Some months ago, I collected from my Mum a folder entitled "Various verse" - a random stack of dusty old bits and pieces of paper, all of them bits of text written by my late father.  Mostly poems, as the title of the folder suggests, but a few items of prose too.

Prompted recently by a conversation with my sister, I remembered that I had them, and had a bit of a read through.  They turned out to be not quite what I'd expected.  Dad was a prolific, one might say obsessive, writer of poetry.  He wrote verses all his life - mostly short and humorous.  Or so I thought.
What I found was a selection of mostly serious poetry, written in the latter half of the 1940s, and a few up to the early 1950s.  Many I found to be quite breathtakingly beautiful; indeed profoundly moving.  The early ones in particular, written while he was in Belgium, during the "clean up" after the Second World War, mostly typed on the backs of old German requisition forms, chart a captivating fragment of his life that I'd never even considered before.  He seems to have been a popular and happy man at that time (as he was most of his life), a little sentimental (no surprise there, given my own weakness in that direction!), and clearly revelling in the strangely beautiful ruined Europe in which he found himself.

I'd always considered myself to be quite similar to my father.  We certainly shared some great similarities in terms of personality.  However, one thing struck me like a blow, reading these outpourings - the contrast with some of the gloomy nonsense that I've often posted here on this blog.
In amongst the pages upon pages of, admittedly wistful, but nonetheless optimistic and positive text, was one single solitary poem, that hit a darker, bleaker note.  A single piece of writing that spoke of despair, of loss, of hopelessness.  Just one.  And written at the bottom of it, presumably sometime much later, in his own handwriting, the line, "what on earth prompted me to write this?"

If ever there was a testament to what a positive outlook on life he had, that was it.  Not only was there, among all the moving things he'd written, just the one truly sad poem, but it was a sufficiently rare experience for him that he felt moved to comment upon it.  Not for the first time, I wished I'd really got to know my father better.  We were very alike, certainly, but in this we differed - he never acquired the habit (never allowed himself to acquire it) of wallowing in self-pity.  He had as many knocks as any of us, in his lifetime, but they were never allowed to define him.  Lesson for me there, I think.

Just over an hour ago, two families were travelling through Romford by car.  As luck would have it, they both arrived at the traffic lights outside my flat at about the same time.  One of the cars, it scarcely matters which, jumped a red light.  The two families, who might otherwise never have met, came together about as violently as it's possible to do.

An hour later, all traces of the encounter have been cleared away, but:  Two people left by ambulance, one of them injured badly enough that they had to be cut out of their car, and lifted carefully, oh, so carefully, on to the gurney.  A small child has had an experience that will probably give it nightmares for a long time.  Two more people are severely shocked.  The two cars involved are just so much scrap metal.  All their lives will have been severely blighted for a fair while.

I don't know any of these people, but this all makes me very sad.  Not in any judgemental way; I'm not complaining about careless driving or suchlike - every driver there's ever been has made mistakes at one time or another; nor even in a "somebody should do something" sort of way (especially not that) - just sad for the trauma caused to these five people.  Life's a harsh bugger.

I went for a walk this morning.  Been doing a fair bit of walking lately, in an attempt, possibly vain, to prevent (or at least stave off) the moment when I must upgrade to a new size of trouser.  Indeed, vanity has thus far prevented me from throwing away the moderate stock of lesser-sized clothing that continues to gather dust in my wardrobe.

So. A walk.  It didn't look very promising when I left - a light drizzle was falling, and it looked very gloomy.  However, as I left the flat, I was hit by that wonderful smell of fresh rain on hot, dry ground.  I pressed on.  An urban walk - Oldchurch Road, and up Crow Lane as far as Whalebone Lane - then just retrace my steps; nothing fancy, about three and a half miles.

With every step, I was assailed by new smells.  Smells of Spring, of things growing, of the earth.  The smell of damp wood and fresh compost in the underpass beneath Oldchurch roundabout.  By the remains of the old hospital, deep drifts of forgotten autumn leaves, mouldering aromatically in the damp, pierced by fresh spears of green, overflowing with the creamy scent of cow parsley.  The sun came out, and the humid, intimate smells of spring were suddenly joined by the broader, extrovert ones of blazing summer.
Every garden I passed fizzed with a new wave of glories.  Cut grass; an early iris; a moment of heady, almost unbearable sweetness from an unseen jasmin; a freshly-painted fence; sawn timber; the hint of a barbeque... and everywhere a mélange of unidentified, but intensely familiar smells; smells I've known all my life; the smells of every family camping trip; of every school nature walk; of every lazy, sunny, grass-stained summer afternoon.

