Now put your clothes back on

As you'll already know if you read the last entry (If you haven't, now's your chance: As the Actress Said to the Bishop...; "Now take your clothes off". No one will ever know that you missed it first time round. Except for me of course.) I was called in to re-audition in my bathing suit last Friday. Lucky me. My agent who is nothing if not thorough reissued the casting breakdown. After briefly toying with the idea of saying Non! I thought better of it (I could do with the money) and re-read the breakdown - just in case they'd decided to ditch the swimwear. This time it specified: "dress smart casual" but sadly, it still requested that I wear a bathing suit under my clothes.

The sort-of diet is going well thank you... but having to fit a 30's style bathing suit underneath anything that doesn't resemble a tent remains a limiting factor. So I plumped for a pair of custom made pinstripe blue Thai style trousers (you know the kind that are open on the side but wrap around the front and back - handy for flinging off burlesque style when I revealed my bathing suit underneath) and some rubber soled high heeled red patent leather shoes so I wouldn't trip.

As a rule, I try and conserve energy before an audition. It's amazing how much you need once the adrenaline gets pumping. But not on Friday. First I went to Zumba and did the rumba, the salsa, the cumbia and some chachacha for a whole hour before power walking into Soho in my heels. I figured lunch could wait. (I find it so much easier to suck in my tummy when I'm starving. Don't you?)

Given the casting director's time keeping record, I arrived on the dot for my appointment at one o'clock. There was a new girl on reception: efficient, unflappable and friendly (although it turned out she wasn't even working there, she was just temping for the morning.) "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson." "Hi, just fill out this form." (What? Again? I used my madwoman flowing handwriting... that will show them.)

1:05pm

Me to the unflappable temp, with a light tone: "How much of a wait is there?"
Unflappable temp: "They're pretty much on time but it's first come first seen basis, we're not going by call time." She gave a little shrug as if to say: "That's not how I would do it either but what can you do?"

There were 4 other actors waiting. Older on average than the group from Wednesday. I didn't have anything else to do (other than get some lunch) so I stayed put and settled in for a long wait.

Older brash blonde woman stepping into reception to other blonde looking rather washed out in a pale summer dress: "Oh hi! I haven't seen you in ages..."
Pale dress wishing she'd worn more make up and a red dress: "I know. It's been so long..."

And I (we all had) to endure yet another mind numbing conversation between two ageing and painfully middle class actresses (I have nothing against the middle classes, I mean I'm middle class but there's regular middle class and then there's painful middle class  - like those two.) This time it was weddings.

Brash Blonde: "I 'd like to know who she (Kate) worked with to make sure her face didn't set in a nervous grimace, you could tell she was so nervous."
Pale Dress: "I wonder how she managed not to cry. I bet she wore waterproof mascara just in case."
Oh do shut up already.
Brash Blonde's re her own upcoming nuptial (make a break for it you poor man whilst you still can): "I'm worried I'll cry and ruin my make-up on the day."
Pale Dress : "You have to treat it as a performance. You're an actress."
Brash Blonde: "But I cry watching pet food commercials!"
Die both of you. Die now.

Then Brash Blonde got called in and it all went blissfully quiet. One by one they all went in. Then the temp left. I was bored so I got to chatting with the owner of the casting studio, as you do. Poor woman. Poor woman? Poor me!  I bet she'd never had a captive audience before. That's how I found about the temp being a temp. And found out the name of the gloomy guts who'd been manning reception on Wednesday. I found out lots of things about the ins and out of the casting studio industry (not much money in it but lots of work) and its evolution over the last 20 years (email has gone and ruined the notion of lead times).

Then it was my turn to audition. After the usual 'look into the camera, name, agent, right profile, left profile, show us your hands, show us the other side, any commercials in the last year?' the casting director announced: "This is definitely about less is more. I just want you to take your shoes off and lie there on the couch and relax." So I did. "Wiggle your toes a bit." So I did. "Not so much." I obliged. "Have a look around as you relax." I did. "Have a stretch. Good. Now wiggle your toes again." It went on like this for a good 5 or 10 minutes. I've never worked so hard at doing nothing and relaxing on a couch.

