Learning Chinese in 90 lessons: lesson number 78 part 2 - "I want my MTV..."

Where were we? Ah yes, I'd just sat down to await my turn for the 'awkward moment' audition having just had an awkward moment of my own with my indiscriminate mention of budgie smugglers...

Casting studio dude: Isabelle? Up you go.

Me: Ok then. Thanks

Director: Hey Isabelle, thanks for joining us. Love your bag!

Me: Thank you.

Director: Everybody, this is Isabelle. You know, the one who shouts 'budgie smugglers' at complete strangers. Maybe we can get her to do it again. Ok Isabelle. Sit at the desk and imagine it's a family dinner table. This is the best holiday dinner ever but it's all about to go wrong. You get splashed with gravy all over but you pretend like nothing happened. You know, stiff upper lip and all that. 

Me: OK.

Director: and... let's do it.

Me: Oh, patron saint of actors and lost causes please give me a sign: do I start now or do I wait for him to say action? 

So I started miming being at the dinner table, eating, passing the salt, checking that my imaginary children had everything they needed, offering them more mash. I really got into it but suddenly realised there would be no cue for the gravy splashing and I'd better get a move on. So I did a weird all over body shudder and then wiped the imaginary gravy off my face and imaginary blouse with my imaginary napkin all the while trying to put a brave face on (which most likely resulted in me looking rather wild eyed and demented.)

Director: O-kay Isabelle... That was good. What was that!? Especially the set up. You took ages!  But can we do the splashing again? And maybe this time you can carry on eating as if nothing happened... You're supposed to be an actor! I'm ever so disappointed  I really expected more from a budgie wrangler. Ah well...

Me: Ok. I'm sorry!

Director: and... let's do it.

Me: Why oh why won't he say action? Or give me a cue for the splashing so I can act surprised? I'm so rubbish. I'm so not getting this job. Why are they even asking me to do it again? 

So I repeated the whole sorry scene, tacking on a bit of brave face eating at the back end but to tell you the truth, my heart wasn't in it. 

Director: Ok. Thank you. I hope the next one's better.

Me: Thank you. I'll never get another audition.

....

Fast forward to Saturday night and the MTV Staying Alive Foundation charity gala. (Check it out, they do really cool AIDS prevention work for young people.) We had the tux, we had the gown, (and the new trunks). I put on my fiercest face paint (I'd done a dry run a few nights before at 2 in the morning channelling Lady Gaga), sleeked my hair back (do you know how hard it is to slick back a short fringe?) and pulled on my gorgeous new dress. 

I'd bought some gold and silver glitter sprays from Claire's (a UK chain that caters to the beauty needs of the under 12s which is about my styling age as I wasn't allowed to experiment with make up as a teenager) and sprayed it over every inch of exposed flesh - all the while hoping I wouldn't end up like the dead girl in Goldfinger. 

We got to the party early and met up with my friend D. for a game of celebrity spotting: oooh look, there's Boris Becker, Linford Christie, and Julien Macdonald fresh from his stint on Strictly Come Dancing... Then the rest of the party arrived and - this is the thing with my friend D. - his other guests were more interesting than the A-listers! It was like meeting the cast from Cluedo but without a murder:

First there was Miss Scarlet, international conceptual artist who combines beauty, wit, the authority of an admiral, and a deep sense of humanity. She rocked the black fish tail look.

Colonel Mustard was a cool, suave and debonair American, working in DC (he denied being a spy but I'm sorry, regular people do not look that good in a tux). I made a mental note to ask him to explain the plot of Gravity's Rainbow to me once we knew each other better.

Professor Plum (the young cool version): a young engineer who builds Rolls Royce engines in his spare time (just kidding, that's his job). Imagine a cross between David Niven and Marcel Dassault in the making. I thought about my crappy little audition from the day before and cried a little on the inside.

Mrs White (the young sexy version): an opera trained Beijing-based performer with more wit and vim than Truman Capote, and Mr Green (the decadent playboy version) who had some fantastic anecdotes.

Then there was the Willy Wonka of Design, rivalling my friend D in the sweetness stakes. If it were me, and I'd designed the new London bus, and the UK pavilion at the Shanghai World Expo amongst other design wonders of the 21st century, I think I'd cop a bit of a diva attitude. But he was just lovely. He even complimented me on my mother-in-law hand me down of a clutch (which - if truth be told - does rock some pretty nifty giant diamante action) which made me feel 10 feet tall. 