I can't deny that I'm a sentimental old fool, and experiences like this make me rather glad of it.

Three days of my allotted eight done.  About a third of the way through the book.  Rather enjoying myself.  I wasn't sure if I would, to begin with - the first day was quite a tough one, and something of an assault on my self-belief.  I'd always considered myself quite a decent cold-reader, with moderately good diction - but this belief was based on a slightly skewed experience:  That of cold-reading scripts.  Scripts have one particular characteristic that other pieces of text do not - gaps.  When cold-reading a piece of dialogue, especially if it's a conversation, there's usually a liberal sprinkling of gaps - while another person is speaking; while one's own character thinks what to say next; "pauses for dramatic effect".  It turns out that what I'm good at, is reading ahead, and having the next phrase, already adorned with appropriate inflection, cued up in my head ready to fire.

Audiobook reading, I've quickly discovered, is a very different technique.  At least, in the case of a non-fiction book like the one I'm currently working on.  Why?

There are no gaps.  The occasional paragraph, yes, but that's about it.  Where there is conversation, the reader must provide both sides of it - no opportunity to prepare your next, perfectly-inflected line while another actor is speaking, because the other actor is you!  Dramatic pauses are possible, but there's precious little chance to see the opportunities coming before they're upon you, and then, if you're not careful, the moment has passed, you didn't seize the moment, and read ahead, and you're back into the onslaught again.

It's one of those "Zen" skills, it seems, like so many things.  Direct path from eye, via subconscious, to mouth.  The conscious mind is watching, certainly, directing the performance, but the moment it interferes, the flow stops, and every second word is a fluff.  To my surprise, I found the most successful passages to be those where my conscious mind had drifted off, and was thinking about something entirely different.  At one point I realised I'd spent something like a minute worrying whether I'd turned my phone off, and how embarrassing it would be if I got a call or a text.  As soon as I spotted myself doing it of course, in waded the posturing bully of my consciousness, and I tripped over a simple word.
Definitely getting easier though.  Yay for the learning of new skills!

Internet clichés.  Specifically, the rather predictable responses that are so frequently trotted out on discussion forums.

Some tend to be specific to a particular type of site, such as, on social networking or dating sites, it will often only require a few minutes between somebody starting a thread complaining about being single, before another user will tell them one or more of the following:  Seeming needy isn't an attractive trait; you can't love somebody else unless you love yourself; relationships aren't all they're cracked up to be; it's better to be single.

Similarly, a bad luck story in a support forum will almost certainly quickly produce a post from a contributor telling them they should think themselves lucky, and either: a) go on to mention a far worse experience that they went through and survived, or b) tell the original poster not to be so selfish, and to think of all the people in the world who are less fortunate.

Some are more general - a lot of forum users, for instance, are familiar with Godwin's Law regarding the tendency of internet forums to end up in references to Nazi Germany.

The first point about all these, like the majority of clichés in all probability, is that they are largely true.
The second point, is that, by and large, in the context of an discussion forum, they're absolutely no help whatsoever.
The third point, is that they're the grist to the mill of most forums, which would be duller places without them.

So I was delighted to discover a new, emerging cliché - in, of all places, a discussion board on an acting jobs website.  I've seen it about three or four times now. It runs like this:
Somebody starts a thread, asking about an item of acting technique: Specifically, how to cry on cue on an occasion when, for whatever reason, the tears won't come.  There will be a smattering of posts about "tear sticks", onions, pepper (!), Vicks vapo-rub, etc. And then, always, without fail, some bright spark will say that using these aids is cheating, and that they should try acting.  Always.

Ticks the boxes nicely:  Is it true? Yes it is.  Is it any use to anybody? None at all.  Will it incite the other posters on the thread to expansive gestures in defence of the original poster?  Damn straight :)

A rather specific example, certainly, but I felt a sort of warm, patronising glow at the thought that a comparatively young set of discussion boards had somehow come of age. 

The same set of forums now has the beginnings of a major rant at the owners of the site about a tiny unsubstantiated rumour related to data protection.  I'll get the popcorn.

