Central Line tonight, a young man sitting opposite. Somewhere around St. Pauls, he begins mouthing words to himself, as if in prayer.  Fair enough.  Gazing idly about, my eyes fall upon a small group who appear to be Chinese tourists. They too seem to be silently muttering to themselves.  A little surreal.  No evidence of iPods for them to be quietly singing along to.
Then they all stop, more or less at once.

Next to the first muttering man, a young woman.  She opens her bag, and fishes out a Boots' paper bag. From it she produces a white cardboard box, which rather proudly and prominently bears the words, "Derbac M" in an unnecessarily lurid font.  She begins reading the instructions, occasionally leafing through an English/Hungarian dictionary.

A happily drunk chap in his thirties sits down next to a yonger man who is reading a book, and says, "Ish that a good book? Are you enjoying it? What'sh it about?"  The younger man, to my moderate astonishment (and respect at his show of humanity), puts down his book, and enters into an amiable conversation with the drunkard.

Two people on the train caught my attention on my way home today.

It is, of course, extremely rude to make personal remarks about people, whether one is acquainted with them or not.   However, I was very struck by what I would have to interpret as a major disparity between the image of themselves they presumably intended to display to the world, and the reality they actually achieved.  So struck, in fact, that I feel compelled to record the details here.  Not, emphatically not, in order to ridicule, but rather, in a peculiar sort of a way, to marvel.

The first traveller was a young lady.  She had provided for herself, in the current fashion, a fairly detailed makeup.  Very expertly and precisely done it was too, bearing witness to great attention to detail.  She had chosen, as seems quite fashionable at the moment, quite a deep colour of foundation.  The sort of colour one might describe, if one were purchasing it from BandQ, as "Terracotta" or perhaps, "Brick."  I confess though, that in the uncharitable mood in which I found myself, the expression that sprang at once to my mind was, "Mattesson's Crab Paste."

So to the second traveller.   This gentleman is well on the way to having a haircut like my own.  The poor soul still possesses though, a dusting of (sadly rather dark) hair on his scalp, just enough to give the uncomfortable sensation of fine pubery.  He is also cursed by that little island or tuft, front and centre of the forehead, that so often remains behind when all other cranial turf has fled.  Traditionally, these remnants would have been grown long, and expertly coiffed into that style still known, decades after its creator abandoned the style, as "a Bobby Charlton."  Modern habit wisely spurns these vanities, and opts for the simple expedient of clippers.
Our hero, however, had spurned both of these approaches.  He had opted for an application of hair-styling product.  He had also opted - remarkably, in one so thinly crested - for a centre parting.  In full-face, as he will no doubt see himself in the mirror of a morning, the effect was very acceptable.  The central tuft, suitable gelled and parted, provided a passable facsimile of a quiff-like hairline, supported by the wisps of bumfluff behind.
But alas!  A head must also be seen at other angles, and it is my sad duty to report, that from all viewing positions other than front-on, what one seemed to see was an elaborately-waxed Poirot moustache, glued to the middle of the forehead.

Hmm.  There but for the grace, etc...  and I'm much given to wonder where my own self-image parts company with the surfaces on show to the rest of humanity.
For I'm quite certain that it does.

The conclusion is inescapable:  The life I'm used to is clearly on the threshold of its ending.  A simple glance at my bank statement makes that abundantly clear.   The last three years have been a wonderful time; perhaps, who knows, a wonderful experiment that will soon be over.  Well, maybe, I hope not, but something's clearly going to have to Change. My dear. And not a moment too soon.

Odd thing is, unlike most of the changes that have occurred in my life so far, for this one I have no plans whatsoever. None.

On the one hand, that's quite terrifying, at least a 6.5 on the sleep-deprivation scale, yet on the other hand, the feeling of exhilaration and freedom is quite unprecedented.

It's not imminent, nor is it (yet) an emergency, but it's certainly soon.  What will I do?  I could make conscious changes to avoid the Big Change, or I could just follow the river over the rapids.  Reinvent self to avoid, or allow involuntary reinvention to sweep me away.

There's a sort of sadness, I won't deny, but remarkably little panic.  This may change, of course!

Maybe life will begin at fifty.  It will certainly have changed by then!

A day for feeling a bit ashamed of my own nation.  No, not just England's dismal performance in the cricket...