Then it was thank you and goodbye. I don't think I'll get it. On account of my toe wiggle probably being too continental. But the best bit? After all that angst and trouble I went to, no one asked to see my bathing suit!

Playing Doctors and Nurses

We’re having a bit of a medical week. I had some inoculations yesterday for my planned trip to India (by planned I mean I know I’m going, at some point, like before the end of the year, but I’m not sure where to yet, or for how long). There are some nasty diseases out there: I got two jabs one for Hepatitis A and tetanus, one for polio, typhoid and diphtheria. The GP, feeling egalitarian in this age of fairness and austerity, gave me a jab in each arm – this morning I woke up feeling like I’d done a thousand bench presses in my sleep. And of course tomorrow is first my yoga class in two weeks as yoga George is back from holidays. I cannot bear to miss it but not sure how many chatarangas I will manage. Or headstands, or arm stands for that matter. Oh the irony!

Feeling rather contrarian, I requested some anti-malarial tablets (I am the poster child for Mosquito Tourism) but declined the offer of the seasonal flu jab. 

My right calf is sore too, courtesy of the man from the armoured car who was in such a rush to get to the Boots back office to collect the day’s takings that he ran me over with his incredibly heavy cart. I hollered in genuine pain and surprise but he never stopped. A case of pharmacy hit and run. Cursing quietly after him I hobbled to the chemist counter. The nice young man (notice how they are always nice and young when you find yourself in distress?) took me to the consultation room and treated me to some ice spray followed by a heating spray. “Tell me if this hurts.” “Ow! Ow! Just kidding.” It stopped him in his tracks and made him giggle. I guess I didn’t look the type to joke about.

I’m sporting a nice big purplish bruise today that only hurts if I press on it. So I try not to.

Today’s medical requirements are a little more serious. We are having a small hernia operated on and as I won the toss I get to play nursie rather than the patient.

It’s a very nice hospital, out West near Harrow, which means we had to leave at 6:15 this morning for our 8am appointment. We got here in plenty of time. Would have got here even earlier if I hadn’t entered the wrong postcode into the GPS. Luckily the other hospital was also near Harrow. I got called a “nong” for my efforts (I'm told it’s an Australian term of endearment) but I got off easy all things considered.

We arrived laden with food (a hernia operation is no excuse to abandon the Dukan diet) but conscious that we were “nil by mouth” since the night before I refrained from eating until the patient was wheeled off to the operating theatre.

It’s been a while since I was in a hospital. And boy have things move on. Have they ever! They make you were disposable underwear, the hospital gowns tie at the side, you are given a bathrobe to further protect your dignity and some fetching anti-deep vein thrombosis stockings. And a physio comes in with some simple deep breathing, toe wagging, and gentle coughing exercises for your post op recovery period. Genius.

I’m a bit jealous. I like general anaesthetics: the deep satisfaction of profound sleep. And the one week course of post op pain killers. Never mind. At least I got to enjoy the delights of the single and very well appointed bedroom whilst the patient was been operated on (in the theatre obviously, not the room).

... Three hours later, I had exhausted all available distraction available including but not limited to finding my way out of and back to the endoscopy ward, having breakfast, writing this blog, writing a couple pages of my novel “The Shy Exhibitionist (TSE)” – more on that soon – and doing all the puzzles in today’s Daily Mail – badly – and having a minor breakdown in the bathroom when I couldn’t figure out how to turn the tap off (you turn it all the way to the left). I was about to launch a rescue party for the patient when the phone rang. “Hello, this is the nurse in the recovery room. Everything’s gone really well but... (oh dear, what? WHAT?) he’s not breathing as well as we’d like. So we’re going to keep him here with us a little while longer before we bring him back up to the room. He’s fine really, he’s all talkative and telling jokes (oh, really? I am so relieved) but... you don’t happen to know how many breaths he normally takes per minute?” Unfortunately, I did not. But believe me, I’m going to find out for next time.