I've been allocated my first book by the RNIB.  "Nemesis - The Battle for Japan 1944-45" by Max Hastings.  Oddly relieved that I hadn't imagined the "yes we'd like you to work for us" conversation, and I won't deny that there was always a slight paranoia that perhaps they tell everybody that they want them, but just don't book 'em!  Not that I really believed that, you understand, but self-doubt was always a mainstay of my personality!

The book arrived in the post yesterday, and a sturdy tome it is, too.  A quick scan through suggests it's the sort of language throughout that I ought to be able to do well - properly-phrased, cleanly-written, and in sentences of sensible length, to allow for normal breathing.  I now have a little over a month to "prepare" the book.  Being a complete tyro at the job, I'm not sure where to start, but I guess actually reading the book wouldn't be a bad idea.  Make a note, perhaps, of any names of pronunciations I'm unsure of.  Annotate the text where necessary, for nightmare text lurking the other side of a page-turn.  Decide whether to attempt accents for the various places Sir Max quotes regional vernacular.

There's also the matter of travel and/or accommodation costs.  The RNIB are of course a charity, and don't pay full commercial rates for their readers.  Nor do they pay expenses.  The exercise, then, is not going to be a huge money-spinner for me, and I'm comfortable with that.  I see it as very useful experience in audiobook narration - if I ever have a desire to work for the likes of Naxos or Audible, then I'll need some sort of portfolio of existing audiobook work, and this should certainly help to provide that.
Travel to and from Peterborough by car would cost me around £15 return, and at the moment, this looks like being the cheapest option:  Simply to commute every day.  It's a lot of driving though, with an early start.  The train's not really an option - it's no quicker, and it costs around twice as much. What I'd really like would be to find somewhere cheap (very very very cheap!) to stay, in or near Peterborough.  In the summer months, I'd be tempted to just pop my little tent in the back of the car, and find a campsite. So long as there's somewhere to grab a shower, that should be fine.  It's only ever likely to be as much as a week of work every couple of months, so I don't mind roughing it a bit for short periods.  This end of the year though, when it's a bit nippy at night...  maybe not.

All quite exciting though.  As I say, it's never going to make me rich, but it's another string to my bow, and I will at least be earning money doing something vaguely creative!

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.

Central Line tonight, a young man sitting opposite. Somewhere around St. Pauls, he begins mouthing words to himself, as if in prayer.  Fair enough.  Gazing idly about, my eyes fall upon a small group who appear to be Chinese tourists. They too seem to be silently muttering to themselves.  A little surreal.  No evidence of iPods for them to be quietly singing along to.
Then they all stop, more or less at once.

Next to the first muttering man, a young woman.  She opens her bag, and fishes out a Boots' paper bag. From it she produces a white cardboard box, which rather proudly and prominently bears the words, "Derbac M" in an unnecessarily lurid font.  She begins reading the instructions, occasionally leafing through an English/Hungarian dictionary.

A happily drunk chap in his thirties sits down next to a yonger man who is reading a book, and says, "Ish that a good book? Are you enjoying it? What'sh it about?"  The younger man, to my moderate astonishment (and respect at his show of humanity), puts down his book, and enters into an amiable conversation with the drunkard.

Two people on the train caught my attention on my way home today.

It is, of course, extremely rude to make personal remarks about people, whether one is acquainted with them or not.   However, I was very struck by what I would have to interpret as a major disparity between the image of themselves they presumably intended to display to the world, and the reality they actually achieved.  So struck, in fact, that I feel compelled to record the details here.  Not, emphatically not, in order to ridicule, but rather, in a peculiar sort of a way, to marvel.

The first traveller was a young lady.  She had provided for herself, in the current fashion, a fairly detailed makeup.  Very expertly and precisely done it was too, bearing witness to great attention to detail.  She had chosen, as seems quite fashionable at the moment, quite a deep colour of foundation.  The sort of colour one might describe, if one were purchasing it from BandQ, as "Terracotta" or perhaps, "Brick."  I confess though, that in the uncharitable mood in which I found myself, the expression that sprang at once to my mind was, "Mattesson's Crab Paste."