Tonight I've been re-watching the TV series about Britain's attempts, mostly successful, to develop nuclear weapons, and the various means of delivering them - in each case, usually then being discontinued, in favour of using an American version instead.  Whatever one's views on nuclear weaponry, the shortsightedness exhibited by successive governments in developing, and then cancelling, all these various systems, was staggering and saddening.

I was particularly struck by the last episode, about the Blue Streak missile programme, which spawned a fully functioning satellite-launching system, Black Arrow.  This, somewhat in spite of the government, rather than because of it, in 1971 placed into orbit the UK's only self-launched satellite, Prospero, which is still orbiting today, and, so accurately was it inserted into orbit, that it's expected to be there for a long while yet.

Sadly, the project had already been cancelled, and Black Arrow never flew again.

Wikipedia's page on Black Arrow bears a rather telling statement:

"As of 2009, the United Kingdom is the only country to have successfully developed and then abandoned a satellite launch capability."

What a sad thing.  What a bunch of visionless idiots we've had at the helm of this country, and for so many decades. The colour of the rosette changes every now and then, but the ability to totally fail to have a clue lives on.

A week ago, on the recommendation of a man who knows about such things, I bought the DVD of Armando Ianucci's wonderful In The Thick Of It.

We watched several episodes that very evening - I was, of course, impressed and entranced, and laughed myself silly, for it's quite superb.
I finished watching it a day or so afterwards, which was probably poor timing on my part - I was feeling a little gloomy, and had intended that it would cheer me up.  Sadly, the actual effect of watching something so beautifully acted, was to amplify existing feelings of inadequacy about my own acting ability.  This, in collusion with a couple of other generously-wallowed-in paranoias, made for a pretty crummy week in the end.

But there's more, as they say:

This evening, I have watched the first three episodes again, listening to the commentary.

The description of how the show was put together; how the writing was dovetailed with the improvisation; the freedom that was allowed the cast to perform the piece - all these things rekindled in me a spark of enthusiasm.  The production team began to describe how the rehearsals and improvisational process were managed, and the cast began describing the terrors they felt as they began to confront the task.  Apparently, every single one of the principals individually took Ianucci aside, and said to him that they felt they were worried they weren't up to the standard of the rest of the cast.  The evidence, of course, as witnessed by the quality of the performances, is entirely the contrary.

And quite suddenly I saw myself back in December 2006, in rehearsals for Counterfeit Skin, absolutely bricking myself about our week of improv rehearsals, mentally measuring my abilities against those of the rest of the cast... and then occasionally catching the eye of one of the others and seeing the same terror lurking within.
And the voices of the cast of The Thick Of It began to echo my memories of my own thoughts during those days... and as though somebody had flicked a switch, all the enthusiasm I thought I'd lost for ever, all my self-belief, simply popped back into my head as though it had only been round the corner for a packet of Marlboros, and was surprised to find it had been missed.

Oh and how wonderful that the office used for "The Department of Social Affairs" turns out to be the same building used in the Doctor Who story, The Invasion, as Tobias Vaughan's factory.  Now sadly demolished.

Being a bit under the weather, I decided the answer was lots of sleeping, interspersed, as is traditional, with slouching on a sofa in front of a DVD.
So I treated myself to a copy of The Deadly Assassin.

Lots of good things among the special features, but one that caught my attention was about the reaction the story received from a certain Mary Whitehouse, a major campaigner on the side of moral outrage during the 1970s

I was particularly struck by something that, surely, must have been remarked upon before, though my own meagre googling efforts could produce nothing.
So here we go:

Had a day's filming yesterday, for the Police Bravery Awards.  I was playing one of a group of police officers who faced down and arrested an armed youth.  Was all quite exciting: Filming on "The Bill Backlot" at Talkback Thames, in Merton.  Using a lot of genuine police equipment, shouting obscenities loudly in public over and over again (always fun).  My shouted "stand still you c----" seemed to produce a lot of interest, including, if I'm not mistaken, from Simon Rouse (The Bill's "Jack Meadows") who was doing a photoshoot just behind us.

A good day.  Ok, slightly marred by one incident, where, when I was chasing our "villain", I missed my footing on a bit of loose gravelly surface, and prostrated myself on the rather unforgiving concrete road.  Hands first, of course, as one does.  Lovely big area of skin missing from my right elbow, scrapes on both palms, and a very shaken left arm, that, although not all that painful, didn't really work properly for the rest of the day.  We were nearly done by then, however, so I carried on - wouldn't want to get a reputation for being a wimpish actor, and besides, I thought it was just a bit of a strain.  Did make the handcuffing sequence a bit tricky though, as my left arm had less strength than usual.

