How many months, years, have I been moaning about this place?

January 31st 2007 will be a landmark day.  The end of my tenure here... no, let me rephrase that: Not an ending, a beginning.  The beginning of... who knows what, but a beginning, most certainly.

And I'm not the only one, either.

There's going to be an undercurrent of emotion behind my smiles today.  Again, not for the ending, so much as for the fact of the occasion.  No matter what happens, my life changes. Here, now, today. 

Forever.

It is now, as it always was of course, but now more than ever, entirely up to me what I do with my life.  Fate's given me a handy kick up the arse, just to remind me.

Feeling quite upbeat today (probably due to the lack of excessive drunkenness last night, I shouldn't wonder), but with a new dilemma before me.

Talking to Ginger, and in my own head, I'd pretty much made up my mind that I couldn't afford training, and that my 27 years of amateur experince would have to be sufficient.  The more I research, however, the more I find that casting organisations, and places like Spotlight, put rather more emphasis on accredited training than I'd hoped.

There are courses that are more tailored towards mature students, but can I afford them?

Big thinking needed.

Lovely Tarek, at the coffee booth at Marylebone.  After months of having my breakfast ready for me as soon as he spotted me, today, for the first time, he offered to warm my croissant for me.  Quite why he should choose to do so now, I've no idea.  It's a fairly mundane kind of thing, but I was sort of touched.  I've never seen anybody else get their breakfast heated up - in fact I had no idea they even had a microwave in the booth.  He's been such a breath of fresh air in my mornings over the last six months, I think I really should tell him that it's my last few days.  Seems vaguely silly - he's "only a coffee-booth employee", and I'm "only a customer" - but his ready smile and friendliness have been invaluable some mornings, and he's clearly a thoroughly nice guy.

And by way of balance...

There's one particular bus driver, who always drives the number 30 that arrives in Loudwater at 14:08 (not that he's ever on time - can easily be 15 minutes either way).  The first time I presented my Travelcard to him, he was most dismissive of it - "but that's a train ticket", "yeah, but we're not getting any money, are we?" (the latter after I pointed out that there was an agreement between Arriva and Network Rail to accept Travelcards in the Wycombe area).  He allowed me on his bus, grudgingly, but ever since has greeted me with probably the most contemtuous glance I've ever seen - as though I were personally stealing from him by daring to travel with my obscene piece of ticketery.  What's more, when he arrives at the bus stop, he accelerates first, then screeches to a halt, several feet from the kerb, and usually several yards beyond the bus stop.  I'm sure if there was abig puddle there, he'd make sure he drove through it.  Everybody else he greets with a ready smile.  I'm sure he won't miss me, and I'm sure I won't miss him.

One week to go.  This time next Tuesday, I'll be packing my things into a stout cardboard box, and getting ready to depart.  This time next Wednesday, I'll be waking up to my first day of freedom.

Odd to think that this isn't really my job any more.  My colleagues are already doing a lot of my work (and with more effort than I have for many a year, if I'm honest!).  Proving surprisingly difficult not to be defensive about it.  I've been out of the office for a couple of days - returning to my desk this morning, I found that somebody had been using my computer.  Tried hard not to feel indignation...

I. Must. Not. Care.

After several years of slowly declining conscientiousness, it's an amusing irony to find myself feeling protective about the job now!

I'm terrified.

Not, as you might think, of the impending redundancy, or of thus being out of work; nor of the idea of throwing myself on the mercies of agents, casting directors, other actors, etc.

It's hard to say exactly what I'm so scared of.

But I'm absolutely bricking it.  The feeling of fear and impending something, without an actual something to hang it on.  And it's growing. 

At the bottom of Amersham Hill is Stuart Newmans - an estate agent.  As I walk past, early in the morning, he's always there, every day.  Tall, rugged, one might say - with more than a touch of the Tommy Cooper about him. A big man, but with that curious daintyness that some tall men acquire.  Maybe he is Stuart Newmans (do independent estate agents still exist?) - certainly he's at the very least the manager, so dedicated does he seem to be to his business.  As I pass, he's either working at his computer, arranging the window displays, tidying brochures, or any one of the myriad of other tasks involved in the running of an office (I've never seen an office junior in there).  He conveys an impression of competence, of calm efficiency (it being an estate agency, this impression may be false, of course).

But it's his face that's always caught my eye.  He has, without doubt, the saddest face I have ever seen.  He fixes his computer screen with a gaze of such despair, such desolation, that I have to look away.  It seems to me to be the face of someone whom life has repeatedly knocked, again and again; every small defeat stealing away a little of his joy, until all he has left is this simple focus on the professionalism of his job - as though that, in itself, had become an escape for him, a distraction from the horde of disappointments and sorrows that crowd outside.  There in the neat, ordered, melamine-clad whiteness of his work, surrounded by the certainties of his trade, driven by the daily routine, always immaculate, in his crisp shirt and smart-if-not-actually-fashionable tie, life retains some shape for him, some purpose, that it lacks when he closes the door behind him, late at night, and heads for home.

I extrapolate wildly of course.  He may be blissfully happy.

The first tentative but concrete steps taken.

I went to visit my old friend Ginger last night, who I've known through the Artisans for a long time - his wife Joan, and both his daughters, Lisa & Suzi, have all been members at various times, Joan only this week retiring from our committee after many years.  He himself directed us in Entertaining Mr. Sloane in 2005.

The idea was to pick his brains and borrow from his lifetime's experience of acting.  I'd hoped to glean a few useful bits of information as to where to start, who to approach, etc., but bless him, I couldn't have hoped for a more helpful mentor.  Everything from how to get the best from my Spotlight photo, to how to prepare for auditions.

I was fairly sure that this was what I wanted to do before, but I'm even more so now.  Thank you John, it's much appreciated.