So to the second traveller.   This gentleman is well on the way to having a haircut like my own.  The poor soul still possesses though, a dusting of (sadly rather dark) hair on his scalp, just enough to give the uncomfortable sensation of fine pubery.  He is also cursed by that little island or tuft, front and centre of the forehead, that so often remains behind when all other cranial turf has fled.  Traditionally, these remnants would have been grown long, and expertly coiffed into that style still known, decades after its creator abandoned the style, as "a Bobby Charlton."  Modern habit wisely spurns these vanities, and opts for the simple expedient of clippers.
Our hero, however, had spurned both of these approaches.  He had opted for an application of hair-styling product.  He had also opted - remarkably, in one so thinly crested - for a centre parting.  In full-face, as he will no doubt see himself in the mirror of a morning, the effect was very acceptable.  The central tuft, suitable gelled and parted, provided a passable facsimile of a quiff-like hairline, supported by the wisps of bumfluff behind.
But alas!  A head must also be seen at other angles, and it is my sad duty to report, that from all viewing positions other than front-on, what one seemed to see was an elaborately-waxed Poirot moustache, glued to the middle of the forehead.

Hmm.  There but for the grace, etc...  and I'm much given to wonder where my own self-image parts company with the surfaces on show to the rest of humanity.
For I'm quite certain that it does.

The conclusion is inescapable:  The life I'm used to is clearly on the threshold of its ending.  A simple glance at my bank statement makes that abundantly clear.   The last three years have been a wonderful time; perhaps, who knows, a wonderful experiment that will soon be over.  Well, maybe, I hope not, but something's clearly going to have to Change. My dear. And not a moment too soon.

Odd thing is, unlike most of the changes that have occurred in my life so far, for this one I have no plans whatsoever. None.

On the one hand, that's quite terrifying, at least a 6.5 on the sleep-deprivation scale, yet on the other hand, the feeling of exhilaration and freedom is quite unprecedented.

It's not imminent, nor is it (yet) an emergency, but it's certainly soon.  What will I do?  I could make conscious changes to avoid the Big Change, or I could just follow the river over the rapids.  Reinvent self to avoid, or allow involuntary reinvention to sweep me away.

There's a sort of sadness, I won't deny, but remarkably little panic.  This may change, of course!

Maybe life will begin at fifty.  It will certainly have changed by then!

A day for feeling a bit ashamed of my own nation.  No, not just England's dismal performance in the cricket...

Tonight I've been re-watching the TV series about Britain's attempts, mostly successful, to develop nuclear weapons, and the various means of delivering them - in each case, usually then being discontinued, in favour of using an American version instead.  Whatever one's views on nuclear weaponry, the shortsightedness exhibited by successive governments in developing, and then cancelling, all these various systems, was staggering and saddening.

I was particularly struck by the last episode, about the Blue Streak missile programme, which spawned a fully functioning satellite-launching system, Black Arrow.  This, somewhat in spite of the government, rather than because of it, in 1971 placed into orbit the UK's only self-launched satellite, Prospero, which is still orbiting today, and, so accurately was it inserted into orbit, that it's expected to be there for a long while yet.

Sadly, the project had already been cancelled, and Black Arrow never flew again.

Wikipedia's page on Black Arrow bears a rather telling statement:

"As of 2009, the United Kingdom is the only country to have successfully developed and then abandoned a satellite launch capability."

What a sad thing.  What a bunch of visionless idiots we've had at the helm of this country, and for so many decades. The colour of the rosette changes every now and then, but the ability to totally fail to have a clue lives on.

A week ago, on the recommendation of a man who knows about such things, I bought the DVD of Armando Ianucci's wonderful In The Thick Of It.

We watched several episodes that very evening - I was, of course, impressed and entranced, and laughed myself silly, for it's quite superb.
I finished watching it a day or so afterwards, which was probably poor timing on my part - I was feeling a little gloomy, and had intended that it would cheer me up.  Sadly, the actual effect of watching something so beautifully acted, was to amplify existing feelings of inadequacy about my own acting ability.  This, in collusion with a couple of other generously-wallowed-in paranoias, made for a pretty crummy week in the end.

But there's more, as they say:

This evening, I have watched the first three episodes again, listening to the commentary.

The description of how the show was put together; how the writing was dovetailed with the improvisation; the freedom that was allowed the cast to perform the piece - all these things rekindled in me a spark of enthusiasm.  The production team began to describe how the rehearsals and improvisational process were managed, and the cast began describing the terrors they felt as they began to confront the task.  Apparently, every single one of the principals individually took Ianucci aside, and said to him that they felt they were worried they weren't up to the standard of the rest of the cast.  The evidence, of course, as witnessed by the quality of the performances, is entirely the contrary.

