Maybe I'm just being a bit sensitive, but this seems a bit off, frankly.

I get a message through a casting website, out of the blue, from a student film-maker, telling me they'd looked at my CV and thought they'd approach me.  There's an exchange of emails, including the script, which I like, and I say so.  They ask if I'm ok with the fact that there's no cash involved.  I say that's fine.

There is a pause for a couple of days.

Then I get an email telling me the role's been cast, and thanking me for my "interest in the film".  Er, excuse me? You approached me, remember?

I feel like shouting email obscenities.  But I shall not.  However, young film-maker, might I suggest that if you're going to approach people like that, you make very sure you want to use them first, rather than gaining their interest and then shitting upon them?  Thank you, this has been a public information broadcast.

I'd had a most wonderfully moving morning.  Tears; glorious, cathartic, joyous tears. Tears over the perfect ending of something marvellous.  Tears too, at a touching honour paid to me.

Thus equipped, even the most mundane of chores seemed blessed, so I popped out to buy a few bits and pieces.

I emerged (to use the cliché) blinking into the sunlight.  And was assaulted by the beauty of spring.

The may blossom was out, burying me in its heady perfume.  The verges seemed to be exploding with a billion tiny flowers.  The sun was just warm enough to lift the heart, but the air was cool and fresh,  full of promises and possibilities.

To mark the moment appropriately, on the wall of a corner house, a Virginia Creeper, just testing its new spring world with fresh green leaves.

I was grinning like a loon by the time I walked back through the front door of my block of flats.  Much to the alarm, I fear, of my neighbour!

"Journey of the Sorcerer" pops up on iTunes.

..and it's 28 years ago, I'm standing in the Art Room at Fairkytes in Hornchurch, building scenery with a couple of new friends I've known about two weeks.  I can smell the size on the canvas, the paint, the fabric softener Andy's mum uses.  Andy has just introduced me to the Hitchhiker's Guide, and I'm entranced.

Now, in 2008, this brings tears.  Quite why it does, I'm unsure - but it happens almost every time the tune plays, and with the same images and memories.  I suppose the moment does mark a first step into a larger world, in its way.  There is much that's happened in my life that I can trace back to those Sunday mornings all that time ago.

I might play it again in a minute.

Talented people are an inspiration.  Sounds obvious, doesn't it?  It's easy to forget though, and this week has been a handy reminder for me.  I've spent most evenings, and one day, in the company of a crew of filmmakers, most of whom are impressively passionate about the work they're doing.  They've been afflicted with all kinds of difficulties, most of which haven't really been under their control, and they've risen above them, got on with the job, worked around, and still managed to have that commitment to quality which is so infectious and powerful.  Given the circumstances they've found themselves in sometimes, it would have been so easy for them to adopt an attitude of "that'll do", but it hasn't happened yet.

Unsurprisingly, I'm enjoying working with them immensely, I'm very much looking forward to seeing the final result, and hoping just as much that the opportunity arises to work with most of them again.

I can't really explain quite why discovering the mere existence of this fills me with such pleasure.  Maybe it's just that it has the right name, or maybe it's because, unlike Network Rail's last attempt at such a thing (3000 pages!) it can actually be carried around without risk of a hernia.

In so many ways, it's a symbol of an earlier, simpler age.  An age where travel was, almost by definition, by train, and where such trains were enormous, gasping, oiled beasts, of brass and steam and soot.  Where railway stations, and everybody in them, smelt of hot coal.
This was the age in which it seemed Sherlock Holmes could barely embark on an adventure without first asking, "Watson, do you happen to have a Bradshaw about your person?"  Watson, that stalwart of reliability, always did, of course.  There would be a feverish rifling of pages, before Holmes would triumphantly announce that they had a mere five minutes to reach Paddington in order to catch the 4.38 express.  This, too, was the age when that express would have had a guaranteed connection with a succession of branch lines, all of them catalogued by Bradshaw, and which would have delivered Holmes & Watson to a tidy little rural station, where their journey would have been completed by pony and trap.

The last original Bradshaw was sadly last published in 1961, but as of December 2007 there's this.

Curiously, in our modern era of internet timetables and journey planners, I have a feeling it really does have a place.  I've ordered one, and I expect to find myself using it.

I really hope it succeeds.

Tesco.
Saturday evening shift.  Store becoming quieter, staff suffering a little from boredom and cabin-fever.

