment. London is feeling noisy and messy and I’m happy to avoid going out in the rain. My warm bed with electric blanket pulls me in earlier than usual and it’s an effort to get back out in the morning if I’m not working for someone else. Brighton will be a welcome break if just to see Lou and be closer to nature. It seems that there’s always someone hammering or drilling in this town. Right now with scaffolding up my block it often feels like there’s someone scraping the inside of my brain first thing in the morning.

I’ve got myself a huge mug of chamomile and I’m feeling like an old man as I put myself to bed early sipping it. Lovely to have his higgledy-piggledy flat full of my weird things. Time to change but I find it hard clicking into gear. We have to change if we are gonna progress. Adapt or stagnate. I’ve lost patience with friends who have chosen the latter in some aspects of their lives, and yet here I am still surrounded by old things.

And the wind blows.

The wind is up. The temperature is down.

I nipped over to Marks and Spencers and bought some reduced Easter eggs even though they were still three quid. We all have to eat so much chocolate we feel sick at this time of year. It’s what our parents taught us. I bought a very phallic chocolate carrot and a more traditional egg shaped egg and I still spent six quid on sculpted sugar.

After Christmas they immediately put the Easter eggs on the shelves, but now we are allowed a little pause before it’s all the barbeque stuff. The Christians never really colonised midsummer so it’s just a thing that happens, and it’s a long way away yet. Much to do between now and then.

I did manage some small packaging of things, but man it’s tricky. I keep running into memories. All sorts of associations. Max came round this evening and he is happy to take the fish, which is burden off. Since chippy died my heart hasn’t been in them. That tank going will clear some headspace for sure.

Books. So many books. I might venture to say too many books but there’s no such thing as too many books. But too many for this flat. They all just add to the higgledy-piggledy character, but if I’m gonna rent this place I’m gonna have to get everything out sharpish. I try to sort them out and I end up reading one. There are traps everywhere. I might have to pretend there’s an imminent and terrible deadline. Knowing that the only deadline is eventual financial ruin through service charge and council tax, I’m slipping again, letting life be too distracting.

I tried for an early bed and thought I’d manage but then realised I had forgotten to eat so I’m cooking a quick chickeny thing. I’ll still manage an early bed – it’s only half eight. The world outside is hostile today. Aggressive wind in from the river. Buckets of rain, but it appears that none of it is coming to visit me in my bedroom. The hammery men must have achieved something on their little bit of expensive scaffolding above my roof tiles.

A day with a little job list tomorrow. Then a hiatus while I wait for boxes to be delivered. I’ll go to Brighton. Joy. A chance to chill coming up so hopefully tomorrow will be an active one here, and I don’t just pick up a book again.

Chicken time… Then bed and that lovely sensation of being warm and cosy as you hear the hellscape outside.

Easter Monday and there’s so much I need to be doing that it is typical of me that I spent the whole day on social calls.

My half brother and sister in law live on one of those squares in London that come with an exclusive garden. There are many. Many of them used to be localised plague pits, so the ground is fertile now. Useful to remember that a hard past can lead to a soft present. “There are only about 100 people able to use this garden,” says he. The gardener gets to live on site in a little clocktower. His work is bearing fruit now with tulips and hyacinths and spring blossoms aplenty. “But don’t you think it’s all a bit twee?”

I was very happy to be there in this weather that is actively pretending to be Spring. I was happy to have two of the lucky feet that are allowed to tread on the grass here. These gardens are closely monitored by the residents, the fences are high and the keys are hard to copy. Some of them are huge. This one is pretty big. They could turn into a tent village without the security.

After lunch we went through a box of old photos I carried back from France. Family stuff. Grandparents and sport trophies. A whiskey flask. My grandmother’s dogtag. The things you aren’t supposed to throw away but often have nowhere to keep. Heirlooms looming over the heirs. Responsibilities. Connections to the past.

I’m reminded as we walk in the park that I’m seeing an old friend tonight. Jethro. A kind and powerful man who has gently invited himself into my life with a mixture of trust and challenge. We first met about 13.7 billion years ago and we’ve been jumping alongside one another ever since in different ways. “Bring your cards.”

I drive home, grab my tarot cards, and head over to his around dinner time. I’ve barely finished the chicken from my brother’s. “You didn’t eat your rice,” I am admonished after my lovely veggie curry. “It won’t fit.”

I end up giving some readings and remembering as I do it that I’ve really built a strong connection with that deck and can be uncluttered as I pick my way from symbol to symbol building a narrative that may or may not be helpful. “Your whole demeanor changes,” someone observed. I enjoy that flavour in my mix. It was a pleasure to connect with people and simultaneously connect with my deck again.

Occasionally I wonder if maybe it’s not too late to be a dad. It was always in the plan somewhere, but it got shelved repeatedly and then actively pushed to the backburner when I felt my credentials being tested by prospective partners. I have no grandparents to bring to the table, and I work and live in a functional but largely unpredictable manner. My friend Carl just fathered his second, and his first came when he was older than me. “I had tried all the other adventures,” he said to me. “This is something new.” He’s got two daughters.

