Pencil skirts and stilettos



 IG as BP by  Oscar Grillo

 I received the casting breakdown for another commercial. It read: "Business woman, slightly OTT, wears designer suits. Please wear a suit to the audition.” I thought “oh boy” because I didn’t really like the sound of her. This is not a good thing. I’m an actor not a critic: my job is to understand, not judge. (At least not from the outside. Self-loathing is totally acceptable.)

As I said, she sounded pretty horrid but as a jobbing actor you can’t afford to be picky (or lazy) even if you’re convinced you’re about to land another big job and so I called my agent to say I’d be there. I put on my face (the eyeshadow is getting quite a workout this week) and picked out a well fitted jacket to go with my grey pencil skirt and black suede round-toe stilettos. I checked the ensemble in the mirror. Although it owed more to Betty Boop than the OTT business woman I think Gok Wan would have been proud. (If you don’t know him, check him out, he’s like a 21st century fairy god mother but British Chinese and with really cool hair. He has a gift for styling and can make any woman feel good about her body. Honestly? He’s amazing. I’m going to ask for him as my Christmas present.)

So I packed up my outfit, threw on a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers and made my way to the audition. Thing is, I tend to approach London like Parkour: charging around town scattering tourists, crossing on the red, daring death defying hops on trains just as the doors are about to close, and racing up the very steep escalators two steps at a time... And no one does Le Parkour in a pencil skirt and stilettos. Not even me.

I was headed for the Soho casting studio of red marker pen fame. (I know, two days in a row...) This time it was packed to the rafters with people. All of them unpleasant size 0 women in suits and stilettos or stuck up boy-men in ill-fitting suits. All of them except the lovely Nina, an ex-drama school colleague, who greeted me with her usual warm smile. Nina is blessed with that elusive trifecta of looks, smarts and kindness of spirit. She’s blonde in that exotic Nordic way that some English women have, driven and an absolute sweetie. Let me put it this way, in my next life, I want to be her.

Me to the man at the front desk: “Hi, I’m Isabelle Gregson. I’ll need to get changed before I go in.”
Front desk man: “Fill out this form first and I’ll take your picture, that way you won’t lose your turn in the queue… they’re running a bit late.”

How nice is that?  I had a quick chat with Nina whilst I filled out my form.

Me: “I was here yesterday.”
Nina: “I know, I follow your blog!” (Hi there Nina!)

Then I walked over to Phil so he could process it, (for it was front desk Phil who - bless his little heart - didn’t remember me or the red marker incident) as he expertly juggled scripts, phone calls, registration forms, and mug shots. Turns out he'd suffered a perforated ear drum since we'd last met. (Greater Universe, if you’re listening, I don’t think this should happen to nice people like Phil.)

Anyway, leaving Phil aside, I went to get changed and came out a different person. Literally. Oh, it’s not the first time this has happened: I call it the wardrobe effect. I came out in character, as the OTT business woman. I could feel the tension in me, the perfectionist streak, the impatience. It’s not so much a question of talent, I was just tapping into that very real side of my psyche which I try so hard to keep in check. Because it is rather vile and no one likes try-hards.

I came back to the waiting room and sat across from Nina (“Boy, you look different!”) in the only free spot left but only after having to ask this girl to move her stuff from the bench which she did reluctantly and with a bit of an attitude. Then Nina left and whilst I waited my turn I eavesdropped on the conversations around me.

A rather nasty woman is slutty high heels (you know the ones, they’re that little bit too high for day time), too much fake tan, and an 80’s style hair was talking to a rather plain but sweet looking girl with big cheeks who was sat in the corner: “You’re wearing a pant suit. The casting director specifically said that we should all wear a skirt...well at least you remembered the silk scarf."
Sweet girl, in a kind of bleat: “I just wore what my agent told me to wear.”
Slutty 80’s woman: “If you go in like that the casting director’ll probably throw you out!”

If there’s one thing I hate it’s selfish actors who try to sabotage others' confidence to give themselves an edge.

Me to the sweet girl: “Don’t worry, the script has loads of characters in it so we’re not all auditioning for the same part. My brief came straight from the casting director and it just said a suit and didn’t mention a scarf so I'm sure you’ll be fine.” She perked up a bit after that and I stopped channelling Joan of Arc.

Skinny boy in suit and headband (?!!!) with annoying whiny voice to the selfish cow who’d been hogging the entire bench: “Is this brand in the UK?”

