The Things I Do For My Art.

Today I had a casting. It was the first one for a while so I had high hopes for a glossy ad and a healthy pay check. Then I read the details on the breakdown from my agent, and feel slightly deflated. It was an internet viral for the dizzy heights of Whiskers cat food. However, any work is better than no work, and £500 for a day’s filming isn’t to be sniffed at.

So I turn up to the studio just off Oxford Street, and join a group of about seven women, all completely different from myself. After a surprisingly brief wait I get called to the casting room with an older Indian lady in a full sari and subsequent decoration, and do the usual name, age and agent to the camera, plus the required profile shots. Having had a lifelong paranoia regarding the size of my nose, I still maintain that these profile shots are the reason I am poor and unsuccessful. But that’s beside the point.

The theme of the viral is, ‘what if people acted like cats?’ I was aware of this beforehand, so had indulged in minimal feline research and felt that I was well versed on catlike mannerisms. Clearly, my casting partner was not. Cue scene; I sit on a bench, she stalks up to me acting like a cat, and I react accordingly. Now imagine what it would be like playing a victim in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That is roughly how I felt watching her advance. I don’t know what type of cats she has been affiliated with, but I’m pretty sure they must have been giant angry murderous beasts out to bring death and destruction to all mortals. I tried to pretend that she was acting as a normal, subtle, elegant cat, and managed to wipe the fear from my face. The director called cut, and we swapped roles. I then acted as a significantly more standard cat; arm licking, nuzzling, etc. This was the point when I discovered how intricate a sari is. It moves all over the place! As I was rolling around on her lap, I got completely caught up in it, so when the director called cut, I was officially stuck. After a minute or two and a lot of embarrassed chortling, I freed myself. We thanked the directors, and left.

Needless to say, I doubt I’m going to hear back about this one, despite fantastic cat acting on my part. I can’t help but wonder though, what have I achieved here?? Where are the Shakespearean monologues, the intense Chekhov roles I dreamed about? London has so far brought me yoghurt, and fake cats.

If I ever do become well known within the business, God help me when the ‘before-they-were-famous’ reel appears.

Decisions, Decisions.

Being an actor is a vocation. It’s something that I feel I have to do, and I couldn’t possibly imagine doing anything else. I’ve always felt happiest in a rehearsal room or on stage, performing with like-minded people and creating something spectacular together. This has been my life for what feels like forever, and nothing has stood in the way of that passion.

But things can change. Having past the ripe old age of my mid-20’s, my priorities are beginning to adjust. I’m in a happy relationship, and we’ve just got our first flat together. Rented, obviously, as in this profession I doubt I’ll ever be able to afford a deposit on a house. And this is the crucial point; I WANT to be able to afford a deposit on a house. With a garden. And at least two bedrooms. In a nice leafy suburb. Plus a garage. With lots of space and storage facilities. (IKEA is my life.) But I honestly believe this is highly unlikely for the foreseeable future, if not well into the distance as well. Unless I get that elusive ‘big break’ that everyone goes on about and can suddenly command £1 million a film, I am destined to be poor.

Having said that, I am fully aware that there are thousands of people in a much worst situation than myself. I can just about afford my rent, it just means that I have to cut back on other things. However, I will always be able to eat (cheaply), go out every so often (rarely), and buy shoes (the bane of my boyfriend’s life.) But I don’t want to be struggling. I’m tired of checking my bank balance every day worrying about the next direct debit that I’d forgotten about. I want to be able to go on holiday each year, treat myself and my boyfriend to meals out, and be able to by Tesco Finest instead of Tesco Value. I’m not about to abandon Topshop shoes for Christian Louboutins, but I would rather not regress to Primark. Money may not bring you happiness, but unfortunately it makes the world go round, and I’d like to be free of the stress that comes with frugality.

The second but just as important reason that I’m considering a change of career is because acting simply isn’t a challenge. You’re either good at it, or you’re not. I am a fairly intelligent person, and I miss working towards something and getting the rewards. I worked my butt off for my A-Levels and got the grades to prove it, but with acting, if the casting director doesn’t like my face, what can I do? I can’t change my face. Well, I could, but this reverts back to money and we come full circle. Actors are immersed in aspects that are out of our control; luck, being in the right place at the right time, and who you know. No amount of dogged determination brings providence our way. I haven’t lost the desire to perform, but want to be able to achieve my goals at the same time. Having a house and a family are aspirations, and the two don’t mix well with acting.