By the time I got home though, it was starting to be a bit of a problem.  Slept on it, and went to A&E this morning.  Cracked the head of the radius, apparently.  Not badly, so no plaster, just a sling and some nice painkillers.

Not going to be able to get to the audition I was supposed to attend tomorrow, though, and work next week may well be a problem too.  We'll have to see how the drugs work.  Bloody annoying.

Summer evening, pursuing its slow, luminous death.  The sky, a watercolour palette of fluid washes, o'er-seeing the scurrying beetles of humanity as they wind down their day.

Who are you?  And you?  What is your errand, and where your home?  What brings you to the street?  Who awaits you, wherever you're going?  Who sent you on your way?

Who would miss you, were you never to arrive?

1. If in doubt, do the scary thing.

2. There are, in fact, some truly lovely people in the world.

3. Say "yes" a lot.

4. Walk in the sun when you can.

5. Look for adventures.

6. Ugly, drunken, bigot-women in parks know nothing, and can shove their Stella-soaked heads up their no-doubt pile-raddled arses.

So here I sit.  No plans.  No possible plans, nothing I could plan that would make any sense. Nothing that could invoke any kind of enthusiasm. Chatrooms on all day, a few people look, look away. What do you see, beautiful men, when you look at me? How desperate do I seem? How sad? How tearful? How revolting.
Here I sit. Sunshine outside. Must be lovely. Would like to be out in it, but not alone, not alone. Too much beauty to handle all alone. Beauty must be shared or there's pain. Pain long suppressed. Pain of all the beauty ever seen that I wanted to share and couldn't. Beauty I've seen others share with their beautiful lovers. The beauty of the sharing itself. Beauty not for me.
So here I sit. Dreading evening. Afternoon bad enough, but evening worse. Longing for tiredness, longing for the escape, hoping tomorrow brings something new. Sleep, retreating, child-like. foetus-like, everything-better-in-the-morning. Not that it is.
So here I sit. Not even the courage to phone. Human voice would help, maybe, a few platitudes (yes really), anything to remind me I'm not worthless, not maybe quite that loathsome. But no courage. In case it'd be inconvenient. In case I weep down the phone. In case I can't think what to say. In case fat bald old poof crying down the phone is too much to inflict on anyone.
Here I sit. Tea-drinking; in the world yet outside of it; craving God knows what; no clue where to find it, where to look, who to ask; do some laundry, good; washing-up, good; keep busy. Going through the motions, yes. Motions in all senses; rearranging life-turds; exercise in futility.
Here I sit. How many years have I done this? How many more till it's done. How long till peace?

So. Here I sit.

So often, over the years, this has been my escape.

When all else fails, sleep.  Even if it is still daylight.  Even if the rest of the world is still out there enjoying itself.  Or especially then.

Yes, it's running away.
But at least it's something I'm in control of.

Please don't let me dream.

Ivor Cutler.  To my shame, I'd forgotten all about him (and he only died a few years ago).  I even have an album or two, but for some reason I hadn't listened to anything of his for a long time.

Which is a pity.

I was reminded of his glorious weirdness this morning, when somebody posted a video of Looking for Truth With A Pin on a forum site I subscribe to, which led to a happy, silly hour reacquainting myself with him.
Here are a few to be going on with:

Pickle Your Knees
How Are You Shut Up
Shoplifters
I'm Happy
and the wondrous Big Jim

This is a ridiculous sequence of events:

Wake up, in a fairly positive mood, not exactly euphoric, but certainly ready to do battle with the day.
Have a pleasant and cheery telephone conversation with a friend.
Go out to run a few errands (post office, bank, etc.) - all easy and comparatively stress-free.
Return home, and realise that I'm in a miserable, self-loathing, and rather fragile mood, craving reassurance.

Why?  Nothing whatever in the preceding hours has been the sort of thing that ought to trigger such a reaction.  Even the queue at the post office wasn't particularly slow, or especially full of annoying people.

This sort of thing has been happening more often lately, which is a worry.  It's almost as though the only thing keeping the flow of positivity going, is a conscious effort to do so:  In other words, if I forget to constantly remind myself I'm a worthwhile person, the default state is an automatic belief that I'm a waste of space.  Which is daft.