The Artisans AGM last night.  An eventful, but unproductive evening.

Gave Joan a lift, looking frankly radiant - so nice to see her so well after her stroke.  She's stepped down as secretary, unsurprisingly, so the group gave her warm thanks, and decided to honour her by creating a new class of membership, that of "Honorary Life Member", she to be the first recipient thereof, to reflect the group's respect and love for her.  Nice to be able to repay her kindness to me, for the lovely things she said for my Jo Stoneham Award a year and a half ago.

Then we got on to the year's programme, and I dropped my little bombshell.  I'd originally said, before the redundancy was certain, that I'd direct the summer show.  Now, of course, because I'm going to be trying to make a go of professional acting, I can't really commit to anything... just in case.  This didn't go down awfully well.  I probably came across as pompous and conceited - especially since there's every chance that I'll get no work at all.  Think I pissed Nicola off royally - she didn't even say goodbye.  But then, I had hoped to have a chat with her about it before the meeting, but she was very late, so I couldn't.  I feel rather shitty though, for not having warned her before.

For the first time in some while, I had nothing alcoholic to drink last night, and went to bed because it seemed like a reasonable time, rather than because I was dead on my feet.

Maybe it was the mushroom risotto.

I dreamt a succession of the most intensely vivid dreams, such as I haven't for a very long time.

I was bankrupt (almost true!) and working for a bankrupt firm.  I seemed to be personally responsible for financing it, even though I had no money myself.

Later, I was running as fast as I could towards a sunlit grove of trees, where, for some reason, I was looking forward to dancing naked (sorry for that image).  The moment I arrived, it clouded over.

There were at least two more scenarios that have now escaped me.

And I woke to find I hadn't won the lottery.  Going to be a long three weeks (see dream 1, above)

Man has been to the moon.
He can travel through the air - many times faster than sound, if necessary.
He can make a razor with as many blades as he has digits on each hand.
He can make computers so powerful that they can simulate reality.

But he still cannot make a peel-off film on a pack of food that actually peels cleanly.

This mood-swinging is starting to really get on my nerves.

The slightest thing, the very slightest, and there's this huge emotional response, out of all proportion to the stimulus - which rarely warrants any real emotion at all.

The really peculiar thing is that, while my right brain is flapping all over the place, waving onions under my eyes and having a fun time tweaking all my emotions, my left brain is fighting like mad to retain composure, and talking to people with the best impression it can manage of a calm, relaxed and urbane human being, and being at pains to put the other person at their ease.  Failing, often, but trying, nonetheless.

And each half is aware of each other, across the divide. Watching, but going their own way.

Right: "FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckbollockswhydidIaskthatOhGodit'sallgonewrongandI've fuckedupagaincrycrycrycrycrycrycrycurlupanddieunderthedeskmummymummymummymummy"

Left: "Yes, that's fine, don't worry"

Bloody exhausting.  Swans' legs under the water, paddling away like fury, all serenity above.

I know this is hardly news to most people - we all do it.  Haven't had it quite this bad for a long time though.  When it takes all my physical strength not to shake like a leaf while talking politely to a work colleague, that's a worry.

Real ones, rather than metaphorical.  In less than a month, I'll probably never clap eyes on these folk again, in spite of having shared bits of my early mornings with them for the last half year.  Seems worth recording them, at least a little.  This is not an exhaustive list, naturally!

1. Romford to Liverpool Street

Three-quarters of the passengers on the 4.53 are postal workers, on their way to Farringdon, where there's a big sorting office.  Let us, therefore, begin with:

The Couple

Two male posties (well, maybe just work in the sorting office, hard to know). Always sit together, always walk together.  Stand just a little closer together than mere friends tend to.  Look good together, in fact.  I really do hope they are a couple, they seem to fit.

James Bolam

Very reminiscent, in looks, of the aforesaid actor.  A lined face, showing many past cares, but a look that suggests great laughter in the face of adversity.

Incredible Talking Man and 'Friends'

He talks. That is his nature.  His usual ploy is, on arrival in the carriage, to pounce upon one of his colleagues (postal workers again), sit down next to or opposite them, and begin to talk.  They may be asleep, or be reading a paper or book; it matters not.  If they don't respond, he'll repeat the phrase, with a "hmm?" or a "huh?" thrown in, in an attempt to elicit some reaction.  If they look away, he'll even go so far as to manouevre himself into their eyeline.

Quiet Carriage Man

"THE THING I LIKE ABOUT EARLY TRAINS", he confides to his friend, and thus the entire carriage, "IS HOW LOVELY AND QUIET THEY ARE".

Days like today scare me.  Or rather, the prospect of days yet to come, when I've left my job, and am thrown entirely on my own resources and my own company, and when I feel as lost and lonely as I do today.  Above all, what this neurosis craves is closeness and affection - I fill the gap left by their lack, with as much online conversation with friends as is possible.  Inevitably, and not unreasonably, my friends are not always able, willing, or in the appropriate mood themselves, to indulge me in this.  All that keeps me together then, is the mundanity of sitting in an office surrounded by other drudges.

I'm terrified of where this sort of mood may take me when I'm alone on a regular basis. 

I'm actually planning to immerse myself in solitude, the thing that I love and I fear above all things.  Can I really think this is a good thing?

While wandering through the little shop where I buy my lunchtime sandwich, I found myself in the queue for the till behind a little old lady.  "Oh go in front of me", she said, "I've got all this lot, and two lotteryb tickets to do".  Bless her, so with many a smile and many an "are you sure?", I did.  How sweet.

As I reached the door on my way out, a boy, perhaps 13 or 14, came in through it.  He held the door open for me.

Maybe there is hope after all.

Impossibly sad this morning.  For reasons far too foolish to explain.