And finally, there was what appeared to be the by-product of a cougar's fantasy: combining the looks of a GQ model, a posh pedigree, rugby player, avid skier, sky diver, linguist, Cambridge scholar with a social conscience and all around cutie. I figure, once God finished putting him together, he took a step back and thought: 'gee I wish I'd based the whole lot of them on this model but I can't be bothered with a world wide recall so I know, I'll just make him a twin!' And he did. (The twin wasn't there because even at an MTV gala, you can only take so much perfection.)

I can attest he was pretty real as he ended up sitting next to me at dinner. I know, right, how lucky was that! Even luckier in the lucky stakes was that my husband sat directly opposite me so I was able to blow kisses and mouth 'I love you's' across the table all evening. 

And that, as they say, is that. 

Learning Chinese in 90 days - days 7 and 8: L is for Lesbian

I received a slightly apologetic call from my lovely agent yesterday afternoon.

"I know you're busy with work but Mr. D (casting director for feature films) called up and specifically requested you for a project. D'you think you could free yourself up to go to the audition?"

Mmmm...

Is the Pope Catholic?

I dutifully freed up my diary for Monday lunchtime.

Ping!

Right on cue an email arrived from my agent (lovely and efficient), confirming the audition time and place and providing me with some details about the project as supplied by the casting director.

It read: Indie feature film. Profit share. (ie no pay upfront but we'll feed you and if we make any money you'll get a piece of it). Lesbian subject matter.

I'd rather it paid something upfront but other than that, I look forward to meeting up with Mr D. for the first time in 4 years.

I'll now throw in some insight into the inner paranoid workings of an actor's mind - free of charge:

I met Mr D straight out of drama school. I wasn't auditioning for him you understand, it was more of a meet and greet kind of thing. He was very kind and complimented me on my coat. Then I didn't hear from him again and I assumed he'd:

a) decided I was a an appalling actor (they can tell you know, even without an audition to go by)
b) forgotten about me (there's always the proverbial exception to confirm the rule)
c) black listed me (for some obscure, unknown and unspecified reason. I guess just because, you know, he could)
d) all of the above

But no! All this time, he'd had me sitting in the giant doll house of his mind, where (I imagine) he keeps his collection of actors.

I felt a rush of warmth and gratitude towards Mr D and looked forward to our lunch meeting. He'll be well impressed when I mention in passing that I'm learning to speak Mandarin and aiming to be conversational by mid September. I mean, I'll be impressed! I might even get the lesbian part without having to audition.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm not conversational yet, seeing that I have just completed lessons 7 and 8 of Pimsleur Mandarin Chinese part 1. So how is it going?

I'm still getting the 'OMG! I can't remember a thing' feeling at the end of each lesson so I have been making sure to run each session twice, in some cases preceded by a third run of the previous day's lesson for good measure. Only now I break it up: one hour in the morning, half an hour in the afternoon. That way I'm keeping up to speed but my brain doesn't explode.

Something else I've noticed is that I catch myself uttering words and phrases out loud in Mandarin - and sometimes I don't even understand what I'm saying. Sometimes it happens at night.

Do you think that's slightly freaky?  I'm more inclined to think I'm mimicking young children's behaviour when they start talking: Ma! Mah! Mamamamamamamama! Papa! Papa! Chicken! Cow pat poo! Bird pat poo! (These last two shamelessly borrowed from Aardman's Creature Comforts.)

Or in my case: where is the Beijing Restaurant? I want to eat now. I don't want to eat later. I want to eat lunch. And my favourite: I don't want to eat at your place... but I'd like to do some shopping. (That will come in really handy in the Chinese Soap when I get cast as the Western gold digger.)

There's also the faint possibility - it's only a vague impression for now - that this language programme is actually an alien's experiment in human behavioural brainwashing. Here's an example:

I'm being taught to say 'I would like to drink some tea, or some beer.' The thing is I like to drink water not beer. But I'm not being taught how to say 'water', and if they don't teach me how to say it before the end of the course, I may very well feel compelled to switch to drinking beer. D'you follow?

Like I said it's just the faintest outline of a possibility, for now. But let's keep an eye on it.

Until tomorrow...

It's hot and crazy in the kitchen - the sequel

Well what do you know? As if to prove the point that you can never tell with auditions, my agent called to tell me I had landed a recall following last Friday's disastrous casting session. "The problem is... they won't pay you a recall fee." When have any of them ever paid me a recall fee? "That's fine." "Oh and they've pencilled you for the shoot..." Pencil shmencil...

I'm kindda cranky this week. He would go as far as to say 'she's a bit feral'. It's a hard one to diagnose: a sense of general blahness rather than anything specific. At first I blamed it on the general social malaise (are we or are we not still in a recession?), then I blamed it on the three day week effect (this is our second 4 day weekend in a row) which has meant cramming in 5 days' worth of 'stuff' into 3, then I thought it might be due to media overload I wish them well but enough already with the Royal Wedding. Then I remembered.