Very glad I've got a shooting day tomorrow. A thing to look forward to, and (assuming I don't cock stuff up), something to boost the ego.

"I am a decent person.
I do have a right to be who I am.
Most people don't hate me.
I have at least some skill in what I'm trying to do"

I arrive at the station just in time to miss one train home - the next is due at 22:57, and is flagged on the display screens as "on time". Hooray, although that still means a wait of around a quarter of an hour.  Hey ho.  I settle into my usual standing/pacing/gazing into space routine reserved for such occasions.  I fantasise, as I often do in such situations, about pressing fire alarms, and other such antisocial activities, just to see what would happen. I look across to the opposite platform, and imagine how easy it ought to be to just hop down on to the tracks, skip across, and up the other side.

A young policemen appears on the opposite platform. They're always young now, of course. He strides with considerable purpose towards the footbridge.  As he reaches the steps, a WPC appears, heading in the same direction, also at quite a pace, but unable to keep up.  Idly, I imagine some sort of previous tiff between them, that prevents them walking together, even in the course of their job.
Both disappear up the steps.  There is a pause.
Quite suddenly, from behind the buildings on our platform, a young man emerges, running. He carries a red motorcycle helmet, and wears a t-shirt and shorts. He sprints straight to the edge of the platform, jumps down, runs heavily across the tracks, feet slipping on the ballast, and scrambles awkwardly up the other side, bashing and grazing his knee on the top of the platform as he does so (well that's one question answered).  He forces himself back to his feet, dashes out of the open gate into the sliproad, dropping a gove as he does so, and disappears. The sound of running feet quickly fades.

There's an appreciable pause, then the police reach the bottom of the steps on this side of the tracks, and start asking if anybody's seen a young man with a red bike helmet. There is much gesticulating and pointing from the assembled passengers.  The police retrace their steps across the footbridge, at a run. A taxi driver on the other side points up the sliproad:  "He's just up there - hiding in that bush."  The police disappear, and there's another moderate pause.

I check the train time on the display.  It now says that the 22:57 is late, due at 23:00. As I watch, it ticks over to 23:01

The police reappear, each bearing a handcuffed youth (oh, so there were two?).  They collect the discarded glove, and march them off to a waiting car.  Much mirth from one of the lads at the prospect of "spending the night in Brentwood nick."

Another pause.  The display now advises 23:05

The WPC returns, performs a quick seach of the platform for any other discarded items, but returns empty-handed.

The time is now 22:46 - the display unapologetically assures us our train won't show until 23:06

At exactly 22:47, the 22:47 to Liverpool Street glides into the platform.  The display, perhaps in embarrassment, is now blank.

I awoke feeling rather disgusted with myself.  Still gripped in the fist of the glooms that have plagued me these last few days, but now at least able to view the thing more objectively, and wishing to be free of it, rather than wanting only to wallow.

So, how to avoid this association between spring and feelings of loss becoming a proper neurosis to add to my collection?  How better than to dive in headfirst, and go for a walk; taking the widely-held view that exercise is supposed to be a good remedy for depression.
So, section thirteen of the Capital Ring (I'd walked section twelve a few weeks previously), between Stoke Newington and Hackney Wick.

A glorious day, full of all the things I was afraid of, all the smells and sounds, warm spring sunshine, solitude in the open air.

I won't deny, there were difficult moments. Several times I found myself longing to be able to share the experience of this beautiful day, with some nebulous significant other, but every time that familiar feeling of "if only" welled up, the regular tramp of my feet on the hard towpath seemed to knock it away.

Overshot the end of the section in the end, and carried on to Old Ford Lock, then down the Greenway (actually part of section fourteen), and then into Stratford for the train home.

Good.  Good.

It smells of spring outside.  The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  That used to be one of my favourite smells, and this, my favourite time of year.  It evokes every hope I ever had for myself when I was younger, every happier, carefree day, every smile.

The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  The smell of everything I seem to have lost.

I have cultivated a dead-end. A beautiful, wonderful, marvellous dead-end, but a dead-end nonetheless.

I left the main path a long time ago. It runs parallel to this, closely enough that I can glimpse it through the trees, but crossing to it would be at such a great cost that I doubt I'll ever attempt it.  Yet there it lies, and here I stand, thwarted. In glory, but thwarted.
I knew it as I chose this route. Knew it, yet drove on, regardless.