Two empty aisles at the far end.  I took my basket to one, an attractive, happy-looking girl in her twenties, the other.  We did a little dodge/dance thing, as one does, as we manouevred ourselves to our respective aisles.  I smiled.

The chap running my checkout seemed as dull, surly-faced and slack-jawed a teenager as I've seen.  Gave every appearance of wishing he was anywhere else (fair enough, I supposed, it being Saturday night). Uncharitably, my subconscious reaction was "chav", and I scowled inwardly. However, as I began unloading my basket, his face lit up in the friendliest of smiles, as he asked me that ritual question, without which no trip to a supermarket would be complete these days, "are you ok packing?".  I agreed that I was, and we began.
"Are you collecting the school vouchers?" he continued, pleasantly.  I told him I wasn't, so he called cheerily across the the girl in the other aisle, to ask if she was.  She gave him a look as if he'd just asked if he could fist her mother, but eventually accepted the vouchers, though without so much as a twitch of a smile, or a thank you.

As I left, I was wished a pleasant evening (in those terms, too, which was unexpected and lovely).  I'm not proud of myself that I only just had the presence of mind to return the compliment.

Walking down the length of the store, someone ran past me, barging into me, and almost tipping me over.  It was the girl from the next aisle.  Not a hint of an apology, nor even an awareness of having collided, as she disappeared at speed into the throng by the doors.

Sometimes, I am ashamed of myself.
Sometimes, I am ashamed of my fellow human beings.

What is it about this time of year that's so special?

I've been pining for the lack of auditions for weeks and months, and suddenly I get three in a row, two on consecutive days, and another very shortly afterwards - what's more, they're all films, and all planning their shooting for pretty much the same time, so their dates overlap.  This will make it difficult to tell them what my availability actually is... 

The first one was this morning, and it seemed to go very well.  Very friendly panel, and all very very complimentary of my brief performance.  Good for the ego (and, handily, that's the one of the three that I'd most like to get cast for... though I'll guarantee they'll be the one to take the longest to reply)

And whaddya know?  As I'm typing this, up comes another audition.  Shooting the very same week.  What's more, they want me to audition either tomorrow or Saturday, and, if successful, to be available all weekend for workshops...  which I can't do anyway, as I have a fairly full weekend already!

Funny old business.

Reading that back, it sounds like a moan, which isn't quite how it's intended.  More an expression of amused disbelief!  Really rather nice to be getting all these auditions, but it's bizarre how they all clash quite so nicely!

Caught sight of myself in a mirror today.  Well, not just a mirror, many.  A lift, with mirrored walls.  My face, my head, my all, from every conceivable angle.

My first, last, and persisting thought:  "No wonder nobody's interested"

Not very cheery (and indeed, if I look back, most of my recent posts here haven't been that bright. Must try harder).

Not even strictly accurate, in any case - there are people who are interested, at least on the superficial, physical level - but they fall into two groups:

On the other hand, there's that other group of people... who also fall neatly into subgroups:

If I have an aim in life, it's to meet one of the elusive members of:

...but then I catch myself in those mirrors, and despair of such people actually existing.

It's always like this.  I can be absolutely fine, confident in myself, sure that the things that distress me are well under control.  Then something makes me glance aside, and I'm lost.  Often for days.

And so it was this time.  Two days ago, I was happy in my spring cleaning, the world was, if not full of joy, at least full of things I could deal with.  Then a series of tiny, tiny things occurred, none of which should have been the slightest problem. But I lost my concentration, allowed myself thoughts I shouldn't, feelings I shouldn't, and down I went. As I slid further and faster, I tried to grasp at things on the way, to slow myself, gain support, confidence, hope.  But I missed them all. No new footholds appeared, nobody ran to catch me, because nobody saw me fall.  Still I'm falling.  The bottom must be near.

How long have I sat here like this? Head in hand, head in hands.  Keyboard in my eyeline.  Hours, probably.  No sound but the people and the traffic outside, grubby Romford passing me by, living its own life, ignoring mine.  Grubby Romford, grubby Essex, grubby London.  A world on which I hardly impinge. My own fault, I suppose, I don't seek out great gangs of friends, just a select few who I really value.  But they have lives of course.  Days like this, when my life, my soul, has a gaping gap in it, days like this, when my friends have too much on their plate already, days like this, when I sit for hours, head in hand, head in hands, contemplating my keyboard.