And quite suddenly I saw myself back in December 2006, in rehearsals for Counterfeit Skin, absolutely bricking myself about our week of improv rehearsals, mentally measuring my abilities against those of the rest of the cast... and then occasionally catching the eye of one of the others and seeing the same terror lurking within.
And the voices of the cast of The Thick Of It began to echo my memories of my own thoughts during those days... and as though somebody had flicked a switch, all the enthusiasm I thought I'd lost for ever, all my self-belief, simply popped back into my head as though it had only been round the corner for a packet of Marlboros, and was surprised to find it had been missed.

Oh and how wonderful that the office used for "The Department of Social Affairs" turns out to be the same building used in the Doctor Who story, The Invasion, as Tobias Vaughan's factory.  Now sadly demolished.

Being a bit under the weather, I decided the answer was lots of sleeping, interspersed, as is traditional, with slouching on a sofa in front of a DVD.
So I treated myself to a copy of The Deadly Assassin.

Lots of good things among the special features, but one that caught my attention was about the reaction the story received from a certain Mary Whitehouse, a major campaigner on the side of moral outrage during the 1970s

I was particularly struck by something that, surely, must have been remarked upon before, though my own meagre googling efforts could produce nothing.
So here we go:

Had a day's filming yesterday, for the Police Bravery Awards.  I was playing one of a group of police officers who faced down and arrested an armed youth.  Was all quite exciting: Filming on "The Bill Backlot" at Talkback Thames, in Merton.  Using a lot of genuine police equipment, shouting obscenities loudly in public over and over again (always fun).  My shouted "stand still you c----" seemed to produce a lot of interest, including, if I'm not mistaken, from Simon Rouse (The Bill's "Jack Meadows") who was doing a photoshoot just behind us.

A good day.  Ok, slightly marred by one incident, where, when I was chasing our "villain", I missed my footing on a bit of loose gravelly surface, and prostrated myself on the rather unforgiving concrete road.  Hands first, of course, as one does.  Lovely big area of skin missing from my right elbow, scrapes on both palms, and a very shaken left arm, that, although not all that painful, didn't really work properly for the rest of the day.  We were nearly done by then, however, so I carried on - wouldn't want to get a reputation for being a wimpish actor, and besides, I thought it was just a bit of a strain.  Did make the handcuffing sequence a bit tricky though, as my left arm had less strength than usual.

By the time I got home though, it was starting to be a bit of a problem.  Slept on it, and went to A&E this morning.  Cracked the head of the radius, apparently.  Not badly, so no plaster, just a sling and some nice painkillers.

Not going to be able to get to the audition I was supposed to attend tomorrow, though, and work next week may well be a problem too.  We'll have to see how the drugs work.  Bloody annoying.

Summer evening, pursuing its slow, luminous death.  The sky, a watercolour palette of fluid washes, o'er-seeing the scurrying beetles of humanity as they wind down their day.

Who are you?  And you?  What is your errand, and where your home?  What brings you to the street?  Who awaits you, wherever you're going?  Who sent you on your way?

Who would miss you, were you never to arrive?

1. If in doubt, do the scary thing.

2. There are, in fact, some truly lovely people in the world.

3. Say "yes" a lot.

4. Walk in the sun when you can.

5. Look for adventures.

6. Ugly, drunken, bigot-women in parks know nothing, and can shove their Stella-soaked heads up their no-doubt pile-raddled arses.

So here I sit.  No plans.  No possible plans, nothing I could plan that would make any sense. Nothing that could invoke any kind of enthusiasm. Chatrooms on all day, a few people look, look away. What do you see, beautiful men, when you look at me? How desperate do I seem? How sad? How tearful? How revolting.
Here I sit. Sunshine outside. Must be lovely. Would like to be out in it, but not alone, not alone. Too much beauty to handle all alone. Beauty must be shared or there's pain. Pain long suppressed. Pain of all the beauty ever seen that I wanted to share and couldn't. Beauty I've seen others share with their beautiful lovers. The beauty of the sharing itself. Beauty not for me.
So here I sit. Dreading evening. Afternoon bad enough, but evening worse. Longing for tiredness, longing for the escape, hoping tomorrow brings something new. Sleep, retreating, child-like. foetus-like, everything-better-in-the-morning. Not that it is.
So here I sit. Not even the courage to phone. Human voice would help, maybe, a few platitudes (yes really), anything to remind me I'm not worthless, not maybe quite that loathsome. But no courage. In case it'd be inconvenient. In case I weep down the phone. In case I can't think what to say. In case fat bald old poof crying down the phone is too much to inflict on anyone.
Here I sit. Tea-drinking; in the world yet outside of it; craving God knows what; no clue where to find it, where to look, who to ask; do some laundry, good; washing-up, good; keep busy. Going through the motions, yes. Motions in all senses; rearranging life-turds; exercise in futility.
Here I sit. How many years have I done this? How many more till it's done. How long till peace?

