Oh, the glamour

Yes, a long silence but a thick one. The readings in Reading went well. I remembered how to do acting. It's like falling off a bike or getting on a horse or something. I worked with really talented people and the writer Dawn Garrigan was only too willing to revise and re-write on the job and had a huge learning experience.

As is the way of these things the director of the reading Debbie Seymour got me in for half a days work as a guinea-pig for a directors course that she runs. This was fascinating as the brief was to be directed by applicants for this course and give some feedback to go towards their appraisal. There may be more of this work and it keeps me off the streets with a jangle of change in the purse.

The glamour of all this is obviously dulled by London's recent experiences and the reaction. Are we seeing the first signs of a nation's insanity when under deliberate attack. We look for hairs on the palms of our collective hands and sure enough....! Are we not right to worry and debate about the erosion of liberties without being called The Human Rights Brigade as a term of abuse?
Stiffness of any sort is not going to help, in the upper lip or elsewhere. Flexibility and argument and examination of every action is called for. I remember in the aftermath of the Birmingham IRA bombings the thoughtless backlash against the Irish.

Londoners are wary, there is a watchfulness and even a courtesy which is different from before. There is good to come from this if we keep engaged with reality and don't barricade our minds.

Meanwhile back in the Larkland pipeline Dynorod are working - of which, more later.

With one bound...

If I had known that starting this blog would coincide with the worst period of my so-called career in ten years then I would probably have called it something else like "How To Make A Cordon-Bleu Style Meal From A Piece Of Scrag-End And An Old Tea-Bag" or "The Up-side Of Divorce" or "The Joy Of Meths" or "Acting For One" the end is listless!

Ah-ha, you may think. This must mean that things have changed. Well I will admit to a slight shift, not wanting to overstate the situation. I was on my way to meet a talented writer friend of mine, Simon Bent, in order to discuss with him the making of an ultra-low budget DV movie of a script of his and my phone rang. It was my agent with "D'y wanna week's work?" Well I thought, I know beggars can't be choosers but a little more info wouldn't be spurned.

As it turns out it's a very interesting project developing scripts with new playwrights for an organisation called writernet. Readings of these scripts will take place in Reading at a week long event called Hydroponic. I am being payed proper money for this, it's not a love thing or a punt at the future. The funding comes from Reading council, the Arts Council, the European Social Fund and others. I get to play a funeral director called Vince who is dying from cirrhosis caused by the drink in a play called 'Thirteen Months' by Dawn Garrigan.

I have my meeting with Simon who presents me with a script which he has put together since the night before when I mooted the idea of a short film project. I gets home and there is a repeat fee cheque waiting for me from 'The Rotters' Club' which I was not expecting, not huge but not derisory either. So with one bound he was free for another month from complete penury and able to fight another day. What a lark.

As far as the Casualty interview went - see last post - I did not hear a dicky bird. Complete silence. Apart from being frustrating because one can't get on with one's life until one is completely sure about stuff it is just bloody rude. How hard is it to say thank you for coming in I'm afraid it didn't work out this time? People who work in casting really should know better.

I started this post before last week's events and I will come back to them in a subsequent post.