Firstly, I've just bleached my teeth. This makes me toothy for a day or two. As in on edge. I manage the sensitivity with 12 hour ibuprofen, but I may need to shift it up a gear and get some Ritalin to get a handle on the mood swings. Secondly, I'm on a bit of a diet so I'm not thinking straight.

Where was I going with this? Audition recall. Just to refresh your memory, last Friday's audition was tragic: I had a barney (that's a quaint British word for altercation) with the girls on reception, then I yelled at the casting assistant, and finally had an emotional melt down with the casting director. Me, I'm all for second chances even if they aren't paying me a recall fee so I figured I'd go and knock their proverbial socks off at the recall.

It was being held at the same location (but of course) as last Friday's audition. I decided to give myself plenty of time to get there so I could stay nice and chilled. So I cleaned the house, stopped by the post office, walked all the way over to the butchers, dropped in on the chemist, picked up some groceries and then dropped everything back at the flat before heading out, which left me just enough time to rush out again and catch a tube (subway) to the audition.

I got there with 10 minutes to spare. After struggling with the glass front door like an imbecile (they buzz you in but the door always sticks so you end up making faces at the reception people to indicate that you're pushing but it's not working and they make faces back mouthing the words 'just push' and then just as you're about to give up and go home the door magically flings open and you fall in, powered by your own exertion.) I stumbled into the foyer.

Me with an engaging smile to the new girl on reception: "I always struggle with that door for some reason! Please don't call security, I'm harmless. Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson, I'm here for the recall."
New girl: "What's your name? Oh sorry, you said. Please sign the ledger."

I obliged.

New girl: "Just take a seat."
Me: Here we go again... "You mean up here?"
New girl: "Yes."
Me: "Not downstairs?"
New girl: "No. That's right. Just sit right here." She pointed at the couch.
Me, with a broad smile: "OK."

Even though it wasn't ok - obviously - I settled on the couch and immersed myself in the paper I'd brought with me.

"Oy. Oy!"

I looked up to find the new girl's side kick on reception waving at me, a bit indignant.  "Yes you! You can go downstairs now!"

Determined to avoid any repeat of Friday's performance, I swallowed my pride, dismissed various murderous thoughts, smiled some more and headed down the stairs.

There were five people in the waiting room. All adults. No twins. To my relief, the young casting assistant from Friday wasn't there. She'd been replaced by someone a bit less impressionable and better organised.

Unflappable casting assistant: "Please fill out this form."
Me: "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson... don't you need to check my name off on your list?"
Unflappable casting assistant: "No. Don't tell me how to do my job. I could break you with my thumb. Just fill out the form and bring it back."

I smiled, took a seat, put my paper down on the chair next to mine and filled out the form as instructed. She took my mug shot and gave me a sheet with my name written on it and the number 32. (It turns out they'd abandoned the first come first serve system and were instead sticking to appointment times.)

I sat back down, went to grab my paper and realised that the guy one seat over had taken it. He wasn't being rude. He'd assumed it wasn't anybody's. So I didn't say anything and waited my turn. But waiting is harder without a paper.

Number 29 was called. Some more people came in. Then it was number 30's turn (who happened to be the guy who'd stolen my paper). I grabbed my paper back.

"I'm really very sorry but I've only got like just a wee minute so if you can squeeze me in next that would be great!"

Me and everyone else looked up at the tall and rather skinny Scottish guy with an incredibly whiny voice who'd just come into the room.

Unflappable casting assistant: "Well, these people (pointing at the five of us) are in front of you."
Whiny Scottish guy: "It's just that I don't have much time..."
Unflappable casting assistant, with a slight edge creeping in:: "Well, if someone's happy to switch with you that would be fine but otherwise you're going to have to wait."

Nobody offered to switch places.

Whiny Scottish guy: "Oh I don't want to p*ss anybody off..." but of course not, you just want to jump the queue.

Just then the door open and the casting director came out calling for number 31.

Number 31 to whiny Scottish guy: "It's my turn but I could switch with you if you'd like."
Whiny Scottish guy: "Well as I said I don't want to p*ss anybody off..."
Casting director interrupting him, to her casting assistant: "Wouldn't that throw your numbers?"
Casting assistant picking up on the hint: "Well, yes. It would."
Casting director to whiny Scottish guy: "It's going to mess up her system. What time do you have to leave?"

This went on for another five minutes. At least. I remained ensconsed in my paper, suddenly consumed with interest by the article on wedding party dresses and the fact that the colour yellow is on trend for the summer.