So. Here I sit.

So often, over the years, this has been my escape.

When all else fails, sleep.  Even if it is still daylight.  Even if the rest of the world is still out there enjoying itself.  Or especially then.

Yes, it's running away.
But at least it's something I'm in control of.

Please don't let me dream.

Ivor Cutler.  To my shame, I'd forgotten all about him (and he only died a few years ago).  I even have an album or two, but for some reason I hadn't listened to anything of his for a long time.

Which is a pity.

I was reminded of his glorious weirdness this morning, when somebody posted a video of Looking for Truth With A Pin on a forum site I subscribe to, which led to a happy, silly hour reacquainting myself with him.
Here are a few to be going on with:

Pickle Your Knees
How Are You Shut Up
Shoplifters
I'm Happy
and the wondrous Big Jim

This is a ridiculous sequence of events:

Wake up, in a fairly positive mood, not exactly euphoric, but certainly ready to do battle with the day.
Have a pleasant and cheery telephone conversation with a friend.
Go out to run a few errands (post office, bank, etc.) - all easy and comparatively stress-free.
Return home, and realise that I'm in a miserable, self-loathing, and rather fragile mood, craving reassurance.

Why?  Nothing whatever in the preceding hours has been the sort of thing that ought to trigger such a reaction.  Even the queue at the post office wasn't particularly slow, or especially full of annoying people.

This sort of thing has been happening more often lately, which is a worry.  It's almost as though the only thing keeping the flow of positivity going, is a conscious effort to do so:  In other words, if I forget to constantly remind myself I'm a worthwhile person, the default state is an automatic belief that I'm a waste of space.  Which is daft.

Very glad I've got a shooting day tomorrow. A thing to look forward to, and (assuming I don't cock stuff up), something to boost the ego.

"I am a decent person.
I do have a right to be who I am.
Most people don't hate me.
I have at least some skill in what I'm trying to do"

I arrive at the station just in time to miss one train home - the next is due at 22:57, and is flagged on the display screens as "on time". Hooray, although that still means a wait of around a quarter of an hour.  Hey ho.  I settle into my usual standing/pacing/gazing into space routine reserved for such occasions.  I fantasise, as I often do in such situations, about pressing fire alarms, and other such antisocial activities, just to see what would happen. I look across to the opposite platform, and imagine how easy it ought to be to just hop down on to the tracks, skip across, and up the other side.

A young policemen appears on the opposite platform. They're always young now, of course. He strides with considerable purpose towards the footbridge.  As he reaches the steps, a WPC appears, heading in the same direction, also at quite a pace, but unable to keep up.  Idly, I imagine some sort of previous tiff between them, that prevents them walking together, even in the course of their job.
Both disappear up the steps.  There is a pause.
Quite suddenly, from behind the buildings on our platform, a young man emerges, running. He carries a red motorcycle helmet, and wears a t-shirt and shorts. He sprints straight to the edge of the platform, jumps down, runs heavily across the tracks, feet slipping on the ballast, and scrambles awkwardly up the other side, bashing and grazing his knee on the top of the platform as he does so (well that's one question answered).  He forces himself back to his feet, dashes out of the open gate into the sliproad, dropping a gove as he does so, and disappears. The sound of running feet quickly fades.

There's an appreciable pause, then the police reach the bottom of the steps on this side of the tracks, and start asking if anybody's seen a young man with a red bike helmet. There is much gesticulating and pointing from the assembled passengers.  The police retrace their steps across the footbridge, at a run. A taxi driver on the other side points up the sliproad:  "He's just up there - hiding in that bush."  The police disappear, and there's another moderate pause.

I check the train time on the display.  It now says that the 22:57 is late, due at 23:00. As I watch, it ticks over to 23:01

The police reappear, each bearing a handcuffed youth (oh, so there were two?).  They collect the discarded glove, and march them off to a waiting car.  Much mirth from one of the lads at the prospect of "spending the night in Brentwood nick."