An hour later, they wheeled him into the room. A little pale and groggy but no worse for wear. With the daddy of all pressure bandages (to avoid excessive swelling and bruising for those of you not versed in surgery) on his tummy. Apparently, I’m going to have to yank it off in the morning. Lucky he’s going home with painkillers.

Turns out he is extremely susceptible to morphine: they gave him a tiny amount and he was out like a light. It took them an hour to bring him round.Turns out he’s some sort of non-breathing record holder... had the entire nursing staff on high alert because he was only taking 6 breaths a minute.

I told you I should have been the patient: I don’t mind morphine and I haven’t been training for any free-diving competition.

Anyway, he ‘s asleep now. Had some water and some food (lovingly prepared the night before – did I mention that we had to leave home at 6:15?) felt nauseous, rang for the nurse who never came, stopped feeling nauseous, saw the surgeon, had vital signs checked three times, did the physio’s exercises – that on top of a big incision on your belly is bound to wear you out. No need for morphine.

We’ll be going home soon. As soon as he can sit up and walk around a bit and all that. The nurses are all very friendly – like they just happened to stop by rather than actually working there on shift.

So all is good. The only cloud on the horizon is having to drive us back to and through London. I have to do it – he won’t be in a state to drive for a week or so. And I don’t drive through London very often – other than very very early in the morning or late at night – when there are no other cars around. Still. Small price to pay for spending an entire Friday playing doctors and nurses in a real hospital.

The Cleopatra Complex

I've been feeling rather smashing lately, what with my recent all expenses paid trip to NY, my current assignment, the discovery of Scoop Gelato on my doorstep, and the amazing results of the Dukan diet (American size 2, people! size 2! Mini kilts! Skinny jeans! Madonna arms 'but nice' as a friend recently put it...and I still eat as much as I want - eat your heart out or better eat the Dukan way). And yet - or because of it - I am about to revisit some well trodden ground so if you're male, fit, and under 30, look away now.

Why?

Because you're not going to like what you see.

?

Apparently, you're not in my fan base.

?

According to my research, young attractive men under 30 do not like me, do not get me, do not want any part of me. (I didn't mean that to come out quite so literally, let me rephrase that last bit: just don't get me.) Now, if you're a woman, or a man over the age of 50, or a small child, or a cat, then I'm your poster child.

Go figure.

But it's a good thing. Isn't it? At least as far as fan bases are concerned, mine is pretty broad, and let's face it, at least I won't have to worry about ageing and losing relevance among young men (a fickle group if there ever was one) and having everything lifted back up to there and botoxed within an inch of my life.

Well isn't that's a relief.

But why is it that this particular group is at such odds with me? And more importantly why do I care (enough to write about it)?

Because it makes me feel all over again like the awkward teenager: unattractive and definitely not part of the cool crowd. Because part of me secretly wants to be Pamela Anderson in Bay Watch or in that interview with Ruby Wax. There I said it. I want to be the blond straight haired long legged big boobed teenager that all the boys liked in High School (and I didn't even go to High School; I went to a Lycee with intelligent kids with a highly developed individual sense of style and identity: think GaGa rather than Britney Spears). Well I'm not Pamela but I don't really mind.

Not really.

Well, I do mind, a bit! No one likes being ignored by Cleopatra's brother (if you're not getting the reference, read the serendipity entry from last month and catch up!) But then even when she was with Anthony (the original young fit male) Cleopatra still held Julius Caesar as the true original. Not sure Anthony would have appreciate the naked and rolled up in a carpet bit, or bathing in asses milk. But anyway it all went horribly wrong and she ended up ordering an asp in her fruit basket. As any actuary worth his salt will tell you, young men can be such a health hazard.

