For years, people have told me that I had a good voice.   I've generally smiled, thanked them, and left it at that.  Not entirely out of modesty, either - for a very long time I had a genuine dislike for the sound of my own voice.  It was probably bred from the usual alarm that most people feel on first hearing their own recorded voice played back, fed by the insecurity of having been a nervous stammerer when younger.  At any rate, I did nothing much about it for a very long time.

I'd done the occasional voiceover job since starting the attempt at professional acting, and these had been received well.  About a year and a half ago, however, I was invited by a  friend of mine, the very talented Ben Leto, to narrate a story of his, "The Lonely Tale of King Furciel", for Arthur Fowler's Allotment.  It went well (though I still cringe a little at the thought that I managed to completely skip one of the key lines, in spite of reading the thing from a script). Many nice comments were made, both about the wonderful story itself, and about my reading of it.  Ben's subsequently put together a film of the tale, complete with the illustrations he made (and "operated") for the performance.  I heartily recommend that you watch it.
Well.  I was very flattered to have been asked to read it, and equally flattered at all the nice things people said about it afterwards.  By this time I was starting to believe that maybe my voice wasn't so bad after all...  (trying not to sound disingenuous, honest!)

Last year, when all the savings ran out, I started doing some casual work at a call centre, doing market research.  Please don't hate me.
Supervisors, listening in to the calls, as they do, would sometimes say things like, "have you ever done any radio work? You should"
On one occasion, while doing a phone survey, I apologised to the lady at the other end of the line, for how long the questionnaire was taking, and she replied she didn't mind how long it took, she was just enjoying listening to my voice!

So, I made it my business to see if I could get some proper, paid, voice work.  Signed up for some voice talent websites, and, amazingly, almost at once landed a commercial job, voicing a corporate video for Osram, all about their developing of eco-friendly lighting technology.  Paid rather well, too.  A couple of smaller jobs have come along, as well, and I've spent many many hours recording, editing and emailing voice auditions to a plethora of people all over the world.   I find that I now actually quite like the way my voice sounds (I originally wrote, "like the sound of my own voice" but I fear that has other connotations!)

And now?  On Tuesday I drove up to Peterborough for an audition with the RNIB, for their Talking Books service.  Seemed to go well, very nice bunch of people.  Yesterday, they told me they wanted to add me to their panel of readers.  Chuffed to bits.
Ok, not going to make me a fortune - they're a charity, and their rates, though perfectly respectable, do reflect that.
But oh...  what a wonderful thing. To be paid to read books.  Any and all kinds of books - their library's very diverse and eclectic.  I find myself quite excited at the prospect; more so than I've felt for quite a while.  I wonder what the first book will be?

In and around the environs of Liverpool Street Station.

A small, straggly group of people, three couples, fresh from the pub.  One man, bearing a carrier bag containing a bottle, stops and looks at it in dismay - clearly there was something else there that he's dropped or left somewhere.  He and his partner start back to look, all uncoordinated limbs and ineffective motion.  The rest of the group press on towards the station.  Halfway across the road, another man turns, and bellows down the length of Appold Street, "ARE YOU GUYS GETTING ANY DRUGS?"

Halfway along the tunnel under Sun Street Passage, all not-quite-stainless steel and concrete, some luggage - a case, some smaller bags, strapped to a small wheeled trolley.  Beside it, on two flattened pieces of ancient brown cardboard box, a thin, weathered man in unremarkable clothes performs yoga, his face clenched in concentration.

Walking north along Curtain Road, two men, perhaps 40ish, side by side, one pulling a small wheeled suitcase.  Dark suits, expensive, beautifully cut coats.  "City types", deep in conversation about investments.  Holding hands.  Not people I would instinctively warm to, but together like, that, they are beautiful.

Well, I seem to have arrived more or less intact.  There's rather more of me than there was a decade ago, and several areas are starting to suffer the effects of gravity, but by and large, the whole assembly seems to be still largely ticking over.

It's often considered traditional to be a bit retrospective on these occasions, so, if you'll allow, I shall indulge myself a little. I shall probably stray into moments of pomposity and self-congratulation, so apologies in advance for that.  As far as possible, I'm not going to mention anybody by name - you all know who you are, and if I start referring to specific people, then I'll have to mention everybody, and I'm bound to forget someone, and then where will we be?

This has, without question, been one of the most eventful decades of my life.  Life didn't actually begin at forty, and indeed, one of the biggest changes (that of properly coming out) had already started a couple of years previously, nonetheless the sequence of events which this triggered have certainly coloured the last ten years in ways I could never have imagined.  I have been privileged to meet some wonderful people, some of whom have proved to be among the finest and truest friends I've ever known, and I love them dearly.  Other, longer-standing, and equally great and true friendships, have continued to flourish, where each meeting is like a continuation of the last, regardless of the length of the gap between.
I have left the secure but infuriating cocoon of the Day Job, and flung myself into the jaws of chance, in the hope of pursuing an acting career.  A decision which, though I might have done it anyway, helped along as I was by a chunky redundancy payment, was certainly made all the easier by the support, encouragement and belief of those friends I mentioned...

Particular highlights?  That redundancy is certainly up there among them, and the extraordinary feeling of liberty when I walked away from the office for the last time.  The swelling in my breast on getting the phone call calling me to my first audition, and the impossible-to-contain soaring elation of the subsequent phone call telling me I'd been cast.  The three months of that tour taught me an enormous amount; about acting, about people, and about being careful what I write in my blog. Ahem.
At the end of the tour, one of the first things I did was to audition for a panto.  I think it's fair to say that I made a woeful spectacle of myself, and went home vowing never to attempt a singing audition again.  A year later though, aided by some masterly singing tuition, and prodded by a few people, I went back and auditioned again for them, got the part, and had some of the most fun I've ever had on stage, with a wonderful bunch of people.  Quite proud of that.

This last year has, it must be admitted, not been quite so euphoric.  This has been true for a lot of people, of course.
My savings have completely run out, Barclays Bank no longer smiles upon me, and I've discovered that LiDL's 80 tea bags for 28p are false economy.
Auditions have been harder to get, and castings from auditions harder still.  So I find myself doing what has become a classic "resting actor's job" - working in a callcentre, telephoning people who don't want to talk to me, and asking them impertinent questions.  Probably good for me - given me a thicker skin.

There's a definite sensation of improvement though - the early spring sunshine blazing through the windows certainly adding to that.  Auditions are starting to trickle in again, I've had some very nice voiceover jobs recently, and I can feel the green shoots of enthusiasm pushing their way out into the light.

Onward and upward.  Fifty feels like a nice age so far.

On the other hand, this cheap tea really is vile.