I hung out with my dear besty and her family today for Easter and I got a little snapshot into how much work it all is. Maybe partly my own fault for bringing so much sugar. We reap what we sow.

Minnie is in Twickenham at her parents house, and there’s a little garden. I channeled my parents. Another thing they did well was an egg hunt. The garden at Eyreton would be sewn through with eggs. I remember finding some in June that had been too well hidden.

I arrived with eggs, but not too many. Minnie had expressed concerns about sugar quantities. But fuck it, I’m a wildcard in that family unit so I can inject a bit of chaos. Eggs ended up hidden in the better bits of the garden. “The Easter bunny doesn’t like getting mud on its feet so didn’t go in the muddy bit.” Minnie’s daughter found them all, eventually, perhaps with some help.

Then we all ate a chicken in the garden. I carved it. Nom. I avoided cooking the gravy as her parents are pretty specific. They are both in their eighties or is it nineties now? You don’t get that far without having your ways.

Then we went into the park where I started to learn my limits with play. Magic food. I was a sausage roll. I had to roll lots. Then get garnish in my face (grass). Then I had to vanish when I was eaten (run away). The thing with games like that at the age of the tyrant who I was entertaining – they can last FOREVER. Add to that the chasing and after just one day of it I feel a bit funny in my shoulder. We eventually found the magic ice cream parlour which was less physically demanding as we could sit there as we repeatedly got served with disappearing ice cream of all different flavours, played by my friend’s daughter who also played the person running the van who insisted that this one definitely wasn’t magic disappearing ice cream.

Everybody was very much still awake when I said goodbye and went across London to do a self tape. Gotta be the quickest I’ve ever done. Improvised and for an advert. I would’ve sent the first take if I hadn’t said “costume” instead of “uniform”. Second was perfectly fine and just in the clothes I was wearing.

My friends the parents… How the hell do they do it? One of them is playing in a children’s show at The Unicorn Theatre and the other is in rehearsal for a big part at The Globe. One day with their kids and I’m knackered. Happy-knackered. But… knackered.

It’s the repetition thing that gets me. In miniature it must be like a long long run of a small part. “How do I continue to make this alive for me, the one who is doing the thing on repeat, without taking away from the experience of the people I’m repeating for?” There are ways.

One thing I will say that I’ve noticed over time: Children help the less playful people remember how to play. I’ve seen actors who were very stiff starting out become transformative with the constant play of parenthood. Clever ones who had no previous means of switching the left brain off.

The tyrrany of playtime. It helps us all forget our boundaries. We are suddenly serving an irrational master who thinks and desires faster and wilder than we do. I had excellent play today. More soon I’m sure.

Not bad for a day that started with me clearing up fox poo right from plum outside my door. I didn’t realise I have a habit of stopping for a moment in the doorway and taking in the state of the day. Just as well I do. The local fox has clearly marked us. Luckily I had a bag in my car.

All this play has got me pooped. Zzz

This season is an auspicious one. Who knows how long we have celebrated death and rebirth here. We see the world around us start to regain life and colour. Butterflies in the air suddenly, the birds are back. Plant life pushing up, with character and brightness. Tickety boo.

We have symbols we have inherited and repurposed for who knows how long now. On Friday we ate cakes. Death cakes. Soul Cakes marking the death of a season. My mum used to bring them out first thing in the morning. “One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns!” Buttery warm raisiny delight. I went and got one from Kemptown Bakery on Friday and happily munched it. We all know what happens after the death cakes. Rebirth time! Although today the body is in the tomb still. The dark takes a little while to remember how to be light. We can get it by being happy and connecting with family.

Tomorrow we celebrate Eostre again with her hares and eggs. An egg – the promise of life. Things are coming back at last, including the sun. We won’t be dancing round the maypole for some time yet, but it’s improving.

This season, the eggs are much the same, but the hot cross buns are weirding me out. You could probably get lemongrass and ginger buns if you looked hard enough. Chocolate. Blueberry. Caramel. Chai. Maple pecan. Apple and cinnamon. Greed. Rhubarb and Custard. Cheese and tomato. Cheese and chilli. Cheese and Cheese.

It’s only once a year. If we are only going to eat something once a year, how can we get bored of it enough that panels of taste testers at supermarkets across the country are paid in summer to say “ooh I like this one” about this rash of bunternatives. A bun is a bun is a bun. It’s got a cross on it. It’s fine. I don’t need the services of “Hi I’m Frances, the alternative Bun-Chef.” I just want a bun that tastes of bun. I only really want to eat it one day out of 365, although I’m happy for the supermarkets to get a few more purchases out of me in season. I’ll be loading up with eggs tomorrow. I’m not a man of great patterns. But I like all the faff of Easter and it isn’t rammed down our throats like Christmas.