Besides, I’ve been chasing this dream for a long time now, and I’m starting to get a bit embarrassed when I’m introduced to new people and they ask what I do. I’m an actor, I reply, dreading the inevitable next question; ‘Oh really? What have you been in, anything I’d have seen?’ Erm... no. I always reply, oh mainly stage work, that’s what I love. And I resent the look on their face as they lose interest almost immediately. If I haven’t been in Eastenders, I may as well be a failure! I try not to be affected by these individuals as they don’t understand how difficult it is; however, it would be nice to be able to tell people that I have got a few high-profile roles on my CV.

There are a lot of decisions to make at the moment. Realistically, I should get a ‘proper job’, which will bring with it job satisfaction and hopefully a decent, regular salary, but still continue acting on the side, so if the big break does come along, I can go with it. Therefore, if that big break doesn’t appear until I’m 50, at least I would have accomplished my homely goals in the meantime. Except a huge part of me doesn’t want to nudge acting into second place even for a while. Yes, there are consequences that I have to deal with, but I feel at home on the stage, and would be anxious about regretting my choice to stop chasing the dream. I just have to hope that the dream doesn’t get so far away that I won’t be able to catch up.

A Mission And A Half To Say The Least.

I've had a bit of a blog break recently, due to a number of factors that all revolve around the same mind-boggling experience; moving house.


Considering that from the moment I moved into my previous flat I'd been counting down the days till I could move out again, you'd think that last Monday would have been a pleasant, joyful day. Well, you'd be wrong. I certainly was. Firstly, for the van I hired I was told I needed a bank statement to prove I had the money to pay for it. It turns out that actually I needed a bank statement for proof of address. As I don't receive paper statements (save the world and all that), I printed one off, which doesn't have my address on. Cue panic for twenty minutes until the boss of the company decides I look trustworthy enough to borrow the van for the day. Phew.


Google Maps is an adequate service. It tells you how to get somewhere, how long its going to take, and how to avoid toll roads. What it doesn't do, however, is tell you which roads should be condemned to traffic hell, and also which boyfriends who do not drive should not be on direction duty. Cue 40 minute journey actually taking two hours, and arriving to meet the inventory clerk in a very flustered state. Besides this, I was fuming as I was directed the wrong way into the congestion zone for all of 30 seconds before doing a u-turn and getting back onto the right road. And yes, that 30 second foray into the centre of London does mean that I have to pay the £10 congestion charge for the entire day.


So the check in is done, half our boxes are sitting in the living room, and we wait to get the keys from the incredibly incompetent letting agent who has been pretty much useless throughout the whole process. We are given one set of keys. Hang on a minute... there are two of us. Where are the other keys? Oh, great question! The last tenent only gave one set back. This was the final straw for my already short patience, and the moment when I physically banged my head against a brick (and plaster) wall. I should have maybe thought this through, as the letting agent didn't seem to understand that my frustration was aimed solely at him, my boyfriend was mortified, and I had an unsightly red mark on my forehead. And no, I didn't feel better afterwards.


Next move; back again through the traffic (slightly different route so only took an hour and a half), took a van load to the boyfriend's parents house, had dinner, and back to the flat to finish the final load. Somehow, by the time we'd finished this it was 10.30pm. Bearing in mind that one person had been by the van all day watching out for potential thieves and even worse, traffic wardens, we thought that at 10.30 at night we'd be safe to leave the van for ten minutes to say goodbye to the old housemate and get the final box. Once again, we thought wrong. Thieves had been thwarted throughout the day but those sneaky traffic wardens will wait and wait until you turn your back for one second and shazamm!!!! I have a £100 penalty charge notice, at 10.37pm. Bearing in mind that the van cost me £29 for the day, and I'm now an extra £110 out of pocket. By this point the trauma of the day became too much, and I reverted to the 5 year old's notion... cry. Very mature I'm sure.


So, journey to new flat, unload van, drive van back to depot, unlock the gates, drive in, leave van. This was the moment that the boyfriend had to prove himself after a lot of driving on my part... he just had to lock the gates behind us with the padlock we'd be given. However, at this point it was half past midnight, and clearly brain cells were fried. He managed to shut the padlock on one gate, without interlocking the other one first. Cue a night of worrying that the depot would get ransacked and we'd have to pay for it. (I got my deposit back the next day so our fears were unfounded, but you can never be too sure.)


All in all, a very long and stressful day. On the upside, our new place looks lovely and we have a balcony, which was perfect for the much needed glass (bottle) of champagne at the end of the day. I think there are going to be many more to come.