Another Fiftieth, This House and The Duke

I had an interesting comment on the blog earlier in the week, which might have been one of genuine interest or might have been spam.  Either way, it complimented my blog and asked what my novel was about and when was it going to be published.  I offered a flattered but not very informative reply, so I am going to amend that right now.  It is a story set in both the 1980′s and in the present, with the chapters being written alternately by one of the characters in the first person and the other in the traditional third. The reader is introduced to a set of people who commit an irresponsible act, in some ways unwittingly, and we observe whether any of those actions take their moral toll on them in their later life.  It takes place in Bristol, Paris, London, Switzerland, Sri Lanka so far, but is unfinished so there may be more locations.  The characters are in their late teens at the onset, and are in their late thirties, early forties as we approach the present.

I am in a terrible habit of procrastination, and this blog is currently giving me a great reason once again not to write any more of it.  I have also started to write a play adapting it loosely from one of Shakespeare‘s because he is such a help with structure, while I don’t seem to be too bad on dialogue.  I have some poems, and several short stories to my name as well as one episode of a sit-com pilot about two unsuitable flat mates who end up being friends.  Other ideas have been a television series based on a famous royal courtesan and a series about a set of marathon obsessed individuals.  Oh and two romantic novellas originally pitched towards the Mills and Boone market. So, whoever sent the flattering enquiry about my writing, I hope this answers it a bit.  Any further interest from editors of magazines, in particular the FT Weekend, or literary agents, do feel free to make themselves known to me, I would be delighted.

I am finally going to see This House by James Graham this coming week.  I thought originally that I knew about three in the cast.  It transpires that I know at lease five.  It is a cast of several male and very few female roles, which always bothers me, but the mates who are in it are bound to be brilliant.  If I felt that strongly I should just get on with writing a play with a plethora of female roles, but given how history and politics have cast only men in most of the real life roles, I would have to become Prime Minister to try and change the current order of things.  Sad to think that the one female we had in that position only surrounded herself with men, instead of using her power as an opportunity to promote her sex.  Hey ho.  The odd thing is that I work in an office that is practically all female; I believe that throughout London there are marketing, PR firms, film, advertising and casting companies dotted with mainly female offices in positions of considerable wealth and power.  Yet we do not seem to be reflecting that in any of our culture. Shame, really, given how brilliant so many actresses are.

On the subject of female roles and sexism, I have discovered that some people do not like watching Madmen because they find it so sexist.  I have to say that the roles for women in this exceptional programme are absolutely superb, depicting, in my view, how these individuals dealt with the sexism of the time, among other storylines.  I have also recently absolutely loved how Endeavour, telling the young Morse’s story, has been directed and edited. Delicately portrayed and superbly acted, it has enriched my sunday evenings.  The picture we glean is a uniquely British world in which the very absence of women or the sudden introduction of a woman compounds just how little power women had in that particular phase of history.  It overjoys me to think that some, if not much, progress has been made since then.

I am also seeing another mate in a play called The Duke in Darkness at the Tabard Theatre.  He is playing the Duke himself, and I have suggested that I ought to start addressing him accordingly.  Since then, I have begun my texts with “Your Grace”. He feels this is how it should have always been and does not understand why I have only just begun addressing him thus.  On the subject of royalty we dined with the German Prince at The Brown Cow in Fulham a day or so ago. He was on top form choosing a glorious New Zealand pinot noir to accompany our various steaks, mine being tartare (I couldn’t resist.) It was a superb meal and good service, if a touch on the pricey side.

Tonight is another good mate’s fiftieth.  In fact, he is the husband of the fiftieth birthday girl from my last blog.  This time it is a barbecue, which is causing me a sartorial dilemma, as we are only in May and the evenings are nothing short of parky.  So it’s denim shorts over some black opaque tights, a statement belt, mustard top and statement scarf.  And a little cape in case it turns arctic.  He has instructed no presents, but I bought the gift way before his dictum, so he shall have to have it and that’s final.  Should be good.  Excellent close mates will be there.  I have just re-read and wonder about the word statement, as used next to belt and scarf.  Silly really.  I shall now finish my statement blog and get on with my statement life on this statement bank holiday weekend.

