Come a bit closer, my Puff Adder wants to say hello...

I’m not good when I’m hungry. Or hormonal. Or both. The Puff-Adder, as a good friend of mine christened it, is my small, green and deadly Familiar, with a lightning strike (and telescopic fangs). According to this same friend – who is still very much alive and kicking no doubt saved by his well honed survival instincts and some life saving tips from his ex-Special Forces mates – Puff Adder is quite easy to spot. Apparently, it’s all in the gaze: my eyes narrow, my nostrils flare, and KAPOW! Too late, you’re dead. So if you’re clever (or know me well), you track it and make sure to retreat in time to safety. I just think of it as letting off steam. But apparently, the strike is lethal. Very few have recovered, and of those who have I’m told none ever made a full recovery.

Just go in looking like crap...

Another call from my agent yesterday morning: "I've got you an audition for a photo shoot. It's for a French charity." Me:"Oh... (that's not going to pay much then...) thank you for putting me forward." Agent: "I will email you the details." And she hung up.

Later on, I checked the casting breakdown. I was up for the role of the "thin woman": must be very thin/skinny and look like she is about to have an organ transplant....

Oh dear Lord, here we go again. The Universe does have a sense of humour.

I called my agent back: "Apart from the fact that I am starting to sense a pattern here (remember the bald cap audition from last week? Still waiting to hear on that one...) I'm not sure I look... well... unwell enough for the part..." (I can't help it, it's in my genes: my mother looks 20 years younger than her actual age. And the fact that I live what many people would consider a very sheltered life, I'm in bed by 10, I don't drink or smoke or indulge in anything less... legal. My worst habit is a fondness for diet coke and sugar substitute. I just look... healthy. A casting director once described me as having a mineral water commercial kind of face.)

"That's what make-up is for!" said my agent. It was a bit snappy. It's never a good idea to criticise your agent's judgement, especially if the casting director has requested to see you. "Just go in looking a bit rough you know? Besides you are thin." No, I don't know how to look rough. Apparently my version of looking rough is everybody else's Sunday-morning-at-church look (I'm exaggerating for effect). And no I'm not thin. I'm a slender hour glass. There's a difference. I don't look like I'm about to have an organ transplant, I look like I do a lot of yoga.

But I am an actress so I will do my best: I will go in with no make-up and a bit dishevelled. I have a Zumba class right before it so that should work in my favour. Of course my ego wants to go in there looking like a million dollars. My ego also wants me to get the gig. My ego is torn. "Look, if they really want you, they'll get a good make-up artist in to make you look the part..." I just love my agent.

The truth is, it's an opportunity to meet a casting director who works on quite striking commercials, which in itself is an opportunity to get something that will look striking in my portfolio, something that might just catch a director's eye... and lead to greater things! (This reasoning isn't flawed, it's just very optimistic which is the only way you can survive in this profession - you have to believe, you have to know in your heart of hearts that one day, you'll get that big break. Otherwise, you go and do something more rewarding.)

Let's be positive: I do have rather angular features, in the right light and with the right make-up... who knows. Now, what would Dita do?

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).