mostly david ephgrave

Today I experienced a whole new audition-waiting-room paranoia: "Does my newspaper smell too much?" I was okay when I was sat in the corridor. Out there, there was more space. It must have had a better oxygen throughflow (which was surprising, as the casting suite is in the basement of a disused factory-cum-warehouse. Not a factory cum warehouse. That would be horrific). Reading it there didn't make me self-conscious. It was only when I moved into the next tier of waiting - the room immediately outside the studio - that the overly inky odour of my Guardian became apparent.  It didn't help that I was seated in extreme proximity to two other actors. There was scarcely room to read a broadsheet. For a fleeting moment, I wished I'd bought the Mail, before remembering I'm not a narrow-minded, BBC-and-all-other-humanity-hating sexist / racist. Sorry Mum. (She’s none of those things, but she reads it.)...

I bought a newspaper today and didn’t read it. Sometimes, experiencing the transaction is enough. That’s actually not true. I hate wasting money. It may surprise you to learn my line of work isn’t always the most lucrative. It’s got to the point where I’ve started seeing my wallet less as a functioning item and more as a prop. I only carry it to maintain the passing semblance of an adult. Buying the paper was a miscalculation. I had a casting with Glyn today, and thought he’d be joining me later than he was. In the end he met me on the train into town. The time for catching up on all the latest (or yesterday’s latest) news had gone. Instead it became something to fill my bag with: a journalistic stuffing, of sorts. I suppose I can still read it tomorrow, provided nothing happens of note overnight to render it defunct. If not, I’ll just keep it to hold under my cat’s head the next time she's sick. It’s a shame it’s the Guardian and not t...