Forty going on Fifty

As the sun blazes into my study and my chores have been completed, the guilty knowledge that I have neglected the blog has built to a crescendo.  It reminds me of the days when I went to confession in my Catholic boarding school.  It was customary to begin, “Bless me, father for I have sinned.  It has been seven days since my last confession.”  Well, I do not know how many days it has been since I last wrote the blog, but certainly Margaret Thatcher was still alive at that point, the Boston Marathon had not received a terrorist attack, and we were all still under the hefty tyranny of the jet stream, which seemed to have taken the oddly personal decision to ruin our lives with the weather it determined.

We have attended a good mate’s fiftieth at the wonderful Sirous Tapas Bar in West Hampstead.  This gorgeous place is family-run, our hosts treating us to their delicious tapas and paella, so that having dutifully arrived at 6.30 p.m., I carried on chomping and drinking beautiful wine through to when, like Moses and the Red Sea we were divided by our birthday girl.  She stood on the table in the middle of the room, and instead of making a very long speech, she asked those younger than fifty to move to the stage-right of her, and those older to move stage left.  Some of us had to think quite hard, after several hours of alchohol had eliminated any functional cerebral capabilities, but we figured it out, so that for about three minutes, Sirous bore witness to actors shuffling back and forth, until we were all satisfied.  Birthday girl addressed those to her stage-right, saying that she had been there, and congratulated us.  She addressed those to her stage left, saying (while they played at being a bit huffy about their age) that she had not been where they were yet, but she was looking forward to it.  It was brilliant.  In celebration of this we carried all her presents home, and danced with her and her family until I demanded Vegemite, tea and toast from her eternally patient husband, at about 1.00 in the morning.

We also attended another good mate’s fortieth held at the Soho House’s Basement on Old Compton Street, complete with its own cloakroom, cocktail bar, nooks, lounge and dance floor.  Our hostess who had arranged it all for the birthday boy, her partner, had asked us to give a heavy nod to 1970′s cinema.  I had aimed for a sort of Mia Farrow / Jane Fonda sort of look, in a navy blue silk jumpsuit, with an aquamarine scarf and inordinate amount of eye makeup.  What I actually looked like was in fact, Glenda Jackson circa The Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show.  The Captain donned his customary leather jacket and brushed his hair forward with a reference to The Professionals.  Our hostess dressed as Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver, the birthday boy, as he explained to us, in his speech, was dressed as a character from Alien.  There were two attractive ladies who had individually dressed as Nurse Ratchett from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, so plenty of jokes about men needing mouth to mouth rescue were bandied about, in only the way the English do.

I had attended a show the night before at the Watford Palace called Jumpers for Goalposts, brilliantly penned by Tom Wells, with an excellent cast including my clever mate, Vivienne Gibbs.  It received four stars by Ian Shuttleworth in the Financial Times, and I agreed with him.  It was a very good evening and worth the trip, but I wish the theatre bar would serve better wine.  I had three small glasses, which knocked me off kilter for the entire of the next day, so that I drank alcohol-free Mojitos for the entire birthday party.  An indication of how superb a night we all had was demonstrated by the fact that despite my virgin intake, I did not notice when it had reached 2.00 a.m.  I highly recommend trying to have fun without alcohol.  Getting up the next day, slightly tired, but otherwise fine, reminded me of the days in my twenties when I was able to do that on a huge amount of toxic substances without batting an eyelid.

The Captain has settled back into London with a vengeance.  Being away from such good friends and finding there to be a total lack of artistic soul in Los Angeles, we both feel relieved.  The possibilities of being very rich are very distant indeed.  I was especially reminded of that when auditioning for a play at the King’s Head and told that the Equity agreed rate for fringe was £20 per three hour rehearsal and £22 per performance. I am not entirely sure how a person is meant to live off that.  It was one of two auditions that I have had this year, the other being a commercial casting, in which two years of training and twenty years in the business is bottled into one moment in which I sat on a chair and looked at my watch and sighed.  For this, had I used the right sigh and watch-looking-at-skills, the princely sum of £2000 would have been mine, all mine.  Minus commission to my agent of course.

My novel continues apace, I have written two more chapters, hoorah.  The play that I am writing is a little slower, so far I have written one scene.  The Captain and I have been doing a lot of laughing recently, which is probably the part of his absence that I missed the most.  It probably loses in the translation, but our last long laugh was based on the idea of our turning up to the latest party in matching jumpsuits. We thought perhaps that we would wear wigs to emphasize the hursute tendencies of the seventies.  The key to the comedy was to do it all with very serious expressions on our faces under the misapprehension that we looked cool.  I suspect that if we are lucky enough to live into our golden years, we will look back at some photographs where we genuinely thought we looked marvellous and we will laugh out loud all over again.  Let’s hope so.

