Twice last night.  Twice, for goodness sake.  Waking up in all kinds of a state, from different variations of the
same dream.  I've never had it affect me like this before... but then I suppose in many ways, I'm in a particular combination of circumstances that are new to me.  Not the emotionally-charged situation, been there before, nor the specific focus, the object of my... well no, I've felt similarly before.  But the two together, and the one leading to the other... that's new.

Another new skill, though not, I imagine, one that's easily taught in any drama school.  At least, not as a subject.

Maybe I just don't notice when I'm not feeling like this.  Yes that's probably it.

Loved-up couples seem attracted to me like flies to shit.  No matter where I go, they congregate.  After a particularly fragile day today, it was bad enough to have a pair of lovebirds sit either side of me on the tube, continuing their conversation in front of my face; bad enough to have to wait in the queue at BurgerKing for many extra minutes while Jim and Trace occupied the counter giggling and kissing their way through their indecision as to which particular lardy delicacy to buy...  but it was certainly the final straw when, having finally obtained my own guilty, fatty treat, and sat down at one of the many empty seats in the station to consume it, Jean-Claude and Mimi made a bee-line for the seat next to me and began an in-depth investigation of each other's tonsils.

Really, it's ok.  I want folk to enjoy life. Really I do. But please, Deity mine, if you're going to deny me the opportunity to partake of that particular facet of life's tapestry myself, why taunt me with other people's enjoyment of it, hmm?  What does it achieve, apart from increasing the gloominess of an already somewhat glum bald poof?

I can't deny that I was warned.  You laid it out before me, my cardboard fate, dancing on its field of linen.  The meaning seemed clear, and I was relieved when the summer passed without incident.

Other interpretations have flirted with me, less specific, less personal, less me.  I thought I had it, with this latest; it seemed so apt, so nicely-fitted.

And there was the rub.  So unconcerned was I, having decided on that meaning, that it came as some surprise to find the original reading weaving itself into my life after all.

It cannot be, of course, I know that.  What I feel, what I see, must be viewed through eyes of detachment.  Reality has no place here, and fantasy must find no place in my thoughts and reactions.

There was a time when I would have done otherwise.  Younger then, I might have dared to consider it.  But I will not follow that path again, the danger is too great.  Forewarned is forearmed (for which, I owe you thanks).  I will not do it; not now, nor when the same inevitably happens again.

It may come, but it must come to me; I shall not go seeking.  But it is hard, oh so hard.

One dress rehearsal separates us from the baying/paying public.  Sadly, we can't get into the theatre until 6.00, as the space has been rented out to the Beeb in the daytime, for some kind of reality TV show.  So, a line run at 2.00, at the flat we've been using for rehearsals, a brisk walk from Hackney to Hoxton, the dress, and then, in theory, we're all ready to go.

Rumour is that ticket sales seem to be very healthy.  Coo.

So, in this rehearsal, as usual, I crouched down at the beginning of that final scene.  Unusually, however, this time the movement was greeted with a muffled crunching noise from my left jeans pocket.  I knew what it was at once, but I couldn't check until we'd finished.
Sure enough, my glasses, which had survived so many challenges throughout last summer (they never really did recover from my having squashed them flat by trying to poke my head through the van window when it was shut) had expired.

Odd sense of loss, which has nothing whatever to do with the amount they cost.

In private, I tend to be a bit of a morose and gloomy sort of chap.  At this time of year especially.  I've nearly always reached New Year's Eve with a sort of resigned attitude to the ending of another arbitrary timespan, that's inevitably not done me any favours, and I've mostly allowed myself to creep into the new year amid a haze of solitary self-pity and claret.

This approach, and this view of life, was always nonsense anyway, of course.

This year, I am actually attending a social gathering.  This is good in itself - I'll be seeing the new year in in an entirely fifferent kind of mood.  But I've just caught myself still thinking the same old thoughts about the year that's nearly past.  Feeling sorry for myself. "Wasn't a great year".  "Maybe the new year will be better".  WHAT?  WHAT?

How dare I!  This has been an extraordinary year.  I've left a job that bored and annoyed me; I've been to numerous auditions, several of which have borne fruit - I even had to turn a couple of jobs down because they conflicted with other things; I spent a wonderful, wonderful summer touring the country with brilliant, talented people; I did my first, and very enjoyable, work in front of a camera; I've met some great people and of course there's also all the things I mentioned a few days ago
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I'm living my dream.  How dare I indulge in self-pity.