Stay, burning in the light I can never share?
Forsake the light, go back, and rejoin the path?
Plunge into the undergrowth?
Hope?

Physical interactions with strangers. The pseudo-Brownian motion of people moving about in groups.

Those of us who are people-watchers, will, of course, be familiar with the many and various different ways that people move around. Those with a bit of acting knowledge may well have spotted many, if not all, of the Laban Efforts among the milling populace - few of us can have shopped in a modern supermarket, for instance, without having encountered a "float" (light, sustained, indirect) or a "wring" (heavy, sustained, indirect), blocking an aisle or two with their trolley, while they ponder the wonders arrayed before them on the shelves.

However, it's when people approach each other closely enough to interact, that things become a little odd. 
For instance, let us suppose that:

Person A bumps into person B (either a direct barge, as with, say a "punch" or "press" in pursuit of their chosen path, or through un-coordinated blundering, as with a "float" or "wring").

There seem, these days, to be two possible reactions:

1) Person A doesn't react at all, but continues, quite unaware of any social infringement.  Most of us, I think, would describe this as simply, "rudeness".

2) Person A emits an almost automatic "sorry", usually in apparent surprise that there should be any other people in the space at all, let alone nearby.

What concerns me, is that, for a whole generation now, reaction (2) is starting to be seen as "politeness".  Whereas once, that term might have been applied to such acts as, "letting other people pass" (and thanking those that do so), or indeed, "avoiding bumping into people in the first place."
An apology is, I daresay, better than nothing, but we do seem to be becoming a society of apologisers. I remember hearing Peter Ustinov speak about visiting an airport, and how he found himself walking across a vast, empty concourse, which contained only one other soul, who, amid the acres of emptiness, proceeded to bump straight into him, with a surprised, "oh I'm sorry."

Once, people were brought up to look where they were going. Once, people were encouraged to consider their words and deeds before taking any action.

Now, it seems, our peripheral vision, both actual and metaphorical, has become so limited, so self-focussed, that consideration for others has become encapsulated in a single word, no longer meant, no longer capable of possessing any meaning.

I've meandered around the point here rather, I'm afraid, being the "float" that I all too often am. If this has caused annoyance, then er... sorry.

Why hello!  How lovely to hear from you!
Can't remember the last time we had such weather, no, but
I expect it'll clear up soon.  How are you?  Yes I'm fine thanks, same as
Ever, you know!  What have you been up to since we last spoke? Anything you can
Tell me about?  Haha, well quite - did
Anyone ever tell you that you have an evil streak?  Haha, noooo, I don't know
What you mean!  Now then, we should get together again for
A drink shouldn't we? Oh, just a couple of pints - don't want to repeat the
Horrible experience of that hangover from last
Time! What? Oh yes we did, didn't we - I'd forgotten we did that!  Haha, well...
I'm off, I think: Great to hear your voice, as always, glad to hear you're
Having fun, see you soon I hope?

I would like to indulge myself in a small rant, about a particular bête noir of mine, namely, that most ubiquitous of marketing tools,

"Rebranding"

It's always been with us, of course, but lately there seems to have been something of a flurry, a near stampede to rename almost everything in sight.

Digital TV channels, have hardly been with us for the batting of an eyelid, and yet some are already on their third or fourth name.  I see that what is currently known as "UKTV History" is shortly to be called "Yesterday".  Have people learned nothing from the "One Railway" fiasco?
"Did you see the Antiques Roadshow on Yesterday on Tuesday?"  etc.

An example of more direct influence to me: I'm an archer, and archery clubs in this country are affiliated to a body called "The Grand National Archery Society", formed in the early 19th Century, and supporting member clubs dating back at least another century before that.  It's shortly to be rebranded as "Archery GB".  Why?  What actual purpose will that serve, beyond providing cars and holidays for a handful of marketing consultants?

And there, I suppose we come to the crux of my prejudice, for I freely admit it to be so:  I detest marketing people.

It offends me that there is a trade that is plied entirely by people who actually believe that passengers (sorry, "customers") care more about what their railway company is called, than how often the trains are on time.  People who feel that "Department of Justice" is somehow going to inspire the public into a greater trust and belief in the rule of law, than it had when it was merely part of the Home Office.  People who believe that "new" is automatically better, and that anything that's been around more than five minutes must automatically no longer be "relevant to today's society".

