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.)
The smell was overwhelming. It may as well
have come straight off the press. I didn't want to encroach on other people's
airspace, but I was. It was akin to having poor personal hygiene. Until then,
I'd never considered catching up on the day's events as antisocial
behaviour.
My paper's aura was the elephant in the
room. Next time I'll read a magazine with aftershave samples in it.