Where was I?

Oh yes. So I'm not flavour of the month with the young turks. I'm the coffee to their vanilla, the rabbit terrine to their Big Mac, Orangina to their Bud. I'm the nougatine to their roll-ups, and Casablanca to their Mafia 3...

... and that's a pretty good thing!

Isn't it?

Gimme a New York Minute!

My New York visit is finally coming to an end and I'm about to board the plane home with mixed emotions (not least because I discovered at the last minute that due to a typo, I had been booked on tomorrow's flight instead of tonight's - so a big thank you to the people of BA Club World  for sorting that out.)

I love New York and all of its idiosyncrasies and it makes it hard to leave. Especially in the summer time: the warm humid air - like hopping into a hot bath - and the repeated thermal shocks from the icy blast of air conditioning. The streets filled with light and reflections, the rhythm of traffic, the crowds that move with purpose. The mix of the old - circa 1950 - with the new. Everything in flux. All of us alone yet together.

Still, 9 days is a pretty decent amount of time and everything must come to an end. The people I work with booked me a private car to take me to the airport. My driver was Ron, an impressively very large man. 55 and an ex NYPD detective (he hinted at some dark and mysterious legal goings-on surrounding his early retirement - apparently Mayor Gulianni was involved. I figured he got shot on the job and they didn't want him to sue) it turns out Ron is a romantic soul with a life plan. 10 years ago, he bought a house in the mountains on a lake in New Hampshire and next year he and his girlfriend will be retiring there, leaving NY and their whole life behind. He wants to enjoy his old age the old fashioned way: nice and slow and peacefully. There's a man with his priorities straight. There aren't many like him about. Are you a Ron? I know I am.

I'm writing this as I sit in the sad little time warp that serves as the BA lounge at Newark Airport. Nothing wrong with it: it's air conditioned and they have free food  and drink - although nothing I can eat on the Dukan diet - so  I've drunk enough Diet Sprite to fill a bath tub.

They're calling my flight: time to board. So it's a New York goodbye for now.

A last gulp of Diet Sprite: here's a toast to Ron and all the kind people who made my stay such a good one.

The Slow Motion Panic Attack

The past week has been a breeze – I’ve been in the zone – things have been taking care of themselves: dinner at Serendipity, finding a bathroom in Central Park, purchasing a size 2 (!!!) pair of skinny stretch pants (trousers) from Ann Taylor for $12.99 (I’m wearing them right now and boy it caused no end of rubber necking on my way to the Subway – American men are so much more obvious about it) and an immaculately cut wine coloured sleeveless shirt for under $9. And last but not least, the discovery of a friendly little steakhouse around the corner from my hotel that caters to my Dukan Diet requirements (grilled shrimps and sirloin steak for $20). It’s called The Outback Steakhouse and although the menu was speckled with pseudo-Aussie terminology the TV screens and the waiting staff were decidedly American and very friendly in a small town in the Midwest kind of a way. It was strange but endearing. A bit like Elle Macpherson’s accent.

I liked it so much I went back a second time. And here's the thing: the waiter from the night before (Carlos) came over to say hello… I’d ordered the same thing with the same requirements (no salt, no butter or oil, no seasoning, no nothing…) and he'd recognised my order when it was called out in the kitchen! We had a nice chat. Like I said, they’re real friendly folk. That means a lot when you’re alone in a big city.

Anyway, all that good feeling, that was last week.

This week may turn out a bit differently. For one, the weather’s turning. That unsettling combination of high UV and overcast skies, with violent showers hovering around the edges of town and the relentless return of the humidity. Add to that the fact that it’s Monday morning and the rather anti-climactic rescheduling of a client meeting from early this morning to this afternoon, and there you have it: the classic set up for doing things the hard way, wrestling control from the universe and feeling small and anxious. Because although all bad things come to pass, so do all good things.