People who, God help us, are telling us that Norwich Union "has always wanted to be" Aviva.

"When you’ve been in marketing as long as I have, you'll know that before any new product can be developed it has to be properly researched. We’ve got to find out what people want from fire, how they relate to it, what sort of image it has for them."
The crowd were tense. They were expecting something wonderful from Ford.
"Stick it up your nose," he said.
"Which is precisely the sort of thing we need to know," insisted the girl, "Do people want fire that can be fitted nasally?"

Yesterday was a good day.

It began with, wonder of wonders, my boiler springing to life after its partial electrical drowning by a heating engineer the night before.  I have proper hot water for the first time in months.

It continued with the discovery of a veritable torrent of kind messages on Facebook, that took me quite a while to reply to - I'm an inveterate replier to things - find it hard not to - not helped by the fact that messages continued to arrive as I was replying to earlier ones.  Lovely, put me in a good mood right from the outset.
There were messages from people I know well, and from friends who I barely speak to, either in person or online.  Messages from people I've always had a bit of a soft spot for, others from friends-of-friends.  Rather touching.

Then off to an audition.  Which went well.  An audition panel with an understanding of actors, and how to get the best from people.  The impression, genuine or polite, that they liked what I was doing with the character. Warm feeling.

Quick trip to Victoria to collect a friend's spare keys so I can look in on their cat briefly on Saturday morning.  Smiles.

Slow wander down through Plimlico to the river, taking the long way round, along the Thames Path, to Waterloo, stand for a while watching the cold brown water churn away below me, surrounded by a small contingent of street performers freezing their silver-painted nuts off in the bitter weather.

Beer, food and conversation in the very best of company.  The friendly surroundings of the Maple Leaf in Maiden Lane; the aromatic joy of a tea-merchant;  falafel, couscous and lamb in the cosy candlelit "Souk" near Seven Dials; more beer, additional good company, in the Yard.  Slightly saddened by finding it a pale shadow of its former self - a victim, as it were, of the smoking ban - the courtyard, from which it derives its name, always bustling and noisy, now quiet and empty.  Happily drunk enough not to let it temper my mood.  Much good company.  Amicii flores in horto vitae sunt, as I've said elsewhere before.

Good day.  Very good day.

As a welcome change from all the gloom and navel-gazing that occurs on this blog, here's a happy post.

Astute readers may already know about the A1 Peppercorn Class 60163 "Tornado", the first main line steam locomotive built in this country since 1960 - not a preserved original (no examples of the A1 Peppercorn class exist, all having been scrapped in the late 60s) but a brand-new locomotive, built from scratch, from the original drawings, but to the standards required by a modern railway.

Today was her first trip to London, pulling the A1 Trust's "Talisman" rail tour train into Kings Cross, and, thanks to a reminder from a friend, I was there.  I'm not, by nature, much of a trainspotter, but I do have a very soft spot for steam locos, and the Tornado is such a remarkable achievement, that I found myself quite moved by the huge crowds that had turned out to greet her.




More photos on Ian's page here.

For me, the tune that conjures my recollections of his influence on my childhood is this one
For you, it might be this or perhaps, for a different generation again, maybe this (though not with those pictures!).

Goodbye, Tony.

Glad to note that Pat Keysell, who co-hosted "Vision On" with him, is still alive, and apparently happily retired in Italy.

I'm not, as I regularly annoy those around me by saying, much of a fan of children.  Much respect owed to those who do have the patience and stamina to raise them, and raise them well (and much internal shouting at those who raise them to be bastards, naturally).

But there are moments.  Such as today, when an audience of small tykes, unprompted and unrehearsed, began to sing the show's main theme song, "Hooray for Mr. Fox", as the opening music for Act 2 was playing.  Nobody was on stage.  None of the cast were singing.  The house lights went down, the music played, and the children sang.  They'd only heard the song once, at the top of the show.  It's not the first time, either.
We've also had children get to their feet during the finale medley, and try to copy our dance moves - tricky for the little blighters, in my case, as I'm not always certain what I'm doing, so copying must be quite a challenge... but they do it, bless 'em.

Still no interest in children of my own, and put me alone in a room with one, and I'd panic... but in large, audience-shaped groups, yes, yes, I think I can admit to liking them. 

Rehearsals complete, time to start inflicting this upon the children of Essex.  First performance tomorrow morning, 9.45am, and by happy coincidence, our first audience is my old primary school.

