The little madam and the key to everlasting happiness

Before I launch into anything else, I want to acknowledge the absolutely wonderful weather that London is currently blessed with. You have to see it to believe it: it's warm, it's sunny, it's lasted for more than one day, and there's no rain in the forecast unless you live in Scotland where it's been raining solid for the past week. My Paul Smith sunglasses are getting a real workout.

Earlier this week my agent called with news of an audition for a leading chilled food brand. The casting break-down read: "woman, attractive but not too much, with experience."

Apart from killing with faint praise, I'm not sure what the descriptor 'attractive but not too much' is meant to convey. I'm going to assume it means neither elephant man nor drop dead gorgeous but somewhere in the middle - which probably applies to 95% of the population.

Drop dead gorgeous' on the other hand, or DDG applies to 1% (and I'm being generous) of the population under the age of 18. Let's say Brooke Shields in those 'nothing comes between me and my Calvin Kleins' ads back in the eighties. If you're too young to know what I'm talking about just google 'Brooke Shields Calvin Klein' under 'images' and you'll see what I mean. Or here's another example: I give you - and in a category all of her own - Naomi Campbell in her heyday.

The remaining 4% consists of very attractive women with good bone structure and regular features and who are blessed with good genes. However, before you start hating them, let me assure you that even they don't look DDG without good styling and make-up, great lighting and possibly (definitely) some touch-ups courtesy of  PhotoShop. If you don't believe me, check out French ELLE's April 2009 no-makeup covers  featuring eight famous beauties (including Eva Herzigova, Monica Bellucci, Sophie Marceau, and Charlotte Rampling). They look nice - sort of -  but not DDG.

Truth is, most women can look absolutely stunning with good styling, good make-up (and most importantly some effective coaching to up the self-esteem and self-confidence) as demonstrated in any good make-over programme or some of those hour long cosmetic infomercials on morning TV. It just takes time, dedication, discipline and money. That's all. So unless you're really bored or earning buckets of money because of it, it's probably not worth the investment (except for the self-esteem bit.). If you're not up to it, don't worry, have a burger, have cup cake or two, read a book, learn a new language, eat some chocolate, treat the family to some hot air ballooning and enjoy your life.

(Tip of the day : pick your best/favourite feature and next time you look in a mirror, focus on that one feature and nothing else. This is really hard to achieve but if you can master it you will have found one of the keys to everlasting happiness.)

Where on earth was I? Oh yes, the frozen food audition. The breakdown also read 'with experience'. The French in me thought it made it sound a bit like they were looking for a Madam to run a Nevada brothel. But what I think they actually meant was 'with acting experience'. Acting experience is code for 'we are looking for some really fine tuned performances here, from people who can take direction and turn on a dime and work fast - because time is money and we don't want to be paying over time for some prima donna who can't give the director what he wants. We don't want a re-shoot, so please, no time-wasters.'

Well, last time I checked I wasn't Naomi Campbell (unless she shrunk in the wash) and I have a Masters Degree in acting so I think I'm qualified: I emailed my agent back to say I'd be there.

Did I mention we're having the most glorious weather? Full of goodwill and buoyed by the sunshine, I walked into town to the casting studio in Soho. Along the way, I stepped briefly into Men are from Mars Women are from Venus: I was walking along, holding my tummy in like any self-respecting ballet dancer. Did it stick out through the thin fabric of my top? As I wandered past a young construction worker, he took a break from munching on his sub to cheerfully exclaim "And we have nipples!! Wey hey hey..."  Actually, he'd mistaken the lace on my bra for nipples which I took as a sign of youth and inexperience and wishful thinking. (But I thought better than to point that out to him. Might've put him off his lunch.)

I have to confess that I gave my tummy muscles a bit of breather after that, because - obviously -  no one was looking at them. For those of you who feel offended on my behalf please don't be. I spend a lot of time at the gym, I watch what I eat, and I wear sunscreen because I made the informed decision (I also went to an all women's college) I'd rather be whistled at than ignored. And if anyone were to overstep the mark, I reserve the right to hit them over the head with my umbrella or my purse, granny style.