What can I do about it? Nothing. That’s the whole point. All I can do is sit pretty (in my Ann Taylor skinnies, white sleeveless top and red patent leather shoes) and let the times roll…

Bring on the day!

The hands-on approach and the laws of Serendipity

Today is Saturday. Still sitting pretty in the Big Apple. Treated myself to a  "Hallucination Deep Tissue" 90 minute massage at H Spa on 34th Street and as the song goes "I'm feeling goooood..."

Like all the best things in life, it was completely unpremeditated. I was actually looking for a post office. In this land of plenty, in this town of late night opening hours, they have a rather quixotic approach to their post offices: they just don't have any.

What's the matter? Don't these people write? Are they all on Facebook? I walked over one hundred blocks today and zilch, nada, zip. I vaguely remembered one in the Meat Packing district but couldn't find it. Nor did I see any of the mobile post office units that used to line 5th Avenue in Midtown.

Why did I need a post office? Because I had diligently purchased some postcards of NY to send back to friends and family and I wanted to avoid the usual I'll-just-mail-them-from-London trick - which always runs the risk of people thinking that maybe you didn't go on a trip afterall and that you're just pretending. (Worrying about what people might think is a Middle Class trait - I've tried to replace it with the "I don't give a damn" attitude of the Aristocrat but for now the Bourgeoise in me won't allow it. It's a work in progress.)

At Union Square I asked a traffic cop for directions to the nearest post office. She looked rather bewildered. (Why on earth would anyone be looking for a post office? Why indeed...) "Well 34th street is the closest... (we were at 14th street), but that's really far!" I reassured her that my intention had been to walk to Central Park (which starts around 58th Street), thanked her profusely (I always overdo the politeness with NY cops, I don't want to get arrested) and made my way uptown in search of the elusive post office.

Turning onto 34th Street,  a sign caught my eye. It was for H Spa, at Club H Fitness. I walked in, checked their Spa menu, spotted a 90 minute deep tissue massage and asked if I could make an appointment for - well - now. I figured if the Universe meant for me to have the massage, they would accommodate me right then and there. Summer (for that was her name) checked her computer, booked me in and - before I knew it - I was wrapped in a towel and sitting in the steam room. 20 minutes of aromatic bliss with steam billowing around me. Then a shower. Then a walk down to the treatment room, dressed in an oversized terrycloth lined robe to await my massage. With Andrew. He pummeled and stretched and poked every inch of available tissue. I must have grown at least 2 inches taller. Then before I knew it it was over. I got dressed, paid for the treatment (which was more painful than any of the poking of my pressure points - especially with tax and tip added onto the total)  and retreated to their outdoor terrace to lounge about in my newly relaxed body. For the girls out there, it was like I'd had an all body Brazilian blow dry. (No, it's nothing to do with waxing the nether regions, it's a hair relaxant treatment that leaves your hair permanently straight - like a perm but in reverse.)

You'd think this was the highlight of my day. You'd be wrong.

As I left Club H, rather reluctantly, I wanted to get my money's worth... could have done a free yoga class at 6 but didn't have my gear with me... I started walking home, up 3rd Avenue.

Guess what I found around 50th street? That's right, a post office! It was closed of course (shuts at 4 o'clock on Saturdays. Just thought I'd mention it - you never know when that kind of information might come in handy) but... and here's the beauty of it... they had an automated post office annexe and it was open! I played with the touch screen for a while in a mindless fumbly Bill Bryson sort of a way and finally managed to purchase 6 stamps worth 98 cents each to mail my postcards to Europe.

Then just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any better, they did...

As part of the Dukan diet, consolidation phase part 1, I can enjoy a celebration meal once a week. This meal does not have to adhere to any of the diet's restrictions. I can have what I want as long as the portions are reasonable and I don't have second helpings.

I fancied a hamburger and chips.

There's a place not far from where I'm staying called Serendipity 3. It's on 60th and 3rd Avenue. They're best known as a surreal grotto of ice cream sundaes and for their ridiculous policy of keeping people waiting for anywhere between 1 and 3 hours before they can get a table... even though once you're inside, the place is pretty much only half full.