The motto for 2008 only needs a slight change though:  "Maybe the new year will be even better"

It still comes as a surprise though :)

Happy New Year!

I've recently sold my house, thus freeing myself from an immense financial millstone that's been dragging me down for years.  I can buy things.
I have my sister back after twelve years.
In less than a week, I'll be back rehearsing for a great play that I'm really chuffed to have been cast in, with a really talented bunch of people.
I've just had a lovely Christmas with dear friends.
There are other friends who are more than happy to share their lovely company with me on a regular basis.
I even have a bit of a sex life of sorts - hooray!


And yet, I can still write blog entries like last night's.  Ok, maybe "being happy with my lot" isn't something I should necessarily strive for, after all, I'd like to think I'm always going to be looking to grow and improve as a person. but really John...  focus on the positive for goodness' sake.

I'm going to have to stop watching TV programmes and films that produce strong emotion.  And stop reading emotive books.

Next step: Stop interacting with real life and real people.

How else can I stop longing for something that I can never have?

Collected my last bits of stuff from the house on Tuesday.  Expected there to be a lot of junk, but was unprepared for quite how much there was.  And how much of it was simply junk that I'd never bothered to throw away.  Broken television here, assorted rusty screws that my Dad collected there.  My original archery tent.  Bag full of assorted pornographs that I actually thought I had chucked.  The whole coated with black grime and dust, and inhabited by an impressive collection of small crawly things and enormous spiders.  All of it, even the rubbish, is now stored in an extra room at Big Yellow (my existing room being hopelessly too small for the amount of crap I ended up with) awaiting several mammoth sorting and tipping sessions. 
My heartfelt thanks must here be recorded to the lovely Ben, for braving the wildlife and providing much-appreciated help lugging all the detritis.

Still working my way through all the phone calls, cancelling things related to the house.  Amazing how many there are. 

How very strange.  I've sold my house.  Just like that - well, two days ago now.

Remarkably low key, in the end.

From millstone to cashed-in asset, in one easy step.  A step as easy as repeatedly falling off a cliff for three and a half years.

3am, mind buzzing.  4am, ditto.  5am, give in.  Tea, internet.

Had to get up early anyway, I suppose, need to see solicitor at sparrowfart, before going off to rehearsal.

Rehearsal.  That's the thing yes.  Head full of new stuff, new people, new doubts.  The old, old, creeping fear of not being up to the job; the "am I doing enough?", "am I doing too much?", "have I got a clue?"

Ridiculous.  Be yourself, John.  Do what you do.

Tomorrow, and for the whole of next week, I'm going to be doing something I haven't done in many many months:  I'm going to be getting up at a regular time in the morning, to go to work - and at the same place each day.  The idea seems at once both novel and familiar.

I shall be a commuter, mingling with other commuters, but hiding from them a terrible, gleeful secret:  I am not going to an office, nor a shop, nor any one of the myriad of places that folk generally think of as "a proper job".  I found this sort of sensation a considerable buzz during the summer tour, but in some ways, it's even more pronounced this time, because of the simple normality of the travel environment.

It is, I'll admit, a shame that this freedom comes at a price (no money!) but, at least until the bailiffs show up, it'll be worth it (and maybe even then).

Yesterday. How can I describe yesterday?

Not surprisingly, after the news of my being cast, I was in quite a good mood to begin with.  Treated myself to a nice fryup, and made a few minor plans for the day - the buying of pencils, collecting my (hopefully repaired this time) coat from the cleaners, starting work on the script, that sort of thing.
I fired up iTunes.  Bang, "Magic Position", straight off.  That was it, I was away.  "I'm Coming To The Best Part Of My Life".  "Hoppipolla".  I'll swear that iTunes is psychic.
So there I was, leaping and bouncing and laughing and crying, waving my arms around with sheer happiness and relief.  I had no idea I'd got so stressed - great though it is to get the part, it didn't warrant quite such an explosion of joy on its own.  I'd clearly been holding a lot back for a while.

After a while I calmed down a bit.  "Ooh" I thought, "I'd better ring Mum and tell her my news".  She was suitably pleased for me, bless her.
She too, had news.  Lovely news, in the form of a letter from my Sister, which she read to me.  So there we were, Mum and I, both rather tearful on each end of the phone.  Not sure that's ever happened before - we never were a very demonstrative family.

The remainder of the day passed with less excitement, though punctuated by moments when I'd suddenly remember, and burst out laughing or crying.  Dear God, what have I been bottling up to make the release quite so powerful?