When I got to the casting studio, I checked my hair (my new hair!!) in the mirror downstairs, and tucked in my tummy once again before negotiating one of those impossibly narrow and twisty staircases that are a feature of Soho townhouses.

I emerged on the first floor landing to be confronted by the mayhem that is a gaggle of actors waiting to be called into an audition. Do these people ever stop talking? (Apparently, my sunny disposition did not extend to feeling charitable about other jobbing actors.) There was a nice man at the front desk who was directing traffic - ballet master style - to the two casting rooms upstairs.

I smiled warmly. "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson, I'm here for the frozen food casting." (I don't believe in the 'keep them guessing' school of introductions. Tell them who you are, remind them what you are auditioning for, and save everybody some time. Plus it's good practice for later: does anyone remember Liz Taylor presenting an Oscar some years ago? She came up to the pulpit and said "Good evening. My name is Elizabeth Taylor." The crowd tittered but for the record, when my turn comes, that's exactly how I'm going to do it.)

Front desk man gave me the usual casting form to fill out and a copy of the script. He pointed to the casting list:"Is your name spelled right?" It read 'Isabel Gregson'. I went from sympatico to psycho in under a micro second. "No it certainly isn't!" I grabbed the first pen I saw which happened to be a red marker. "Oh and in red too, that'll show them." I ignored what I took for sarcasm but which in hind sight was probably a brave stab at humour in the face of Armageddon, and wrote my name down I-S-A-B-E-L-L-E in big letters as I muttered under my breath.

I stopped muttering when I discovered a casting director hovering at my elbow. I prayed that (a) she hadn't witnessed my little outburst and (b) she wasn't the one I was due to audition with. She wasn't: front desk man called out some names and two actors followed her up the stairs. I went to stand in the corner against the wall for the obligatory mug shot. As I waited for front desk man to print it out I tried to make amends. "What's your name?" "Phil." He stapled my photo to the casting form." Thanks Phil, you've been really helpful." And off I went to join the fray in the holding room where I managed to find a spare bit of bench. I glanced at the mug shot which was definitely not DDG. I had stared into the wrong bit of the camera (everything goes blurry when I take my glasses off), far above the lens which gave me a rather dreamy and ever so slightly demented appearance. Ah well, I'll know for next time: should've laughed off the mis-spelling of my name instead of freaking out at Phil with the red marker.

To pass the time, I glanced around the room. It was heaving with people but as always, no one else looked the slightest bit like me (not even the people waiting to go in for the other casting). I felt like it was my first day at school all over again, that I would never make any friends and that any way they all looked stupid. Then I stared out of the window to wait my turn. No one on the street below looked like me either.

"Isabelle Gregson? Studio 2."

Relieved, I propelled myself and my purse out of the waiting room onto the stairs with unfortunate timing as I ended up sandwiched between the casting director who had witnessed my outburst and the two people who's turn it was to audition with her. So we had a bit of 'oh-who-what-ah-sorry-you-want-to-get-through' dance on the second landing outside studio 1. We all emerged unscathed (thank goodness for the Brits!) and I continued my ascent. I knocked on the door of studio 2.

"Come in!" I recognised that voice, it was the lovely K. who'd auditioned me the week before for a big fast food brand. We'd got along famously well - even though I didn't get the gig. But more on that later.

K: "Forget the script. I want you to not act at all, just look normal."

Believe it or not, that is an incredibly difficult thing to do unless you've gone to drama school or have years of experience under your belt. The minute you tell someone to act normal, they start - well - acting anything but normal. Being 'experienced' I did nothing of the sort and obliged by just standing there.

K: "Let's do it again, just a smidgen more."

I duly gave her a smidgen more.

K: "That's great. Now look left, and look right. Perfect! That's exactly what I was looking for. That's all I need."

I thanked her. As I said, I think she is rather lovely and very friendly and smart.

K: "By the way, did you ever get a recall for that fast food commercial?"
Me:"No..."
K:"Oh what a shame! You were on the short list you know. But I think the client made some changes to the brief..."

Now, actors live in a binary world: you either have the gig or you don't. No one ever tells you that you were short listed. If I don't get it, I just assume they thought I was crap. Being told that I had been a contender, albeit fleetingly, made me feel really good. For about a second.