For the second time today, I put myself in the hands of the universe: if I could get a table right away, I'd have a cheeseburger with French fries and a banana split. I walked in. "Can I have a look at the menu please?" "Are you on the list?" (Honestly, it's not like it's the hippest club in NY, it's a place where mothers who lunch take their daughters and posses of elderly women come for the gastronomic equivalent of a quickie with the gardener in the potting shed) "No. I just want to have a look at the menu." "OK." "I'm on my own." "Oh, in that case you can have a table right away, no waiting."

And this is how I found myself sitting in the grotto of ice cream sundays, next to a rather kindly man. All this acting malarkey has improved my social skills no end and so we had quite a pleasant chat about waiting times and the yummy desserts until his girlfriend came back from the bathroom. She glanced at him as she sat down and then got that look on her face. You know the look: "hands off bitch, he's taken." Honestly, I was just making conversation, he was kindly but really not my type. Not anyone's type really. Just a nice sunny personality. So I desisted from making polite chit chat and promptly ordered my celebration meal. My waiter - now that's a different story - he didn't have a such a sunny personality, seemed rather fed up if you ask me, but none of that mattered because if Cleopatra had a brother (she did actually, had several - I just googled it - one of them was called Ptolemy), then my waiter would play him. That's all I'm saying.

I had to wait for my meal for quite a while. Got me rather restless... don't like things standing between me and my food but put the time to good use by doing some people watching. There was a stunning couple (it turns out they were Haitian) who looked as though they had stepped out of the pages of a glossy upmarket magazine. There were 3 generations of Upper East Side women: grandmother, mother, and child (I guess about 6) accompanied by a 4th woman who turned out to be the mother in law. She was rotund and chirpy. The child and its relations were skinny, neurotic and they drove Cleopatra's brother to distraction with their off the menu requests and substitutions.

I had 3 enormous glasses of ice tea whilst I waited for my meal. Testy doesn't begin to describe it. I think word got back to the kitchen that the brunette in the hairband on table 3 was about to go nuclear because my cheeseburger suddenly materialised. Yum. And then my banana split arrived. Double Yum.

The couple (no, not the beautiful one, the mousey one with the kindly boyfriend) had finished their meal and got up to leave. They were taking pictures of the place and of each other. I took pity on them and offered to take their picture. It turned out pretty well. And she was delighted. All was forgiven. Lucky she didn't see her boyfriend turn back with a big grin and wave goodbye.

I ate my banana split with commendable restraint. Taking pauses. It's a bit of a shock to the system let me tell you when you've been pretty much living on salad leaves and turkey slices. But I perservered and polished it off.

I left Cleopatra's brother a decent tip and emerged full of renewed optimism and love for my fellow man onto 60th Street. I love this town.

To happy endings and new beginnings

5 performances left for Desire/Desig. One day, I will tell you all about it. One day but not today. (Oh all right, I'll tell you about how last Saturday, someone from the next show at the White Bear thought it would be a good idea to use an electric saw to cut some wood... in our dressing room... it was like Pompeii meets the Termites World Fair...)

Today I want to talk about endings. As someone who aspires to live in the moment, I find myself most often projecting into the future (in an "oh my god what's going to go wrong?!" kind of way) or reminiscing fondly about the past (have you noticed how it's almost always summer in your childhood memories?). It's not a satisfactory state of affairs but I keep reminding myself that it's a work in progress.

So endings then - they are bitter sweet... the fear of the unknown has already lifted replaced by the sweet tide of  nostalgia. "I don't want it to end!" Oh well, it is bloody well ending so get used to it, and get a move on!

What exactly is ending? The play I've been in, the routine I've developed over the last few years (I'm big on routine, me), the tentative baby steps. It's all ending this weekend. As of Monday morning, a new chapter will start writing itself.