"Number 32!"

I sauntered past the casting director into the casting room. Sadly Fred wasn't there. His replacement (I use the term loosely), a nervy little guy with corkscrew hair raced out of the room with an "I've got to pee!".

The carpet and small round table were covered in flour (presumably from the chef auditions). I stared at the mess. A disembodied voice reached me from the back of the room. (Without my glasses, I'm terribly short sighted.) "Hi, I'm Stanley, I'm the director." Oh my goodness the director thinks I'm ignoring him. "Hi Stanley. I'm so sorry: everything's a bit of a blurr without my glasses." I could just about make out another silhouette next to him which I assumed was the client. I tried to gauge whether the casting director remembered my outburst (casting directors remember everything) with some friendly small talk. "How did you go with your bread dough?" The director groaned. Casting director with a hearty laugh: "Oh it well really well! Although this one chef told me it was a pretty bad dough."

We grinned at each other for a while until Fred's replacement popped back in the room with an empty bladder and clean hands.

We did the whole audition over again, just like on Friday. No reaction from Stanley or his shadowy off-sider. Then he had me try it in a completely different way. They had a little chuckle over my performance -  I remember thinking "that sounds like a good chuckle" - then the shadow next to him leant over and whispered something. And then it was thank you and good bye.

Will I get it? Who knows? Does it matter? Not really. The money (about a 6th of the big money job) would pay for a few cases of chocolate but I couldn't eat them because I'm on diet. I could always put it towards next month's rent.

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.

oooh la la gimme that French feeling...

The day didn’t have the most auspicious of starts. If I were to slow down my brain process it went something like this: Wham! Blackness. Shock. Heavy. I’m dead. Pain.Ow! Whazzat? Head. More pain.

Clasping both hands to the top of my head I instinctively moved away from the source of danger and lay flat on the living room floor. The sound of rushed footsteps and he hovered into view. "Are you ok?" He had his worried face on. The face of a man who knows that my talent for self-inflicted pain is impressive and limitless in its creativity and that given half a chance I will find dramatic and novel ways of braining myself. In terms of pure destructive power, Dr. StrangeLove has nothing on me.

I’d been retrieving some files from the lower part of the antique desk when the desk flap flew open unexpectedly and banged me pretty hard on the head. It sounded something "Pssshhhiiiiii Wack!" which - I grant you - has a certain dynamic ring to it. I wished, and not for the first time, that all my furniture came from IKEA so that I stood more of a chance in case of ambush 'part ammeublement'*. Just in case you’re getting the wrong idea, I love IKEA. As a matter of fact I’m writing this sitting on my tomato red IKEA couch. The desk on the other hand is patently not from IKEA on account that it is possessed by some sort of head banging spirit, is older even than IKEA’s founder, and comes from a land as warm as Sweden is cold. The wood contracts and distends across the seasons and the lock on the desk flap can stick. Our solution is to leave it precariously wedged shut even though it means that from time to time it’ll come flying open.

Like this morning, when it flew open and connected with my skull. Him: “What’s your name? When’s my birthday? Where were you born?” To distract him and give myself something to take my mind of the pain I requested a glass of water even though what I really wanted to do was burst into tears and call for my mother.

Now, apart from a persistent headache (not strong enough to warrant pain killers, but strong enough for me to try and milk it for all it’s worth), and a dull pain in my nose (my nose?), I’m feeling pretty well recovered, all things considered. So thanks for asking.

The thing is, I had some things to do and an audition. The casting brief was rather promising: woman (check), 40’s (ok, check), looks wealthy and expensively groomed (I can scrub up and put on my Sunday Best and look French – so: check). The script called for some comedic talent. As it happens, I make a great comedy villain, it’s like the bull’s eye of my casting type. Think Sue Sylvester from Glee crossed with Audrey Tautou. I did a little mental victory dance, this was going to be easy-peasy...

But as I kept scrolling down (I always do that with email, it’s amazing the amount of detail people leave in the tail…) I discovered that it was a pretty big job in terms of money. Not  big as in ‘I would never have to work again',  you understand. Not even ‘I could take the rest of the year off’ big. But big enough so that if I were to get it and go out and buy a case of chocolate bars, I would have a bit of change left over. Maybe small change for Johnny Depp, but good enough for me. As it dawned on me how much the job was potentially worth, I started feeling nervous about not landing it.

When I get nervous, I google. I checked out the production company who would be filming the commercial. They were a French outfit who in addition to ads, produce feature films for the French market. (As it happened, they’d produced the film I was watching last night, a hilarious French comedy. It was so funny in fact that he agreed to watch it with me even though he’d already seen it on the plane. And he never does that.) My casting performance could potentially land me an audition for a French feature film. This could be the start of something! I have one, ok two words for you: Marion Cotillard.