Messed up the scheduling again. Happy Easter all.

Finally the day I’ve been waiting for. Up on Ditchling Beacon and lying on our backs in light bright enough that we took our shoes off. Lou got some freckles. The larks were up and singing. We only got summer in small doses through gaps in the clouds, but that was enough to kick-start it in my body. Even on a bank holiday we found a place to lie without hearing the screaming of the children or the droning of the ones who know about the thing and intend to share the fullest extent of that knowledge. Maybe I got the beginning of a tan. It was needed.

I have responsibilities towards myself and others though. I can’t just lie on my back until November. The things in my flat won’t box themselves up, but I’m on the edge of change in regards to my comfy but irresponsible living situation. I have to establish when I’ll have some time to do more, and then I’ll have to go about things with all the diligence with which I go about working for others. Invigilating, Event work, Pretending to be people, Training, Mentoring, Entertaining.

So I’ve bounced back to London. The pattern is often to work hard on the external jobs and then relax with Lou. I have a third responsibility that needs watering too. My life-admin. So I’m doing a spot of that over the Easter weekend. I might go see some dear friends as well, and maybe even family. But… there’s work to do.

Tonight though I’m sleeping on the sofa as I promised my bedroom to a friend when I figured I would be in Brighton. I’ll have to rehome the fish. They were great in lockdown but honestly I can’t be bothered with them anymore and it would be nice to switch off at the fuses when I go away. Plus they are noisy when I’m sleeping…

Thyme teas and walks by the sea. Eggs and spinach and fresh hot Tom Yum. No coffee…

Tomorrow I’m gonna have the mother of all headaches and it’s about time. Caffeine withdrawal. I’ve been living off that crap. Four or five cups of coffee a day, mostly buying out, and if I die and get a load of statistics and one of them is “total amount of money spent on caffeinemilk” then I’m gonna be shocked at the extent of it. Another day without caffeine and my head will hurt plus I’m off the sauce. Being sick like this is, perversely, a useful firebreak, because the first thing my body tells me is “Don’t feed me coffee or booze please” so I can usually use it to get my hand firmly back on the rudder regarding emotional crutches.

Ursula le Guin taught me that if you know something’s true name it has no power over you. She didn’t teach me that in person. Wish I’d met her. She themed complicated children’s books around the idea and then she let us think we had discovered the depth of the metaphor. I often think back to those Earthsea books. When it comes to the caffeine withdrawal headache I know it. I can name it. It hurts but pain understood is just a warning signal. I’ll just persevere and occasionally tick myself off for once again becoming addicted to coffee. I’ll break it again now. Then I’ll go back on soon. But, for a while – mayhaps until Eid-Al-Fitr which is only two weeks and I’ve got shit to do. Let’s see. I’ve made myself sick by working and playing too hard on repeat. Time now to make myself well by taking the play out and allowing this long weekend to settle.

Seaside Brighton in the calm. Nothing much to think about. Nothing to do. Didn’t even have to move the car. Suraya is a lovely Thai restaurant in walking distance from Lou. Hot food to break the mucus I’m fighting. And a can of Fanta to satisfy the sugar craving. I’m not gonna do everything at once.

It’s been warm-ish down by the sea. I wouldn’t necessarily call it sunmery, but winter is losing its hold at last and good riddance.

I’m gonna have chamomile tea and watch a movie and be asleep by nine. That’s mostly what I was doing three years ago when we were all in stupid lockdown. Unless… my goodness yes … were we doing The Tempest on Zoom? Ah. What was all that Covid stuff, eh? At least it was a chance to relax.

And Brighton again. The Fantastic Human Spring!!! Marvel as it boinggs all over the country – nay – the world!

I’m sick. Throat is hurty. Feeling run down. I’m trying not to cough all the time, and I’m feeling a little bit sorry for myself. Usually after a show I sleep for a bit instead of running all over the place. This thing has been stalking me a few days in the cold oily dampish maschinehaus of the Kirk. Post show slump. All the accumulated late nights and deep breaths of dusty air and shouting. A couple of days down? Just the ticket. I just had to get as far as Brighton and now there’s a warm soft bed, a fluffy cat and a Lou.

I have to stop myself from obsessively testing my voice as is my habit when I’m laryngeal. I’m not in the middle of a long run outdoors so actually I can just be silent and careful. I’ll likely not manage the silent bit but I’m sure Lou will be delighted if I can keep it buttoned. She’s surprised when I can do it long enough not to interrupt her.

Around Chessington on the M25 Lou began in her yogic way to remind me how pain and discomfort is a response that can be observed and converted. I’m aware of this but it’s also nice to have a good whinge.

Rest is the best thing now and its likely possible. I haven’t seen my diary but I’ve a strong feeling I’m done with everything but nuts and bolts until after Easter. I’ll be shuttling up and down London to Brighton and making sense of where I’ll be earning my crust come summer.

Early bed. Snooze. Everything better in the morning…