I treated myself to a bottle of wine and a nice meal, that I can't in all honesty afford, but hey.  Happily drunk and full, I retired to bed early.  Just getting drowsy, when the phone rang...  and of course, of course, it was my Sister.

What an extraordinary, happy, emotional day.

So here I am.

Counterfeit Skin, a profit-share show in Hoxton in January & February.

Really quite excited, it's a very nice part, in a really good play.  Handily, the rehearsal timings manage to avoid almost all of my existing commitments.

Really very very excited :)

I walk a pleasant path.  The ground is quite even, with just enough hillocks and potholes to keep my journey interesting.  Behind, the road winds lazily back into the past.  Ahead are fine mountains to be climbed.  To my left, engaging scenery, hills and meadows traced with other paths, some strange and distant, others familiar.  Some paths cross mine, some join it, run along for a while, some branch off into other pastures.

Ah, but to my right:  To my right is a wonderland, a fair country of light, of unknown joys and pleasures.  There too, the snowy peaks stride across the far horizon, there too, the paths are strewn with unseen climbs and drops; but there, the mountain passes seem more manageable, the bumpy path more interesting.

But I rarely look.  I mustn't.  I can, of course.  I can stand and gaze into this glory for hours, days, weeks on end.  But then my own path is forgotten.
I mustn't look, because I must never enter.
Oh there's no fence, no wall, no great chasm to cross - I have only to step to the right of the path, and I'd be there.  But to enter unbidden would be to invoke its destruction.  All would rot and fester; even my own path would crack and tumble.

Only those invited may enter, and rightly so. 

How lovely to be wanted.  Or, more accurately, how lovely to be potentially wanted.

Two recent applications have borne fruit in the form of auditions in the next week or so, and now, out of the blue, somebody's found my CV on CastingCallPro, and offered me an audition just like that.

Coo.

It's almost as though I'm really doing this.

A light dinner, a glass or two of wine, a long, relaxing bath, and I was pleasantly sleepy and ready for my bed.
So I slipped between my freshly-laundered sheets, and was instantly... wide-awake.

Then began one of the most unusual nights of my life... ever.
My bed was snug and cosy, and I was as comfortable as if I'd been lying... in a cashmere sweater factory.  There should have been nothing to prevent my slumbers, but it took what seemed like hours for me to begin to drop off... and then things got really strange.
Throughout the night, I would occasionally doze off.  And I would dream.  As is so often the way, I can't now remember the content of the dreams, but one thing still haunts me even now.  Every time I dozed (and there were several, in the end), all the people in my dreams spoke...  like Jeremy Clarkson.

Now why couldn't I have dreamt of Richard Hammond?

Been altogether too much bally misery and gloom on here lately.  Far too much.

Time for something a bit more upbeat and jolly:  Lets hear it for lovely mediocrity.

I am reliable John.
Dependable John.
Helpful John.
Predictable John.
Dull, bland, boring, uninspiring John.
Imploding John.

Once again, just at the point when I should be exchanging contracts on my house, the sale has fallen through.  I've lost count now, of how many times this has occurred, but it's many.

There had been months of letters back and forth between the solicitors, many niggly questions, insistence on ever more thorough inspections, all of which now begins to seem like a mere delaying tactic - presumably in order for the buyer to raise the required deposit.  Which he has failed to do.  What's more, in the process, his mortgage offer has expired, and he now seems to be unable to get a new one for anywhere near the asking price.  Quite what's changed in his circumstances that now prevents him from getting a mortgage, nobody seems to have been able to get out of him.

So, back on the market it goes.  Anybody want a recently-renovated three-bedroom semi-detached house in Harold Hill, with a 100 foot long garden and friendly neighbours?

It's funny how it all changes.  As I left the audition last night, with all the hearty, cheery assurances of a call today, still ringing in my ears, I was certain of success.

As today has worn on, the confidence has slowly ebbed away.  This is of course entirely natural and expected.  Now, I wouldn't find it hard to believe that the friendliness was a mask for astonishment or laughter, and that, the moment I'd left, the reaction would have been "Dear God!  What was all that about!"  Improbable, of course, though it's easy to think that everybody was so friendly and grateful to me for having come because they knew they weren't likely to be giving me the part.

Ah, lovely neuroses, where would I be without you?

I'd reached a certain despondency:  I'd been waving my particulars in public forums for a long time, without so much as a hello. 

Then all at once, a double-whammy.  A message out of the blue that led to intimacy and a resultant ego-boost, and the following morning waking up to an email calling me to audition.