You Heard It Here First

So I have been to see my very good friend Carlton Edwards’ workshop show The Five Labours of Harvey Fish.  The book was written brilliantly by Brian Jordan (a friend from a time when I did a corporate for Macdonalds in Birmingham and famously thought that I was meant to outspeak the auto-cue.  The operator, who was working it manually, was trying to keep up with me and thus was winding it at the a speed that almost produced smoke from the hinge.  I little knew that they, like an accompanist, will keep up with you and not vice versa.  I have not been near an auto-cue since.

This was the same corporate conference that invited a very young David Beckham to stand in the wings with us and kick a football into the audience.  We tried very hard to make him chat with us, but his agent had instructed him not to speak, so Mr Beckham smiled, frequently, and still disarmed us with his charm.

The music of The Five Labours of Harvey Fish was exquisitely written by the dear mate, Carlton Edwards, who had offered so kindly to play the piano at my wedding at the Actor’s Church in Covent Garden, a scary eleven years ago.  I arrived to the venue, which was in the middle of a labyrinth in Pimlico.  I should have known it would be difficult to find, because at every corner, there were numerous elegant ladies wandering about muttering, “Where is the bloody place?  The terrible c**t won’t answer his phone!”  The only elegant ladies I know who use the c-word with such gay abandon are actresses, so I was not alone in my search.

As I walked through the entrance, I felt a little like Norm in Cheers.  What felt like a large number of disparate voices shouted out Kate Terence!  My dear old mate, Matthew Rixon, was playing Zeus/Luigi and Hero, impeccably and with his effusive warmth.  He and I were in the play where I first met the Captain, called The Contrast at the Cochrane Theatre.  It was pitched as America’s first play and been found in a museum.  It should really have remained there, but then, I would not have met the love of my life.  We worked and played hard throughout it, all at ages where love played its essential role, and thus the bond between Matt and me will always remain.

Another dear mate, Robert Hands, who played Apollo/Roberto/ Hero/Leo Neame was splendid and seamless as always.  He and I met in the Epicurean bar of Bristol University, where I was studying Psychology and he was at the Old Vic Theatre school.  We became firm, if tempestuous buddies, and ended up in a play together called Have Faith Alice and Enjoy in Edinburgh, written and directed by Simon Beresford, who is now the agent within Dalzell Beresford.  Interestingly Huw Kennair Jones, was also in it, and he is now the Commissioning Editor for Drama with Sky.  I scratch my head to think whether I have missed some sort of boat, but hey ho.  When I greeted Robert, the casting director of Mamma Mia Stephen Crockett approached us.  Robert could not resist introducing me, saying that I would make a good Tanya in Mamma Mia.  He jocularly asked if I was interested, at which point I thought it wise to mention that while I sang very well at parties after a few drinks, singing in long running musicals might be a skill that had evaded me so far.

 Another great mate, and supreme performance came from Felicity Duncan, playing Helen Beaufemme, with whom I was at drama school and with whom I have recently become much more in touch. This was a show where I sat there and wished I had the guts to sell my house and produce the whole play.  It had HIT written all over it, so anyone who has a wish to invest in something that, if well- marketed, could make the sort of money Mamma Mia made, should look up Carlton Edwards and Brian Jordan immediately.  You heard it here first.

I have joined a gym, and on the whole am delighted with the result.  For £45 per month I swim, yoga and gym it for at least three times per week, and because the money is leaving my account automatically, I feel I absolutely have to make use of it.  It is a mere ten minutes walk up the road, and every moment after I have done the exercise, I feel more vibrant and happy.

I knew it long ago when an inspired G.P. at university refused to put me on anti-depressants, which I had been prescribed at boarding school.  He took me through a cognitive behavioural therapy based programme, which included doing at least one hour of exercise per day.  While I am not in any way belittling anyone who suffers clinically from depression or bipolar disorder, I would say the milder cases should have a go.  It certainly works for me.

