A nice, relaxing evening in with a bottle of whisky.

The phone rings.  "Hello, this is Andrew from Chapterhouse Theatre Company"

Don Pedro, Much Ado About Nothing.

Just like that, in a millisecond, suddenly I'm a pro.

The fear, happily, evaporated almost as soon as I woke up, replaced by a sort of nervous calm.

In contrast to the last time I found myself sitting around passing time, this room felt more like a doctor's waiting room than any I've ever sat in.  As I entered this silent room, a few heads turned in my direction, in a sort of doleful welcome.  As we all sat, largely in silence, contemplating our imminent fate, there were sounds audible from the next room.  Agreed, this seemed to involve a deal more shouting and singing than is usual in a surgery, but the effect was complete.

Thank heavens for the two friendly girls greeting all new arrivals, who turned what could have been a terrifying ordeal into something quite jolly.

The audition panel themselves couldn't have been nicer.  Smiling, chatty, supportive and encouraging, they complimented me both on my choice of speeches and my delivery of them.  They seemed to like my attitude, and we had a very pleasant few minutes.  This may mean nothing of course - how else should a professional panel of interviewers behave, after all?  Especially given that the bulk of their applicants will, like me, be just beginning in their careers, and needing encouragement above all else.

Even if I get nothing, I'm enormously glad I went.  The exercise of preparing for the audition has been really valuable in itself, and now I have two speeches all ready to go, for when I next need to audition.  Small steps John, small steps.

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

One day.  One whole day left to perfect my speeches, then tomorrow I'm Lincoln-bound to strut my stuff.

First audition.  Ever.  Even if I don't get it, the work done on the speeches is time well-spent, but inevitably, this being my first one, it's acquired a disproportional significance in my mind.

There have been various jumpings-off-small-cliffs in the lead up to this, but this is the first real jump, this the first time of placing myself in front of others for the purposes of work.  Not paralysed with fear yet.  Not yet.

Who lives in a house like this?:



Don't look at me like that...

The audition speeches are taking shape.  That nice Mr. Andronicus' telling-off of Chiron and Demetrius has started to develop some moments of genuinely pleasing passion, and I have high hopes for Dr. Rance's views on lunatics too.

But I always was a worrier.  Not, funnily enough, about whether I can do the job - not this time.  Nor so much about the mechanics of the audition itself, although that remains an anxiety.  No, it's foolish things, the logistics of being away from home for four months.  What will the digs be like?  What will happen about laundry?  Who will water my plants and collect my mail while I'm away?  Plenty of similar, and equally daft, concerns too.  All either things the company will have long experience of sorting out, or things that will be easy for me to resolve myself.

They are, if I'm honest with myself, all concerns based on my never having lived away from home for any length of time - I went straight from living with parents, to making my own way in my own home.  The experience of living for an extended period in some place that isn't my own home, will be a novel one.  All the more reason to do my best to get this job, terrifying though the thought continues to be:  I've become far too set in my ways.  It would be a pity to make the leap of faith of departing my old job, only to settle into a cosy new coccoon instead.  I need to be stretched: Physically, mentally, artistically.  I need to start daring to do things again. 

Self-image is a bloody funny thing:  It seems obvious that, the more strongly you believe in your own abilities, the more you'll be able to achieve.  And of course, that's quite true, to a great extent.  But the reverse is true as well:  If one does things, almost without regard to how well or how badly one does them, then confidence grows as a result. 
In acting, this is quite possibly even more true than in any other profession, too - all actors know that performing a role, even quite poorly, imbues the actor with some of the emotions they're portraying:  An extension of the well-known effect whereby it's harder to feel grumpy while wearing a smile - even a fake one.  Similarly, pretending to be confident - acting the part of a confident person - tends to build a feeling of confidence.  If an actor can't dive in and do that, who the hell can, and what kind of an actor does that make him?

So, the key must be simply to do (thank you Yoda), and the rest will take care of itself, for better or for worse.  Prepare, of course, worry by all means, but do it.