Or at least that’s what I thought he’d said so I figured I’d put in my two cents worth and illuminate him, because he was obviously ignorant as well as stupid and annoying.

Me: “The company exists in this country but it’s a conglomerate, not a consumer brand. So you wouldn’t find their stores on the high street under that particular name.”
Skinny Headband Boy: “But are they in the UK?”

This went on for a while until Selfish Cow interrupted: “Actually, what he's asking is whether this campaign will be running in the UK.” Then she smirked. Then Skinny Headband Boy starting snickering (at me I figured). Then I felt myself go very red and like I wanted to get out of there. Then I realised that I was in character which was probably a great thing ahead of the audition and that made me feel better until I realised I was sort of giggling out loud. Then it was my turn to audition so I sashayed up the stairs (it was either that or lifting the skirt above my head).

Casting director, after the usual meet and greet: “So I want you to imagine that you are a business woman who travels a lot and who is always super punctual and on top of things. You are at the airport and things are being delayed and cancelled. I just want to see how you react.” I couldn’t believe my luck. She was describing me at my worst: what he calls my ‘psycho mode’. I could do that with my eyes closed. So I did my thing. Casting director: “Perfect, exactly what I was looking for!”

Then I packed OTT woman away, gave a friendly wave goodbye to the stilettos and skinny suits, and made for home, bounding along the roof tops like David Belle in that BBC advert.

First Time

I did it! I finally got my first ever invite to dine at The Ivy!

On my quest to gather material for the book version of this blog, I landed myself the busiest Saturday in living memory. And I'm going to name drop shamelessly over the next few paragraphs, so brace yourselves and gird your loins...

Borough Market in the morning. Which was a challenge because I'm still on my detox diet. (It should be over by now, but it got interrupted by 5 days in the West Country with delicious pub food, irresistible puddings, and the odd Twister.) Determined to keep the weight off I've gone back to the beginning. This is week 2...) So the market consisted of me wondering around trying not to inhale the various cheeses, cookies, organic flap jacks and almond croissants on display. I also narrowly avoided killing the poor fellow manning the juicing stand: it was 9:45 and it said he wouldn't be ready for another 15 minutes...

Still, we managed to keep it all civilised. I resisted the German hot dog and the Turkish falafel and the chicken wraps (the chicken wasn't cooked yet) and slurped on my grass green kiwi/spirulina juice. I even managed to convince myself that it was nice and filling and contained all the energy I would need for my hour and half long dynamic yoga class...

Having survived yoga class, I went home for a quick lunch of green salad and a banana.

The plan was to then take an hour long nap before my casting workshop with BBC casting director Ben Cogan. But it took me ages to print out copies of my Spotlight CV (something to do with trying to cram 2 pages into 1) and so I ended up with a 20 minute cat nap which didn't really do the job.

Anyway, off I went to the workshop: starving and pretty tired. We had to do some scenes in pairs. We were first up and I felt really rusty and rather incompetent... I hadn't felt that way since drama school... Still, ego aside, I learnt a lot and Ben Cogan is a delightfully engaging man. (Please please cast me in one of the BBC series...)

After the workshop I headed home, narrowly avoiding purchasing a Classic Cornetto from the convenience store near Old Street tube. (And I do mean narrowly, I had my hand on the lid of the freezer...)

Once I got home, we had to get ready for an evening at the Theatre followed by said dinner at The Ivy.

"I'm thinking about wearing my mini-kilt from Edinburgh." (It's purple and pink and my trophy purchase at the end of my stay in Edinburgh last year.)

"I thought you'd be wearing your Thai trousers with the pin stripe."

Me - a tad defensive. "You don't think the kilt looks good?"

"It looks great, but the Thai trousers are more dressy."

So we headed off (me in my Thai trousers with the pin stripe, Repetto grey top and faux
purple snake skin Rock Chick jacket) in the pouring rain to the Soho Theatre to see "Dreams of Violence." It was fantastic! And all the more enjoyable because we sat in the second row, real close to the stage.

Then afterwards I got to meet Paula Wilcox, the star of the show as it happens that her husband was the one who'd invited us along to The Ivy for dinner.

Then we made our way The Ivy (the rain had stopped) and I got to meet the rest of the party.