Marion or not, I started feeling even more nervous about not landing the job.Why is it that the thought of not getting something ‘big’ feels worse than not getting something ‘average’? It's perverse.

“Hope and Fear are two sides of the same coin so take that fear and turn it into the hope side of things...” With his wise advice ringing in my ears (either that or the ringing was from the blow to the head) I headed out to the audition in the still glorious (if slightly cooler) London sunshine. The casting studio was empty when I arrived with my ‘face’ on, dressed in my Sunday best, with my Paul Smith sunnies tagging along as good juju. After a few seconds of ‘oh my god the place is empty! Have I got the wrong date? The wrong time? The wrong location?’ I gave my name to the nice receptionist who ticked it off her list and gave me some paperwork to fill out. Then she took my mug shot (I made sure to stare straight at the lens) and then invited me to join the others downstairs (which is were everybody was).

There were two attractive but rather pinched brunettes. The kind that you would clock as elegant and attractive but not the kind you’d want to hang out with. So I didn't really talk to them. There was one friendly blonde lady called Lucy who it turns out – are you ready for this – worked as a mid-wife and birthing partner in between acting jobs. She confessed she was rather sleep deprived on account that one of her clients was due any day now and she’d been worried about sleeping through the phone call if it came during the night. I thought she was really sweet. If I don’t get the job I hope she gets it. Honestly, this world needs more nice people like Lucy.

Then there was a guy who regaled us with anecdotes of previous auditions, including the time when he tripped down the stairs and tumbled down the last flight just as the casting director was coming out. He was nice too.

The audition itself was pretty straight forward. I went in on my own. I wouldn’t say that I nailed it but that’s the nature of auditions: when you think you’ve got it sewn up you don’t get it, and when you think you did so-so, you might just get it (or not). But between you and me, can you keep a secret? I really hope I get it.

PS So this was all yesterday... I have just received a message from my agent telling me that I have a recall (2nd round of auditions for shortlisted actors) for this job tomorrow! Woop Woop!

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?

The Bear and the Hungarian Princess

I wish I was a bear. Let me elaborate and broaden this statement. I'd like to be any type of hybernating animal. Why? Consider this: in the Spring and Summer, you frolick around in the lush grass of the meadows, stuffing yourself silly with berries and other wild fruit and honey (if you're a bear that is - and I'm quite partial to honey, especially since it's excluded from the Dukan Diet, hence my preference for bears). You get as fat as you can. Then, when the days start to shorten and the leaves start to fall from the trees, after a last meal of gorgeous hazelnuts you bury yourself deep underground in an accommodating and comfy den and then sleep for months. Then, when you wake up, it's Spring and - here's the best part - you're skinny!

Look me in the eye and tell me that you don't want to come back as a bear next time around... (of course, make sure to specify what kind of bear... you  don't want to come back as a panda and be stuck in a zoo eating bamboo leaves and being encouraged to copulate with your panda mate that you don't fancy one bit.)

Now on to the Hungarian princess bit. Kate Middleton and Prince William are engaged to be married and of course everyone is very very happy for them... but the BBC seems very keen on pointing out every five minutes that she is a "commoner". How progressive! Hey, at least she's English, she's not a benefit fraud, she's not a divorcee, and she's even from the Home Counties. What more do they want? Actually she's from good middle class stock and apparently a 15th cousin of Prince Williams so there's a bit of aristo in her. And unlike journos her grammar is near perfect...

Speaking of perfect grammar. What passes for my British accent overseas disturbs the English. I don't have an accent: no regional twang, no social class twang (genuine or affected), so they can tell I'm not from here. I'm tired of having to justify my accent to everyone from Taxi drivers to call centre workers...  Did you ever watch "My Fair Lady" ? When Professor Higgins takes Eliza Doolittle's to a very posh reception as a final test? One of the guests is heard commenting: "Her accent is too perfect... she must be a Hungarian Princess!". More of that please, and less "Where are you from?".

Moving on, I had a casting today for a well known chain of eyewear. It was right behind Oxford Circus and I'd never been to that particular studio. I arrived early, rang the interphone and duly climbed the stairs, all five floors, to the casting studio. I whiled away the time chatting with a fellow actor as we waited our turn. Me: "Boy, it's a long way up! I'm pretty fit I think but I was starting to struggle there towards the end. You wouldn't want to come up those stairs if you had a dodgy ticker!." Him: "I don't know, I took the lift..." I hadn't realised there was a lift... Anyway, his name was Toby and he was about 6 foot 2 and we auditioned together standing side by side which must have looked quite hysterical. He was really lovely and warm and I wish him all the best.