Now, of course, I have work to do.  I've no wish to show up on Wednesday as unprepared as I was at my last audition.

So...

A few months ago now, you received a fairly technical question from the other side's solicitors.  You forwarded this on to me without explanation, with the comment "please reply as a matter of urgency".

I rang you, and asked for an explanation of the question, as I didn't understand it, being largely in legalese.  You advised me to answer the question in a particular way, which I did, in a letter back to you, which (I assume) you then forwarded on...

A couple of weeks ago, you sent me a copy of a letter from the other side's solicitors, asking the exact same question, and asking for a "specific answer".  Again, you provided no explanation, but asked me to "reply as a matter of urgency".  I rang you again, and asked what it was all about.  You told me you didn't know.  Eventually, you found out, and told me you would answer the question for me, and that I need not write a reply.

Today, I've received from you a copy of a letter from the other side's solicitors, asking the exact same question once again.  Once again, you have given no explanation, but have asked me to "reply as a matter of urgency".

Why am I paying a solicitor?  All you're doing is passing their letters on to me.

You are the trained professional, not I.
You have access to the deeds, which allow you to answer this question.  I do not.
You can ask the buyer's solicitors for clarification.  I am not allowed to approach them.

One appoints a professional to provide expertise and guidance in areas where one has no skill of ones own.  One expects to be helped through difficult matters, supported, advised, by people who have experience in the field.  They should inspire confidence.  At no point has this been the case.  For goodness sake, even when I came in to sign the contract, it was I who had to point out where I was supposed to sign, after you told me to sign in the box marked for the witness....

Were it not for the fact that (please God!) we're very close to actually finishing this thing, I would be sending you this letter today.  However, knowing you to be an incompetent, with all the defensive, arse-covering petulant childishness that is so often the mark of such people, I shall not, for fear of actually slowing things down...

Rest assured that you will be receiving this letter, or one very similar, quite soon after we do complete (assuming we actually do).  I do so hope that your practice is in the habit of sending out customer satisfaction questionaires, too. I should enjoy filling in one of those.

I washed my nice cosy machine-washable wool zip-up cardigan.  It's a sort of pale, biscuity beige.  As I've often done before, I washed a few white items along with it.  Never been a problem.

I think my washing machine may have made a small thermostatic error, as two unusual things have happened:

a) The cardigan is now about twelve feet long, and no longer possesses the nice cosy texture it previously did.

b) I now own a number of pairs of pants with a definite pink tinge.  Odd really - the cardigan isn't remotely red, and it's been washed dozens of times.  What's more, it's predominantly the waistbands of my underwear that have absorbed the most colour - they're very pink indeed, whereas the rest is just "not quite white" in a sort of pinkish direction.

I expect it's a penance for my loudly poking fun at the Calgon ads on the telly.

Nobody looks
Though I whore my soul to unseen thousands,
Unseen, unknown,
Selecting, unselecting,
"No, not him",
My fate a mere click,
My face, unfitting,
Nobody looks.

The summer's high has well and truly worn off.  Not a single moment of my usual introspective bollocks and gloom while on tour, but now I'm home, events have rather caught up with me.

The disastrous audition for the panto.

The much, much better audition for Charley's Aunt a few days later, which seemed so promising, with assurances that I'd hear very soon, but which has now been followed by a profound silence.

The never-ending saga of my house sale, with solicitors spending months incompetently shuffling pieces of paper while my buyer prepares to be evicted by his existing landlord, and I go steadily bankrupt.

The very pleasant weekend of camping, with the highpoint of being gently seduced by someone I'd always rather liked. I knew perfectly well it was only a bit of fun, with no probable future, yet somehow the absence of a reply to my polite and friendly text seems to have been enough to provide a suitable last straw - must be the context of everything else I suppose.  Always the things I've had most trouble with, over the years, being ignored and feeling disposable.  Should know better.

Nope.  Lack of proper preparation, as I feared, led to me performing like a bad karaoke singer.  Really rather awful.  Didn't make the cut, and home to lick my wounds.  All good experience though, and an extra incentive to start getting some proper training - whether it be individual tuition via the Actors' Centre, etc., or finding a way to get to Drama School, but something at least.

Cassie, bless her, did make the cut.  Hope the rest of her audition goes well.

An audition today, for Brentwood Theatre's 2007 panto, David Wood's The Owl and The Pussycat Went to See...