No, I'm not leaving town, or changing my name, or even my hair colour (although the rouge seduction nail polish will probably go)... I've just reach my ideal weight (remember the Dukan Diet... about to start the next 50 day phase) and am changing day jobs. Oh, and I'm having my hair cut at the end of the week... a small earthquake of its own (will it look good? Luigi at Sulis has only been cutting it with style and flair for a couple a years... who knows he could surprise me with something really unsightly...!)

I might as well be contemplating diving from a 20 meter cliff!

I find it terrifying... there are no markers... not yet at least. Will I have time to go to yoga classes and Zumba? What if I get asked something and don't know the answer? What if they don't like me? What if I don't fit in? You see what I'm doing? Projecting into the future with apprehension and growing panic. Why can't I think positive things, like... I don't know...

Sometimes I think that life should end on a high... I wish there was a service that would come and wrap you up carefully like some valuable antique and put you in suspended animation after a particularly good run of things... and there you could float on a bed of ether, content, looking back on a job well done. A bit like those who die doing what they loved but without the sudden and shocking ending... control freak to the last, I would want to schedule my exit into temporary suspended animation. And then be brought back when things looked particularly exciting and rosy.

How strange! That's material for a sci-fi novel maybe (although not a very good one), but more importantly: who would want to live their lives like that?

Well me, for one.

But why?

Life isn't about pressing the pause button, or fast forwarding, or rewinding for that matter. With life, someone presses PLAY and you're off! Until that same person presses STOP, or you run out of tape, (or more likely these days) memory space.

So how about it? Why not hop into the next circle of light illuminating my path and trust the Greater Universe in all its wisdom and age old compassion? Especially since I asked the said Universe for a clear sign guiding to the next step and it delivered an almighty neon lit all American Brass Band, Red Arrows flying overhead sign that said "GO DO IT!"...

So what am I waiting for? Another sign?

It's time for lift off.

Get, set, go...

Major Isabelle to Ground Control...

Stop it or you'll go blind!

Another rehearsal last night for Desire (the play what I'm in July 13-31 at the White Bear Theatre, London  click here). It involved pretending to play chess on an invisible board (neither one of us actually knows how to play), crying (me), giggling (me and her - because she found a second (rude) meaning to a section of the scene we were working on), and the director giving us heartbreaking circumstances around which to improvise (hence the crying - from me mainly but I think they were getting pretty close to a tear too).

In between we had breaks involving banana and bread rolls (the director), sandwiches, and chewing gum (me - I'm still on the Dukan Diet - I had some steak when I got home. Yum!!) and a very funny anecdote about someone's bed squeaks revealing their nocturnal activities and keeping people awake.

This morning, after a night of interrupted sleep, I feel slighlty light headed and out of myself - as if the character I'm developing was pushing me off my centre. It'll pass once we find a way of both settling inside like two peas in a pod. That's the plan at any rate!

You say World Cup I say Hot Pants!

I am wearing hot pants. No, not knickers still toasty warm from the dryer. Proper short shorts aka hot pants. They are white with cute pastel mini horizontal stripes (which officially no longer make us look bigger than we are). They're from Just Jeans and I bought them in Manly (cool North Sydney surfing beach/community) two years ago (I needed a pair of undies and that's all I could find -- it's a long story.)

Ok. So I'm not wearing them on the street. I'm wearing them in the privacy of my own home which means non one can see me other than the pervy architects across the way and the mystery tennants on the top floor above them. Oh and anyone walking through the NCP car park.

I've paired it up with a "hello boys" bra under an American Apparel yellow T, (because it matches the yellow stripes EXACTLY) and some knee high socks (beigy grey textured pattern) and my pink slippers - just because.

Why? Because that Dukan Diet is working and Zumba is working, and believe it or not, cellulite can disappear. And the sun is out!

By the way,  I'll be cheering for France, Spain, the UK, the US and Brazil (and the Aussies if they're playing).