       Yeeees, yeeees.... use your acting....

It's been much on my mind this week, has hospitality, though it's taken a little while for my thoughts to really coalesce into anything I could write down.

I've spent quite a bit of my time in the last few days, in the company of some really lovely people.  They've fed me, they've filled my glass, they've let me collapse on their sofa.  Above all, they've made me feel welcome.  Perhaps I should explain.  I've something of a neurosis about intruding, being an interloper, outstaying my welcome, etc.  No matter how friendly and accomodating people are, there comes a point, usually sooner rather than later, where I feel, quite strongly, that I ought to leave.  This happened on a couple of occasions over the last few days, and these lovely folk were at pains to encourage me to stay.  So I stayed.  What's more, I'm glad that I did, which is even more unusual.

Thank you, lovely people.

The Stage, 8th March 2007

Waiting rooms, as we observed at the time, are strange places.  Rooms whose sole purpose is for people to wait.  Those attached to doctors' surgeries and hospitals doubly so - waiting is in itself an enforced inactivity that's prone to generating stress, and the medical aspect merely accentuates that.

So it seems only right that I should heap praise on the particular waiting room I found myself in on Thursday, in the Whittington Hospital in Highgate.  Before you ask, dear reader, no, there's nothing wrong, I was there as transport and company (or, as the medical consent form delightfully put it, 'escort') for a friend.

The waiting room in question was buried deep in the rabbit warren that seems to be the standard layout for most hospitals, just a small, square room, with a few unremarkable chairs and a reception window.  I don't suppose we'd been sitting there for as much as five minutes, before a friendly nurse came along and collected Ben (fifteen minutes early, mark you!) and I had the room to myself and my stack of books brought along for the purpose.

Over the next hour or so, it became clear that this was a remarkable ward; their approach to patients was unlike anything I've seen before (though I admit, I'm not, fortunately, a regular frequenter of hospital departments).  Every time a nurse walked past the waiting room, she would check if there was anybody new waiting.  If there was, they would take it upon themselves to come and talk, and bring them into the ward if they were a patient.  This had two fundamental effects:  Firstly, no patient ever waited more than about five minutes before being seen by a nurse, and secondly, that people waiting for friends never felt that they were being forgotten.  I lost count of the number of times people came up to me to check that I was ok, and to advise me of progress.  It's nice to know your friends are in good hands.

Top marks, Whittington Hospital.

Well.  I couldn't really have asked for a more positive response to my bold move.

At around 5pm yesterday, I posted my CV in response to an advert in The Stage.  At 12.42 today, I had a phone call summoning me to audition in Lincoln at the end of the month.

My first ever professional audition, for a touring company, running several simultaneous summer tours of open-air Shakespeare around the UK throughout the summer.  If I'm lucky enough to land a part, it'll be really good experience, though, given that it's a profit-share, not terribly helpful financially.  I think that's really of secondary importance though:  The key thing at this stage, is to get some work under my belt, so I can sign up for things like Equity and Spotlight.  Furthermore, having something to invite agents to, rather than simply mailbombing them, has to be a major help.

What's more, it'd be a fantastic adventure.

First applications for acting jobs sent today, amid childlike excitement.  None of them will earn me anything like a living wage, but any of them would be very handy experience, and good things to put on my CV.

We shall see.  we shall seeeeee...

In an interview on the television yesterday, John Hurt telling how, even now, decades after making "The Naked Civil Servant", he still has taxi drivers refusing to accept a fare from him, in a sort of compensation for the scene in which Quentin Crisp is expelled from a taxi by its driver, into the hands of a mob.

The arrival of Chapter Six.  Still uncommonly flattered and priveleged to be allowed to read this stunning work in progress as it unfolds.

This evening's programme on Alfred Wainwright.  A man in love with the beauty of his landscape, but troubled in the love of people, who found his soulmate in later life.  How could I not be moved?