So here's to happy couples, long royal marriages, Hungarian Princesses and hungry bears!

Me and the Vampire, we're like one degree of separation...

For whatever reason, I've only recently become aware of HBO hit series True Blood, set in the deepest of the Deep South, and following the adventures of Sookie, a telepathic waitress played by Anna Paquin (Remember the little girl who won an Oscar for Jane Campion's The Piano? Well, her.) and her rather dishy lover Bill Compton, who happens to be a vampire. (Yes really. With retractable fangs and everything.)

Bill is played by British actor Stephen Moyer. Stephen studied at LAMDA and one of his tutors there was Brian Astbury... who also happened to be one of my tutors at East15. And there's our one degree of separation!

I often fantasise about appearing on a US hit TV series. In the meantime, I get to go to auditions like the one I had yesterday, for a corporate video. (For those of you who are not in the Industry, a corporate video requires the same amount of filming as a commercial but because it is not broadcast, the actors only get paid the shooting fee, which is a lot less - at most 20% - than the usage rights for broadcast....)

But I'm a trouper. If your agent sends you to a casting, you go, whatever the part, whatever the gig. Because every casting is an opportunity to get on people's radar. So off I went to the casting studio, braving the cold and the rain and arrived to find a waiting room drowning in actors and mountains of bags and coats. It looked like those pictures of the Eurostar terminal last Christmas. It smelt of wet clothes and wet leather. And that indefinable film that always hangs in the air whenever actors gather in numbers: I call it the smell of desperation.

I wasn't desperate, just a bit miffed that the 3 other castings taking place there were for 2 feature films and a commercial for Microsoft. Why not me!!! The answer was staring me in the face. More precisely, I was doing the staring.

There was a posse of young girls wearing more make-up than Jordan (they always do!) chatting away excitedly about their recent and current film roles. It turned out that they were all ex-classmates and going up for the same title role in this big feature. (No corporate videos for them then...)

There was a rather bloated and ragged looking older woman who occasionally sniffed the contents of a small glass capsule (probably lavender essence or something to clear the sinuses). She kept blowing her nose and sighing. In between the sniffing and the blowing and the sighing, she was going over her script. (No corporate video for her either...)

There were 20-30something women with long hair and lanky men who were called in to audition in pairs for a big American brand. You could smell the money.

And then there was me and one other rather snooty girl who from the moment she strutted in looked down her nose at everybody. I know enough now to read it as nervousness and insecurity. As it turns out, she was called in right before me.

Even though I am not a teenager, or an old hag, or sport long hair, part of me was still silently screaming "Why not me?" "Pick me!"

Anyway, it was a nice audition. Nice people. We had a laugh. We had a chat. I hope I get it. It's always the way, no matter what the job is, once you've auditioned for it, you feel like the part is well... part of you, that it's yours, like a birth right.

Of course, the right approach it to take each audition as it comes, and then forget all about it. But I'm too sentimental, I get attached.

So bite me ... I hope I get it.

I want to be a world famous fetish model

I didn't say that. I wish I had but sadly I can't take credit for it. These words were uttered by Ditta Von Teese, the self styled 50's pin-up queen of burlesque. She started her career as a fetish model, gained notoriety for her signature style and then drifted into burlesque.

My point is, other than the gratuitous titillation, that Ditta's success came from her carving out a niche for herself with a consistent and well differentiated image. It's branding 101 really. But with self adhesive pasties (not the Cornish ones - I think that's off the menu if you want to look like THAT.)

So what is my niche? What is the look and style that will help me build a following in the casting community?

The thing is, it's not as easy for actors as it is for performers. An actor needs to remain neutral enough that he/she can be cast in a variety of roles. And in the beginning, until you've established a name for yourself, all the casting director sees is your photo... in a sea of photos of other anonymous faces. How on earth do you stand out without making yourself look like an alien?

Let's think positively for a moment. Let's assume that I can tread this delicate balance between differentiation and neutrality... what image am I aiming for? I'd love to look like Ditta (I think what I mean is that I'd love to uh... hang out with Ditta) but I have a clowny side which draws me closer to Shirley Maclaine than Marilyn. I also have a weakness for Rowan Atkinson's Mr Bean. Not so much the movie version but rather the TV series. I like the sweetly tragic nature of the character, especially when he is alone in his tiny betsit interacting with his teddy. Are you still with me?