So, my Mother's back home again.  Friends will be aware that she had a bit of a fall a couple of weeks ago, fracturing both radius and ulna in her left wrist, tearing some ligaments in her left leg, and acquiring some most impressive bruising.
Thanks largely to the wonderful efforts of her next door neighbour, she was very quickly into A&E, and her arm plastered up.  There was a fair bit of concern about her mobility, the injured leg hampering her movements a lot, especially since she couldn't grab hold of anything for support with her left arm.

So they kept her in overnight.

Somewhere along the way, what began as overnight observation grew somewhat:

Next day, when a physiotherapist asked her to walk a little, she found it very difficult (surprise surprise, because she had torn something in her leg).  The effort made her breathless (again, surprise surprise).
Somebody made a note about "breathlessness", and the rollercoaster began.  "Chest infection", somebody said.  Antibiotics.  Never mind the fact that she's in her late 70s and has had a major shock.  Nope.  Breathless?  Must be an infection.

Her blood pressure was a tad low - well she'd barely drunk anything for 24 hours, and was still taking (as recommended) her medication for high blood pressure.  Now, I'm a layman, but that seems like a recipe for low blood pressure to me...
They put her on a drip.

At various points they worried about (and administered medication for) her digestive regularity, the pain in her arm, antibiotics for the imagined chest infection, perhaps others I know nothing of.  On top of all this, the hustle and bustle and general noise meant she barely got any serious sleep for the two and a half weeks she was in hospital.  It's perhaps no surprise that pretty soon, she felt much more ill than she had when she went in.

For most of the time she was in, almost no attention was paid to her leg, and almost no effort made to get her walking on a regular basis.  A physio came to see her the day before yesterday, and was apparently apalled by this.  There had been talk of moving her to another hospital, with some sort of mobility clinic.  The physio asked Mum if she thought she needed this - Mum's response, apparently, was a fairly emphatic "no" - and hooray, I brought her back to her bungalow yesterday afternoon.  Very shaky, very tired, but much much better already, simply for being home.

We looked at the letter from the hospital to her GP, this morning.
1. Whoever wrote it can't spell "ulna".
2. Makes a big mention of "Chest Infection"
3. Makes no mention whatsoever of the injury to her leg.

Not terribly impressed.

Curious.  A sense of loss.  Not the tangible, angst-ridden, tearing away of something dear or precious, the missing of some important part of one's life, nor even that particular feeling of an experience one will never have again.  Any of these might be appropriate, conceivably, but no, before you ask, it's nothing to do with the play just completed, miss it though I do; miss the cast and crew though I do.

It's just an absence of something.  Something I presumably once had, and no longer have.  Buggered if I can put my finger on what though.  I've spent all day prodding the various scars in my psyche to see if any of them are responsible, but to no avail.  I seem to be in a comparatively well-balanced mood.  And no, I've thought of that too - I don't seem to be missing my habitual self-pity; it's there hiding at the back, pretending to be an aspidistra.

The only thing I can think of is that, for various reasons, some recent and painful paranoia is temporarily not going to be a problem.  Am I really missing the pain of that?  Is that it?  Never bloody happy, me.

...well, the Counterfeit Skin "family" in this instance:  James, James, Chris, Jon, Dean, Ellie, Lauren, Amy, Aaron, Jack, and of course Jason and Kirrie.

Just the best bunch of people.

I generally don't remember my dreams in very great detail when I wake up, so one like last night's, where I can remember most of the "narrative", is worth writing down - as much to remind myself that it does happen sometimes, as anything else.  It's not particularly interesting, I don't think, just unusual for me to recall the details.

I was on a train.  Not sure where to, except that I remember that I had a fair bit of luggage, both with me, and in some sort of cargo hold, rather like on a plane.  At some point in the journey, I became convinced I needed to get off - I may have missed my stop, or somesuch.  I remember a lot of thrashing around trying to get all my luggage together - which seemed to comprise all my current costumes for the play - and a large CRT monitor.  I think I eventually left some of my stuff in the hold.  Everything was yellow.

Leaving the train, I was in a tube station.  A huge one - many many lines. Almost no people though - and all the last trains were leaving just as I arrived.  There was a lot of running down endless tiled tunnels, trying to find a line that was still open.  I could tell that the station was closed though, because they'd lowered the ceilings on all the tunnels to a crawling height, to stop people wandering about.

It all fades out then.

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?