We've managed a few full runs of the thing in the last day or so, including two full dress runs today.  Really beginning to enjoy it now (will enjoy it even more when I finally get those last few dance steps to be second nature, so I don't furkle them up!)  Good reactions from all those who saw it - although Millie, the daughter of our choreographer, after watching it through once, wanted to see it again, "but without the farmers" - it seems we scared her, and made her cry.  Hope that's not too universal a reaction!

Forty-odd shows to do. Daunting, but also a great feeling, having that run of performances stretching out in ahead of us.  Well aware that I may not feel quite that positive at all points during the run...!

It's going to be a fun show to do - and, I think, a fun show to watch.  I should plug it I daresay, so er...  here's the necessary information.  Let me know if you come along, so I can come and share a drinkie or two in the theatre bar afterwards!

Funny how there's always a point about halfway through rehearsals, usually the first weekend, when the traditional self-doubt asserts itself.  When I'm being swept along in the rolling enthusiasm of rehearsals, in that wonderful supportive, convivial atmosphere, without much chance to take a breath, then it's fine.  But time off provides too much opportunity to think.  Will I ever actually get that harmony right? Is my voice going to be the one that sticks out like a sore thumb? Am I over-acting appallingly? Or worse, am I not doing enough? Am I the weakest link?

Of course, this is healthy:  It's just such fears that make me work to make sure these things don't happen... but it's a bit of a bugger all the same.

Ah, but it's such fun though.  Really, really nice bunch of people I'm working with, and (appropriately) a fantastic atmosphere.  No prima donnas - at least not so far - nobody who's awkward or difficult to work with - and everybody seems to like everybody else.  Amazing.
There. That's the kiss of death suitably placed on that then!  Doubt it though - everybody really does get on, which is very refreshing.

I am, of course, around twice the age of most of the rest of the cast.  Doesn't feel like it though - except in my knees!

I remember sitting at my old house, empty bottle on the hearth, my head propped on my hand, elbow on the arm of the sofa.  Watching nothing.  Despair in control of my every thought.  Catching, out of the corner of my eye, the artery in my wrist gently pulsing away in soft, peripheral-vision focus. So many nights, year in, year out.

There seemed to be nothing whatever for me then, no future of any kind.  Surrounded by the detritus of my life, permanently installed into that one seat as though I'd been surgically grafted to it.

I've come a long, long way since then.  My life has changed for the better in more ways than I can count.
And yet the despair, and the reasons for it, remain.  So long it's been my companion, it has almost become my identity, in and of itself, defining me.  In the (increasingly unlikely) event that the original cause should ever be resolved, I've a nasty feeling the despair will remain anyway, as much a part of me as I was of that old sofa.

Sometimes, like, I imagine, most people just starting in this business, I find myself very despondent and begin to question whether this is really the right path for me.

Evenings like yesterday do much to restore my sense of direction.  I went to see Humble Boy at the Artsdepot in Finchley.

Two things marked this out as a bloody good evening:

1) It's really really good.  A lovely, charming, surprising play, which I previously knew nothing about at all, beautifully produced and acted.  Especially nice to see a good friend in the lead role, and bringing it off with great aplomb.  Thoroughly enjoyable evening's theatre - heartily recommended - go and see it.

2) Met the aforementioned friend afterwards for a quick drink.  We'd spent quite a bit of the summer working together on the Edinburgh Fringe show, and there was a fantastic bond built up between all of us in the cast and crew - and meeting up briefly again yesterday rekindled that.  There's a kind of joy involved in meeting up with people you've had that "shared experience" with, something I've never encountered in any of the other assorted jobs I've done over the years.  This is, indeed, what I should be doing with my life.

Should I go? (or try to - there are two kinds, they say)
It seems like sense, to end the unendurable,
But such "ending" is illusory -
I'd simply gift-wrap my grief, and give it, whole,
To those I love.
So I'll stay.

I am not, by nature, a masochist.  I don't intentionally court pain or distress.  Yet I habitually throw myself into situations which, though enjoyable in their own right, come at a high price - they're followed by long periods of self-obsessed gloom.  What's more, I engage in these things knowing full well what the outcome is likely to be.
The alternative, of course, is probably worse.  Disengagement from anything remotely stimulating. Cocooning myself, hands-on-ears, lalalalalala.

Funny old thing, life.