K: "Bye! Don't worry, we'll definitely get you something. You have a great look!"

Now that made me feel really good for the rest of the day.

Epilogue: BTW ('by the way', not 'bacon tuna and watercress'), it's been three days now and I don't think I got the frozen food gig. The recall was scheduled for the next day and the call never came. Maybe I made the short list again, maybe I was the first one to be discarded. Maybe I was the top choice for the Advertising Agency, the director and the casting director but the client wanted a safer option (or the DDG option). And what if I'd got the job? The funny thing is, getting the job/not getting the job, none of that matters. Getting the lead role in an blockbuster film? It's good but it doesn't really matter. Honest. In the scheme of things, as an actor the most important thing is the next audition. And the one after that. Get your head around that one and you will find the second key to everlasting happiness.

George Clooney's pet

As I discarded the vegetable peels (I was making wild rabbit stew) I observed - and not for the first time - that a pet Vietnamese Pot Bellied pig would come in handy as a friendly eco-alternative to the bin. (I don't have the luxury of a compost heap as I live in a flat.) Why? (Why do I want a pig not why do I live in a flat.) I don't know why! George Clooney - who's rather made a success of his acting career - had one apparently. Who's to tell that the two aren't connected? I should try and find out.

In the meantime, I've finally gone and done it: I had my hair cut. I'd been working pretty hard (contrary to popular belief, in between jobs, actors don't tend to wait around sulking by the phone, they keep busy learning new skills - like coming to grips with a fiendish piece of new web design software) and decided to go for a brisk short walk in the sunshine. My destination? The local Tesco's, a few blocks away. Uncharacteristically for a visit to the supermarket, I took the time to apply some mascara and lip gloss and even rubbed a bit more styling putty into my hair for good measure - noting en passant that I should really get around to getting a hair cut. I even brushed my teeth. I stepped out in my dark denim flares (the kind that only look good paired up with high heels), my little flat healed biker boots, an orange t-shirt from Holland (the country not the brand) my purple suede hold-all and to tie it all together (or just because) my pink knock-about dufflecoat... And then almost as an afterthought, I grabbed my beautiful new Paul Smith sunnies. (I got them last August, and even blogged about it in the entry  I've Been Touched by Midas. They still qualify as "new" because London's only had something like 5 days of sunshine since then.)

So far so good. I was half way down the block when I stepped into one of those parallel universe moments where I suddenly turn into my impulsive alter ego. I love being impulsive. Normally, I'm such a sucker for routine but being impulsive makes me feel like Angelina Jolie in one of her action films: thin and sexy and hard and then she gets Brad Pitt for real and forever. (I'm not lusting after Mr. Pitt, I'm just trying to illustrate my point.) Where was I? Impulsive: on the way to the supermarket, out of the blue, I called the hair salon. It's Isabelle, would Luigi be able to fit me in before the end of the week? Tomorrow or today? Today would be great. How about 4pm?  (So far that was just planning. Nothing Angelina about that. Wait for it! Here comes the impulsive bit...) How about now? Now? Yes. Now as in how soon? Now as in the 20 minutes it'll take me to jump on the tube and get to you. OK then. See you in 20 minutes.

How's that for impulsive?

As I vaulted into the tube station, and I switched back (I have no control over these switches, I wish I did) to my more familiar neurotic and cautious mode, it occurred to me that although I wouldn't be arrested by the Tesco style police I wasn't necessarily dressed appropriately for a visit to Luigi at Taylor Made. I don't know about you, but when I go to my hairdresser's I like to look my best. Same with my dentist. I toyed with the idea of buying a cheap (cheap!) pair of heels and/or a new top in the station's shopping arcade. I don't know whose ideal I was trying to live up to but I came to my senses and hopped onto a train instead.

So feeling rather short-legged and under-dressed - especially once I took off my uber-stylish Paul Smith sunnies - I sat down for my pre-shampoo consultation with Luigi. As I've mentioned before, it usually goes something like this: Me: "Hi. It's been a while, I should've come to see you sooner." Luigi: "It's not that bad!" (That's true, only because Luigi -  in addition to being a real sweetheart -  is also a hair god: a hair cut with Luigi never really grows out, it's your hair that gives up.) Luigi: "So what do you want to do?" Then I say the three magic words: "Up to you." I surrender in this way because a haircut by Luigi is a beautiful thing. Because that's what I imagine Angelina would do. And because hair grows back.