When it popped up on CastingCallPro, I laughed, because it's a show the Artisans did some years ago, and I was in - and the audition song I'd used at the Chapterhouse audition was from that very show.
This, coupled with the fact that it's very local, really meant I had to apply, though I put it off for ages.  Something about it at the time filled me with terror, and still does now, on the morning of the audition.  A different kind of terror to that I'd felt for my previous auditions, partly because I shall know at least two of the audition panel very well, thus invoking the "not making a fool of myself" neurosis more strongly than usual; and partly because I've had much less time to prepare than I'd like - the two songs will be sung with moderately unfamiliar accompaniments - and there's been no chance to collar anyone with a piano to practice with before the audition.

It was inevitable, perhaps.  This is Chapterhouse, after all.  The 2007 season was never going to end without a sting or two in the tail.

Early on the morning of our last show, somebody smashed Cassie's bedroom window through from the street,  Thank goodness, although her bed was right under the window, her head was well away from the pane that was broken.

The Midsummer/As You Like It Cast had their van break down on the M1, on their way back to Lincoln for their final show, and some of them had to spend the night in the van in a lorry park.

In the early hours of the next morning, two men forced their way into Oddfellows' Hall, barging past Nick who was smoking in the doorway, made their way straight to Alan's bedroom, and made off with his laptop through the fire exit.

---

However, not all of the closing hours were bad ones.

The final show of the season, As You Like It, up at the Castle, was a fine show.  Very physical, for such a wordy play, very funny, and some outstanding performances.  Laughed myself hoarse.  Nice to see how the outdoor Shakespeare experience is for the audience for a change, too. Next time, must wear more layers.  Grrr, I covet their tent too.

Then the party.  Two fridges full of beer and pizza.  A great deal of cheerful drunkenness.  I came away around 3am - many stayed much later.



And the goodbyes in the morning.   No tears, but many a warm hug.

Chapterhouse 2007.  Not an experience I'm keen to repeat just at the moment, but one I wouldn't have missed for the world.

So that's that.  The last show (Lincoln Castle) duly completed - and completed well, it has to be said, for it was a worthy performance to finish on, much aided by a very chucklesome audience - one lady in particular, who cackled impressively all the way through.

We have to empty the vehicles today, and return them to the hire company, who hopefully won't be too upset at the damage to the van...

Here's the cast as it stood at the end of the tour...


On the stage, from left to right:  Jay (Leonato/Oatcake), Some Bald Twat (Don Pedro/Seacoal), Dave (Balthazar/Dogberry), Alan (Don John/Friar/Verges), Ellie (Margaret/Borachio), Harriet (Beatrice), Nick (Claudio).
On the ground: Cassie (Hero/Sexton), Hugh (Benedick).

Attentive readers will already know that this is not, of course, how the cast looked when it began.  I wish I'd taken complete cast photos along the way, to illustrate how things altered, but hey ho, let me see if I can summarise:

At the start of the tour, Simon played Benedick and Borachio, Nicola was Beatrice, Sam was Claudio and the Sexton. 
When Simon and Nicola left, we briefly had Lou and Marcus as Beatrice & Benedick, while Ellie stood in as Borachio. 
Then Hugh and Harriet joined us for their three days of rehearsal for B & B.  Lou briefly returned as Beatrice for a couple of shows when Harriet had prior committments.  This was the point when Ellie was taken ill, so Dave stood in as Margaret, and Cassie as Borachio.
Ellie recovered fast, and returned (hooray!), but then Sam was taken ill, and we needed a new Claudio very speedily, which was when Nick arrived, reading in the part with one hour's rehearsal. Cassie took over as the Sexton, to save Nick having to learn that as well.  There was a point where it looked like Sam would return, but in the end, Nick remained until the end.

Phew.  Have I missed anything?

Not  a great show last night.  West Lodge Park Hotel, near Cockfosters.  Really nice place - excellent rooms provided for us (one complete with jacuzzi); decent surface to set up on (though the organisers seemed to think we took up too much room - "you didn't bring a tent last year".  Oh yes?)

But. One of those horrible, grippingly embarrassing, interminable moments, right at the beginning, everyone looking at each other, nobody speaking, everybody trying to think of a way out of the situation.  Then, near the end, in the first song of the funeral scene, the loud snap of a guitar string, leaving Dave with nothing whatever to make a tune with.  The final song performed unaccompanied, to much inward cringing on our part.  Glad to be away.  Long drive back to Lincoln - day off today, then our final show tomorrow, up at Lincoln Castle.  Hope it's a good one.