The only disadvantage is that occasionally one has to interact with a lunatic.  I will cite a particular example.  I chose on one occasion to take the medium lane, as it avoided the large Russian looking man/woman who was thrashing through the fast lane.  The board on the lane indicated very clearly that it was anti-clockwise that we should swim.  As a new member and a seasoned swimmer, I obeyed, to find a spiky, bony, toothy, posh woman standing in the lane walking towards me, so that I had to stop.

“If you had bothered to ask me, I would have told you which lane I was swimming in and you could have picked the other.”  she said, as she tried to manage the unnecessary amounts of teeth that were fixed in her mouth.

I stood up, took my goggles off, and no, I did not punch her in the face.  That was my fantasy version.  I said,” I’m sorry, I am a new member here and thought it best that I follow the rules, the board indicated anti-clockwise whereas it seems, you are swimming in one lane, up and down.”

“Yes”, she retorted,”We don’t bother with those signs around here.  You only needed the courtesy to ask me.”

I answered, “I am so sorry.  I had no idea that you owned the club and swimming pool.  May I add, Madam, that you have a very bad manner.”  I swam off, realising that saying she had a bad manner, made me sound like I was a continental who had not yet learnt that it is more acceptable to refer to manners in the plural.  I was irritated and upset for a whole day.  In the dressing room, I heard women referring to manners, and rudeness and became paranoid that they were referring to me, in a Fulham clan sort of a way.

It struck me, when I had calmed down, how very easily I break when I am bullied, and so I have made a resolution not to tolerate it any more.  You have been  warned. Bully me at your peril. (not that I believe any readers of this would be in the market to bully me or anyone else for that matter.)  But, shall we all make a stand against psycho-bullies? Let’s do it.  You heard it here first.

Ah, Blighty, how I love ya, how I love ya, my dear old Blighty

Well, I am back, and thanks to the sunshine and change of Los Angeles, I am in a much better mood. Seeing the Captain in his temporary lodgings in Santa Monica was just the injection I needed.  He has rented with Archstone again, but instead of right in the centre of Broadway, which was a little like having a flat in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, he picked a top floor flat in Main Street, which is the uber-cool, mung bean and salad section of Santa Monica, a little like Crouch End in its feel.  It is possible to get a view of the Pacific in all its blueness from the balcony, taking five minutes to walk there for regular jaunts to our favourite cafe, Back on the Beach.

The overall temperament of the Captain has been different from last year, however.  Our initial three month dabble in the shallow waters of Hollywood last year during pilot season was regarded by him as an adventure and by me as a terrifying step into the unknown.  My confidence was low, having undergone yet another operation, and all I really wanted at the time was to be at home in safe territory.  Looking back, I am glad we did it, because we saw and experienced such colour and texture at the exact point of ten years into our marriage.  This second time round was different.  In the first place, I was not there for the first six weeks, which meant that the Captain had to go through all the difficulties of negotiating his way through Hollywood alone and with little, if any, support.  He only had me on Skype most days, but the time difference and my work schedules often proved tricky.

It has become clear that William Goldman’s book, Which Lie Did I Tell? is way more accurate than I would care to believe.  For instance, while some claim it is absolutely necessary to have a work visa, others claim that as most filming is done abroad, outside the USA, a visa is not a priority.  Last year, it was all that the agents and personal managers asked.  This year, it has become less poignant.  What appears to be plaguing personal managers in the US now, is who their UK agent is, who do they represent and would it be possible to hook up with them.  There is a hunger to develop relationships with their British counterparts.  I suspect that it is ever since Downton(or Downtown, as they refer to it) Abbey and Mr Selfridge, which has generated a belief that US actors can be placed in these prestigious British projects, while as an act of trade they try to place a few British actors (less important on their agenda).  The more I learn from the industry the more I realise that there are simply no rules.  It is like an insane game of Snakes and Ladders only no one is instructed as to when they can start.  It makes me wonder whether Lewis Carroll ever came to Hollywood in a previous life, since Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass depicts exactly the experience the Captain and I have endured.

I cannot claim that it is any easier in Blighty, but at least it does not feel like the absolute beginning.  To be made to feel like a complete novice when we have been in the business for twenty-five years is quite a lesson, but one that I do not regret, as I believe this stuff will be the making of the Captain and of me.  I suspect that even if we fail at the task we are currently attempting that we will have won in terms of personal development.  In the words of Bob Dylan, “There’s No Success Like Failure, and Failure No Success At All.”  Between you and me, I think we are going to win, but every boxer says that before going into the ring.  We are not saying, “I could have been a contender.”  like Marlon Brando’s Terry in Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront.  We are contenders!  You can only win the lottery if you buy a ticket.