Another pause.  The display now advises 23:05

The WPC returns, performs a quick seach of the platform for any other discarded items, but returns empty-handed.

The time is now 22:46 - the display unapologetically assures us our train won't show until 23:06

At exactly 22:47, the 22:47 to Liverpool Street glides into the platform.  The display, perhaps in embarrassment, is now blank.

I awoke feeling rather disgusted with myself.  Still gripped in the fist of the glooms that have plagued me these last few days, but now at least able to view the thing more objectively, and wishing to be free of it, rather than wanting only to wallow.

So, how to avoid this association between spring and feelings of loss becoming a proper neurosis to add to my collection?  How better than to dive in headfirst, and go for a walk; taking the widely-held view that exercise is supposed to be a good remedy for depression.
So, section thirteen of the Capital Ring (I'd walked section twelve a few weeks previously), between Stoke Newington and Hackney Wick.

A glorious day, full of all the things I was afraid of, all the smells and sounds, warm spring sunshine, solitude in the open air.

I won't deny, there were difficult moments. Several times I found myself longing to be able to share the experience of this beautiful day, with some nebulous significant other, but every time that familiar feeling of "if only" welled up, the regular tramp of my feet on the hard towpath seemed to knock it away.

Overshot the end of the section in the end, and carried on to Old Ford Lock, then down the Greenway (actually part of section fourteen), and then into Stratford for the train home.

Good.  Good.

It smells of spring outside.  The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  That used to be one of my favourite smells, and this, my favourite time of year.  It evokes every hope I ever had for myself when I was younger, every happier, carefree day, every smile.

The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  The smell of everything I seem to have lost.

I have cultivated a dead-end. A beautiful, wonderful, marvellous dead-end, but a dead-end nonetheless.

I left the main path a long time ago. It runs parallel to this, closely enough that I can glimpse it through the trees, but crossing to it would be at such a great cost that I doubt I'll ever attempt it.  Yet there it lies, and here I stand, thwarted. In glory, but thwarted.
I knew it as I chose this route. Knew it, yet drove on, regardless.

Stay, burning in the light I can never share?
Forsake the light, go back, and rejoin the path?
Plunge into the undergrowth?
Hope?

Physical interactions with strangers. The pseudo-Brownian motion of people moving about in groups.

Those of us who are people-watchers, will, of course, be familiar with the many and various different ways that people move around. Those with a bit of acting knowledge may well have spotted many, if not all, of the Laban Efforts among the milling populace - few of us can have shopped in a modern supermarket, for instance, without having encountered a "float" (light, sustained, indirect) or a "wring" (heavy, sustained, indirect), blocking an aisle or two with their trolley, while they ponder the wonders arrayed before them on the shelves.

However, it's when people approach each other closely enough to interact, that things become a little odd. 
For instance, let us suppose that:

Person A bumps into person B (either a direct barge, as with, say a "punch" or "press" in pursuit of their chosen path, or through un-coordinated blundering, as with a "float" or "wring").

There seem, these days, to be two possible reactions:

1) Person A doesn't react at all, but continues, quite unaware of any social infringement.  Most of us, I think, would describe this as simply, "rudeness".

2) Person A emits an almost automatic "sorry", usually in apparent surprise that there should be any other people in the space at all, let alone nearby.

What concerns me, is that, for a whole generation now, reaction (2) is starting to be seen as "politeness".  Whereas once, that term might have been applied to such acts as, "letting other people pass" (and thanking those that do so), or indeed, "avoiding bumping into people in the first place."
An apology is, I daresay, better than nothing, but we do seem to be becoming a society of apologisers. I remember hearing Peter Ustinov speak about visiting an airport, and how he found himself walking across a vast, empty concourse, which contained only one other soul, who, amid the acres of emptiness, proceeded to bump straight into him, with a surprised, "oh I'm sorry."

Once, people were brought up to look where they were going. Once, people were encouraged to consider their words and deeds before taking any action.

Now, it seems, our peripheral vision, both actual and metaphorical, has become so limited, so self-focussed, that consideration for others has become encapsulated in a single word, no longer meant, no longer capable of possessing any meaning.

I've meandered around the point here rather, I'm afraid, being the "float" that I all too often am. If this has caused annoyance, then er... sorry.

