I’m currently
killing time in-between two castings, sitting in a café adjoined to a bookshop
in Central London.
My first casting
was at 11am this morning, and the next one is at 4:50pm; just enough time
between the two to consider a different career in the interim. I’m sure I could
fit in a short Post Graduate course somewhere, if I had a quick scout about.
The first casting
went quite well; it was very in-out (with a distinct lack of ‘shake it all
about’). I went in with another actor who was a very nice chap – and afterwards
we popped into a greasy spoon around the corner from the casting suite, to kill
some time before he went off to another appointment - and I found somewhere to
loiter for the intervening hours.
(We both opted
for green tea, so I guess it wasn’t that
greasy.)
While we were
there he told me of how he’d recently secured a part in what has become a
recurring series of adverts – and how financially it had turned his life
around. This was just the sort of encouragement I needed, after a long spell of
being penciled for jobs but not getting the part: the reminder that it can all
change in an instant.
I told him about
the excitement of securing my first West End job in Dreamboats & Petticoats
a couple of years back, as well as the positives and negatives of trying to
promote my double act. I told him about the joy of securing Michael Barrymore
and Norman Lovett for mine and Glyn’s sitcom reading earlier this year, and the
pitfalls of our various jaunts to Edinburgh.
It was a nice
conversation; it made a refreshing change to have a longer chat with someone
I’d been to a casting with, instead of just exchanging a quick nod at the door before heading off our separate ways.
After that I
wandered from Piccadilly Circus through Soho Square and up to the bookshop café
opposite the Phoenix Theatre, where I’ve been sat for the past few hours. I had
a coffee and a spot of lunch, then settled down with a peppermint tea and my
copy of Van Gogh’s letters, which I’ve had for at least a year now, but only
started reading last weekend.
(I'm feeling very cosmopolitan.)
Van Gogh is my
favourite artist; I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt an affinity with him
and his work. I wasn’t sure if I was going to get on with the book at first –
but I’ve turned a corner over the past few days and relaxed into his style of
writing.
I’ve still got an
hour and a half between now and my next appointment. I better find somewhere
else to sit and kill the time; I’ve been in this café long enough that I’ve
started to accumulate dust.
Here’s hoping the
next casting goes all right – and that the journey home isn’t too
time-consuming. Got to love those rush-hour trains...