So, the big question is how could I combine Ditta and Mr Bean? Just because I love two things doesn't mean that the combination would be something "devoutly to be wished"... afterall, I LOVE After Eights and I LOVE bouillabaisse but I don't think they'd combine very well, do you?

Maybe I should seek inspiration from the masters of mixing: Ben & Jerry's. They concocted some pretty awesome combinations: Fish Food, Cheeky Monkey. Maybe I should drop my name and replace it with a catchy moniker: Lady Bella or Greggy the Frog or... something that doesn't make me sound so much like something out of a Guy Ritchie film.

So where does this leave me? I think maybe I should postpone all thoughts on the matter till after Christmas. Apparently turkey's really good for brain function...

In the meantime, here's to health, happiness and frilly knickers, and a new year full of discovery.

You've got the face for a mineral water advert

I finally got an audition for a mineral water TV commercial, to run in France!!

Let's keep our excitement under wraps as... uh.... I don't have the job yet.

But it was promising. First of all, I've got the face for it. Healthy glowing skin even with minimal make-up, and a general healthy vibe. A face that says "I don't drink, smoke or do drugs, and I don't party like a wild animal. I eat healthy. And I go to bed early, me."

I also had a healthy glow because I had just walked to the casting session from home, at a good clip, in 40 minutes.

I flirted shamelessly with the boy at the front desk and he agreed that I deserved the part more that any of the other girls they were seeing that day. It made me feel good. Shame they won't be asking him for his opinion.

There were 2 girls waiting to go before me. One was a very tall, very drawn and thin (her knees were thinner than my wrists), and quite frankly rather unhealthy girl with lanky blond hair and sallow skin. I don't think she screamed "natural vitality and mineral water". The other girl had a nice athletic build (and a bottle of branded water in hand. Bitch). But she had a very hard rather agressive set to her face, that didn't look like friendly vitality to me.

Then it was my turn.

The character's name in the script was Isabelle. That's always a good sign and I made sure to mention it to the casting lady. I think she thought I was a bit eccentric.

The audition was quite tricky actually. Casting wanted me to be energetic but with a natural delivery straight to camera and show three different states of mind for the three bits of the scripts. To be delivered in fluent French.

BRING IT ON BABY! That last bit went fine. My French accent is flawless (afterall, I grew up there) but as I know I'm naturally quite theatrical and dramatic in my manner, a natural delivery is always a bit tricky (I usually end up doing "depressed") but I DID MY BEST.

They had me do it twice. They said "that's all for now." which I immediately assumed meant that I would be seeing them again and then I was out into the sunshine. And on a current of optimism and mineral water-induced well being, I walked all the way back home.

Oh, and I did all this with the dregs of a really bad cold I've been nursing since last Friday. What a pro!

Baby, you age well!

The text message beeped on my mobile. It was from my agent. They have this snazzy new system that alerts you to the time, address and contact for an audition, plus sends you more details by email. FAN - TAS - TIC.

It was for a feature film. E - VEN BET - TER.

With two up and coming casting directors. GREAT!!!

When I called my agent to confirm, we hit a snag.

"You're going to have to look a lot older."

"How much older?"

"45."

"Well, that's not too bad. At least it's not 80!"

"I told them that today's 45 look 30. I guess it all depends on how old the girl is that they'll be casting as your daughter. She's meant to be 25-30." (It turns out that my part was mean to be 45 -55.)

"Will do my best!"

"Try not wearing any make-up." (Unfortunately, I tend to look younger without any make-up. Tired and drawn, but younger. It's strong make-up that ages me.)

So here I am. As it happens, I slept badly and I've caught someone's cold so I'm definitely not looking my freshest.

The thing is, this is all good news. Thanks to my agent's doggedness, I'm getting in front of not one but two young and hungry casting directors.

Watch this space...

On the casting couch

The call came in last night from my agent. "You've got an audition for an advert on December 4th at 11 o'clock." Actually, they didn't call, they now have this snazzy email system with all the details written on it and you just have to reply to the email to say you'll be there.

So I found myself in a rather drafty reception in Soho this morning, waiting my turn. You can tell a lot from the type of production and how much they're likely to pay (my agent never tells me how much until I get the job...) If they're disorganised and running behind schedule, it's not a good sign. They were running 1/2 hour late (not that they told us... we figured it out for ourselves) and committing the cardinal sin of not following the call order that the actors had been given. So it was pandemonium and rising tension. (With some PMT thrown in for good measure - at least on my part!) Oh, they also didn't have enough scripts to go round...

It finally got to my turn, did my thing. They seemed to like me. Thought I had a Southern Irish lilt. Which is news to me as I can't seem to be able to do an Irish accent without sounding Pakistani. But they seemed quite keen! So chances are I'll probably get it... apparently they'll be picking 3 of us.