Why hello!  How lovely to hear from you!
Can't remember the last time we had such weather, no, but
I expect it'll clear up soon.  How are you?  Yes I'm fine thanks, same as
Ever, you know!  What have you been up to since we last spoke? Anything you can
Tell me about?  Haha, well quite - did
Anyone ever tell you that you have an evil streak?  Haha, noooo, I don't know
What you mean!  Now then, we should get together again for
A drink shouldn't we? Oh, just a couple of pints - don't want to repeat the
Horrible experience of that hangover from last
Time! What? Oh yes we did, didn't we - I'd forgotten we did that!  Haha, well...
I'm off, I think: Great to hear your voice, as always, glad to hear you're
Having fun, see you soon I hope?

I would like to indulge myself in a small rant, about a particular bête noir of mine, namely, that most ubiquitous of marketing tools,

"Rebranding"

It's always been with us, of course, but lately there seems to have been something of a flurry, a near stampede to rename almost everything in sight.

Digital TV channels, have hardly been with us for the batting of an eyelid, and yet some are already on their third or fourth name.  I see that what is currently known as "UKTV History" is shortly to be called "Yesterday".  Have people learned nothing from the "One Railway" fiasco?
"Did you see the Antiques Roadshow on Yesterday on Tuesday?"  etc.

An example of more direct influence to me: I'm an archer, and archery clubs in this country are affiliated to a body called "The Grand National Archery Society", formed in the early 19th Century, and supporting member clubs dating back at least another century before that.  It's shortly to be rebranded as "Archery GB".  Why?  What actual purpose will that serve, beyond providing cars and holidays for a handful of marketing consultants?

And there, I suppose we come to the crux of my prejudice, for I freely admit it to be so:  I detest marketing people.

It offends me that there is a trade that is plied entirely by people who actually believe that passengers (sorry, "customers") care more about what their railway company is called, than how often the trains are on time.  People who feel that "Department of Justice" is somehow going to inspire the public into a greater trust and belief in the rule of law, than it had when it was merely part of the Home Office.  People who believe that "new" is automatically better, and that anything that's been around more than five minutes must automatically no longer be "relevant to today's society".

People who, God help us, are telling us that Norwich Union "has always wanted to be" Aviva.

"When you’ve been in marketing as long as I have, you'll know that before any new product can be developed it has to be properly researched. We’ve got to find out what people want from fire, how they relate to it, what sort of image it has for them."
The crowd were tense. They were expecting something wonderful from Ford.
"Stick it up your nose," he said.
"Which is precisely the sort of thing we need to know," insisted the girl, "Do people want fire that can be fitted nasally?"

Yesterday was a good day.

It began with, wonder of wonders, my boiler springing to life after its partial electrical drowning by a heating engineer the night before.  I have proper hot water for the first time in months.

It continued with the discovery of a veritable torrent of kind messages on Facebook, that took me quite a while to reply to - I'm an inveterate replier to things - find it hard not to - not helped by the fact that messages continued to arrive as I was replying to earlier ones.  Lovely, put me in a good mood right from the outset.
There were messages from people I know well, and from friends who I barely speak to, either in person or online.  Messages from people I've always had a bit of a soft spot for, others from friends-of-friends.  Rather touching.

Then off to an audition.  Which went well.  An audition panel with an understanding of actors, and how to get the best from people.  The impression, genuine or polite, that they liked what I was doing with the character. Warm feeling.

Quick trip to Victoria to collect a friend's spare keys so I can look in on their cat briefly on Saturday morning.  Smiles.

Slow wander down through Plimlico to the river, taking the long way round, along the Thames Path, to Waterloo, stand for a while watching the cold brown water churn away below me, surrounded by a small contingent of street performers freezing their silver-painted nuts off in the bitter weather.

Beer, food and conversation in the very best of company.  The friendly surroundings of the Maple Leaf in Maiden Lane; the aromatic joy of a tea-merchant;  falafel, couscous and lamb in the cosy candlelit "Souk" near Seven Dials; more beer, additional good company, in the Yard.  Slightly saddened by finding it a pale shadow of its former self - a victim, as it were, of the smoking ban - the courtyard, from which it derives its name, always bustling and noisy, now quiet and empty.  Happily drunk enough not to let it temper my mood.  Much good company.  Amicii flores in horto vitae sunt, as I've said elsewhere before.

Good day.  Very good day.