The funny thing about The Ivy is that because it's a notorious hangout for celebrities, anytime someone walks in, all heads turn, scanning for a famous face. So we walked over to our table under the scrutinity of the other dinners. Very odd. I'm sure they recognised Paula.

Apparently, Sienna Miller was sitting across from us. Well, I completely blanked her because I wasn't wearing my specs and everything beyond our table was a blur. I hope she wasn't put off. (When I went to the loo, I think she might have been standing by the basins, but as I said, it was all a bit of a blur.)

We finished dinner around quarter past midnight. Before I forget, I had yellow tail sashimi and salmon fishcakes. I got to chat to our host, Paula's husband who is a very engaging American business man, as well as to a British captain of industry and his glamourous blonde American wife, and a romantic British lawyer and his partner, a quietly posh and very charming young artist who was wearing a fabulous dress; understated Boho chick, but classy. (I can't tell you what Sienna was wearing. Sorry about that.)

I don't know how else to describe it except it was a bit like being in a scene scripted by Julian Fellowes. I savoured every minute of it. It was a real treat. And I was aware of it being a treat as it was happening, rather than appreciating it only in hindsight (if you follow me).

Then we all said our goodbyes and headed home.

And that, as they say, was that. My first night at The Ivy.

It’s all getting a bit puritanical.

I've been watching Sky News and its live broadcasting of the BBC's grilling by the Media Select Committee. Oh the delicious irony! It's a wonderful piece of theatre. Democracy at work - beats watching a public stoning or a hanging. But I can't help thinking that it should be Ross and Brand sitting there squirming, in their silly haircuts, rather than these two dark suited executives. One is drawn and balding and losing his rag. The other grey haired, calmer in appearance, but getting progressively redder in the face. High blood pressure probably. He looks like he might pop like a balloon. But that's unlikely.

Behind them, row upon row of journalists (one woman, unaware that she is on camera, is actually sleeping!) And in front of them, in a squared U shape, the committee itself: some members are soft spoken and apparently supportive (there's nice Scottish middle aged lady who talks common sense), and some are frankly out to get some scalps. Most are talking in my name: "The Public". It's all a bit Spanish Inquisition, minus the Monty Pythons and the funny hats.
What is it all about really? The fact that Ross is paid £6 million a year (at a time when so many people are tightening their belts)? The fact that Brand is a potty mouthed buffoon who attracts a seemingly endless stream of young models to his bed? (How does he do it? I'd like to be a fly on the wall.) The fact that they were crude? That it was in poor taste? That they questioned the virtue of a young woman? That the recipient of the call was an old man? The fact that we all have to pay a license fee which pays for this drivel?

Not sure. But I can't help feeling that it's to do with the strong wind of puritanism blowing over the country. They've been quite a few recent examples of people being hung out to dry over rather insignificant matters (in the scheme of things). It started with the whole Mosley/Nazi party scandal, now Drogba being called into account for throwing a coin (aimed at him) back into the crowd, the Brand/Ross fiasco, the Osborne/Mandelson Russian Yatch scandal... Then there's all the nannying by the State: the smoking ban (I support it but there is something sinister about it), the war against obesity, the attempts to curb excessive drinking, etc... But some obviously don't think it goes far enough: the Editor in Chief of the Daily Mail has accused the Government of hampering his duty to "report deviations from decency and acceptable behaviour."

Who made him Chief Inquisitor? And why isn't he wearing a funny hat?

Where's all this coming from? It used to be the kind of thing that only happened in America. And it used to make us laugh and feel superior, somehow more sophisticated, you know? We were Traditionalist Liberals not Unblushingly Louche (unlike our Continental cousins, The French). We liked a bit of spanking, we had Oscar Wilde (even though we killed him), we liked cross dressing, we'd even accepted our future king's mistress as his second wife.

So what has changed? Is it the painful awakening at the end of 10 years of easy money and prosperity? Is it really the financial crisis that's making excess and deviation from the norm unacceptable? To whom? Us, the Public? Have we been asked our opinion? I certainly wasn't.
So who's dictating this? The tabloids trying to run the country? (I feel like I know Murdoch because I graded his current wife's homework when we were at Yale.)

A friend yesterday - who is in his 60's - joked that "they" were probably planning to bring back the death penalty. We all laughed but rather nervously. It didn't sound quite as far fetched as it should. But what can I do?

I know.

I'll say a little prayer for Baby P.