I guess fingers crossed. The money will probably be so-so. But it's Christmas and it's a job so if I get it, I'll be glad and grateful.

It's so ironic that I spent the last 3 weeks agonising about when my next audition would be and then one comes along and my gratitude is nowhere to be found... That's actors for you. Wingeing and ungrateful bunch that we are. I hope we don't get made redundant by technology before I'm nominated for an Academy Award!

I'm not doing that, it's too cheesy.

They say everyone has their price, and their limit. I still don't know what my price is but I sure can tell you what my limit is. I walked smack into it yesterday evening, at a casting for a cheese commercial, on the outer edges of West London, zone 2.

When I say cheese, what I mean is processed, squeezed out of a tube, comes in 4 flavours including prawn (I know!) kind of "cheese".

Unfortunately, the commercial (and therefore the casting session) called for a fair bit of eating of the product.

I'm proud to be in recovery from eating disorders but there are still a few things that make me unconfortable and downright loopy. Having to gobble processed cheese is one of them. Having to wait my turn for 45 minutes with the growing realisation that I'm going to have to gobble oodles and oodles of the stuff is another.

By the time I walked into the casting room, I was vibrating with anxiety. Almost levitating with stress. We did the idents (name, agent's name, rigth profile, left profile). Then I got briefed by the director (a woman): You (and before you ask, yes, "you" is another 40 something mum) are digging into the the stuff looking like you're being submerged by waves of flavour and delight.

Come again?

But then again, I am an actor. Surely I can adjust to any request from a director? Taking my clothes off, fine. Appearing with no make-up, fine. Looking unattractive and/or fat, fine. But I'm sorry - I draw the line at eating prawn flavoured anything that you have to squeeze out of a tube.

The director gave me last minute directions (prepare the "canapes", eat, enjoy, look delighted etc...) for the first take and said we'd try something else afterwards.

So I took a big breath and then I fudged it. I ended up eating a few bare pretzel sticks instead of the cheese. My throat was so dry I even struggled with those. I didn't make it past the first take.

I should've felt pretty crushed to be so obviously placed in the "reject" pile, but I couldn't wait to get out of room. Having retrieved my coat and brolly, I fairly skipped out of the building, after a minor freak-out when I accidently walked back into the casting room (through another door) instead of the front door.

I walked back to Kensington Olympia tube station (and it was raining pretty hard) and I felt like a freak. That was the worst bit about the whole experience. I felt different from everyone else: somehow not quite right in the head. All the other women had gone in, done their stuff, and come out wiping their fingers and smacking their lips. And I'd gone in and freaked out (technically, I'd gone in freaked out). Over having to eat some squeezy prawn flavoured cheese.

I know it's fantastic material for my next show.

And now I know what my limit is.

I'm feeling a bit empty!

I finished the acting job last Thursday and took the next 3 days off. And now it's Monday and the week looks a bit... empty! There's people to phone up, friends to meet up with to discuss new projects, and plays to see (Pinter's One Man Land at the Duke of York Theatre, with Michael Gabon). But there's still that overwhelming feeling of lack of purpose. Will I ever get an acting gig again?

It's very childish behaviour. And quite irrational (a big casting director told my agent I was "delightful" last week. And my favourite PR man thought my latest photos were "fabulous".) The thing is I want everything to happen now, preferably all at the same time, and the way I imagine that I want it. And I want more of it.

Right.

We're running riot. (Me and my Ego.) Let's try and refocus.

Let's make a list of what I want. And another of what I need.

What I need:
1. to be at one with the universe and let it guide me along my path.

What else? That's pretty much it. Really? Well, I also need courage and serenity to help me achieve item 1. Ok. Do they need to be in any specific order? Don't think so.

2. Courage
3. Serenity

Actually, can we switch them around? What? Oh, you're impossible!

What I Need List:
1. Be at one with the Universe
2. Serenity
3. Courage

What about the other list? What other list? Are you listening to me or entry 27 on the UK Top40? Sorry! The I Want List.

What I Want List:
Happiness, things going my way, financial security, love, admiration from the public and my peers, recognition, peace of mind, great legs, a greener planet, less poverty in the world, less pain, death, disease and greed. And a better theme song for the new Bond film.

Shall I go on? You sound like you're scraping the barrel. Or is that scrapping?

Why are you asking me?

I dunno. I guess the I Want List is pretty pointless. Isn't it? Yes, so it seems, but it's up to you. Oh...

So it is. Let's just go with the first list, the What I Need List, and leave it at that. Ok.

Over.
And out.