I wrestled into the salon robe and lowered myself into the shampoo chair (you know what I mean) and gave myself up to the ministrations of the new shampoo boy. All I remember is saying "Hi, I'm Isabelle." He said "I'm from Japan. My name is..." and then he applied his hands to my head and - did he aim for a pressure point? - I melted like soft butter. Literally, my entire body went "flump" into the shampoo chair, my neck turned to jelly and my spirit floated up and away, light as a feather. For the next 5 - 10? - minutes I levitated, without a care in the world, with the kind of serenity that still eludes me in my yoga practice. If Luigi is a hair god, this guy is the god of head massage. All I can say is if he can do hair as well as he washes it, he's going to be a star.

Hair washed, I glided back over to the consultation chair, placed my purse at my feet, and grabbed two fashion mags. For the record, I am a CFB. A closet fashion binger. I LOVE FASSSHHHHHION! There I've said it! I am not a slave to it (remember I was wearing flat shoes with my jeans that only work with heels) but plonk me somewhere with the latest copy of Vogue and I will keep myself happily occupied for as long as it takes me to read it from cover to cover (including the credits, the small print, and the classified ads at the back). So there I was, embedded in Elle, oblivious to all around me, Luigi expertly wielding his scissors around my head.

Half way through the cut, the young receptionist materialised at Luigi's elbow: "Hi... this girl here is new in town and she's just wandered in and wants to know if she could come in and just watch you cut hair for a while." What can I say, this is London. Luigi, bless his heart, said OK: "Hi, I'm Luigi. Just sit yourself here where I can see you." She sat there for a while (I couldn't really see without my glasses and besides I was deep in the accessories section) and then she took off. Suddenly, I had "that" feeling and looked down at my feet: "Where's my purse?" I did a quick scan around the chair. My purse had vanished. Me again, but a whole lot louder: "Where is my purse? It's purple. It was at my feet when I sat down." I stood up (from the adrenaline pumping. I even made a mental note of it for acting purposes.) Luigi had stopped cutting and turned an unhealthy shade of white. The entire salon stood still. Before the panic had a chance to set in, one of Luigi's assistants darted to the end of the row and held up a purse (mine). "Is this it? I put it there to tidy up 'cos I didn't realise it was yours."

Oh dear God. Call off the police. Luigi and I had just lost a collective decade of our lives to the overzealous tidy-up brigade. Still, I was grateful to have my purse back.

I sat back down clutching it and immediately checked the contents: mobile phone (cell): check, cash: check, credit card: check. As I said to Luigi: "I figure I should double check cos if my wallet is missing I'm going to be washing hair for the next three months."  We had a little chuckle over that - not so much because it was funny but rather because we both felt so relieved the worse hadn't come to pass. (To the girl who likes to watch people cut hair: I am really sorry I assumed you were the one who had taken my purse.We're all of us very sorry.) Luigi resumed the cutting and I realised that in all the excitement, I'd lost my appetite for the fashion binge. (I may try and replicate the circumstances and see if it works just as well on chocolate cravings and will keep you posted on the results of the experiment - we could be on to a winner.)

Then a tall girl with apricot hair sat down next to me and one of the salon's stylists started weaving long blonde extensions into it. It turns out he was one of four finalist in the Hair Extension Stylist of the Year competition and was prepping up his hair model for the last round. He was wonderfully catty and petulant as only the truly passionate and talented can be. Some competitors were openly using hair pieces and hair clips: "In a hair extension competition? Can you believe it?" I wished him well. He was planning to dye the whole thing apricot and then dip the ends in pink. I hope he wins.

Then with one last flourish of the hair wax, Luigi was finished. I thanked him. Grabbed my purse. Paid up. And put my sunnies back on. Then me in and my new hair strode out into the dazzling Spring sunshine -and how else can I describe it: it felt as good as if I'd just put on a sexy pair of heels.

Now George Clooney, if you're reading this, about those pet pigs...