On the fun side, we went to Palm Springs, where the sensation of sun on the skin with a mild breeze was nothing short of heaven.  We stayed at the Colony Palms Hotel, a boutique venue, which used to belong to a gang-leader and operate as a brothel back in the day, but has since been bought and renovated.  The decor has a delicate feel of Cuban bordello, Mexican hacienda and Moroccan riad, with a nod to the rat pack days as well as an homage to naughtier times demonstrated by the bedroom bar also offering an intimacy box containing lubricants among other sexy ingredients.  Music plays over the system in a funky way, feeling appropriately bohemian, and switches on sunday to a live band of cool Ella Fitzgerald inspired jazz, who sing under an umbrella by the pool.  I “kicked back” from the minute I arrived, ordering a Marguerita which I drank lying on a comfy couch that nestled conveniently between some trees and the rays of the sun. We also tasted hot dogs which come as Farmer John, or Hebrew National served with all the trimmings including saurkraut at a fabulous and cheap place called Atomic Dog in La Plaza.  The Caifornian phrase, Oh My God, right? Right? Right? Totally amazing, right? does not do those hot dogs enough credit.

I also enjoyed a stunning deep tissue massage as a Valentines gift from the Captain before we left, with a spa called Alchemie, in Main Street, Santa Monica, which set the tone beautifully.  At some point in the two weeks there I also had a chance to drink a Manhattan at the Tavern (George Clooney and Barack Obama have both hired it out recently).  It had a low-key vibe, which I enjoyed, as much as I did the Manhattan.  Good cocktails plus you can actually hear what you and your partner are saying to each other, what’s not to like? As part of living some of the Captains life, I went to his Pilates class at Santa Monica Yoga, and met women who had not had face lifts (a rare sight in Los Angeles) who were all my age and older with figures of twenty and thirty year olds.

Overall, I watched many films on the flights there and back and I would stress that Django Unchained is a masterpiece as well as unquestionably inspired by Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles.  The indie film, The Late Quartet is also a gem.  I thoroughly enjoyed Zero Dark 30, but found Argo at best, watchable.  Cloud Atlas and The Master lost some direction, but I enjoyed them.  Seven Psychopaths did not cut it, for my money.  The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, it seems, was a chance for a whole load of my favourite actors to go and have a holiday in India, while passing the time uttering non-descript sentences to each other in front of a camera for a few hours a day.

I leave the US with thanks to its sunny, if a little relentless weather, and a gratitude to Blighty for its non-yakkety dwellers. From a person who I know is not short of a word to say, I have never known such a chatty bunch.  They talk while walking, jogging, trekking.  They talk while driving, cooking, working.  And they talk loudly and fast, with no indication when they will stop or draw breath.  Even I know when time for quiet exists, so that you can actually hear yourself think.  But then, I am not sure if thinking is something  that has enterend the Los Angeleans’ culture.  That would be, like, too deep, right?  Right?

Finally, L.A.

So am off to Hollywood this wednesday.  All my faithful readers will be thinking, thank God, we’ve been following her interminable life in London for the last year despite the fact that it says Kate Terence’s Letters from Hollywood.  I know.  But I did ask everyone, and most thought I should keep the title, despite my geographical changes.  Anyway, back I go, to join the Captain.

He has made some new mates out there, which is exciting, as I shall have the pleasure of meeting them.  The weather is forecast to be sunny so despite my dislike of the place when I was out there last year, I am really looking forward to packing my suitcase with light jackets and casual jumpers for the evening, and taking in some of that blue-sky-thinking that a few of them have out there.

For instance, there is no shame in self-publicity out there.  That is something I am really looking forward to.  I say that while knowing that after two weeks of listening to loud boasting, I will be looking forward to quiet, if a little negative, old England.  I refer to all of this because it has been a strange week for me.  A good friend got offered a job which would heavily influence her C.V. in a very positive way.  Not mentioning the actual role or the actual play, I congratulated her and the company on Twitter, only to be told to remove the information immediately, since the company needed it to be kept quiet.  So my attempt to produce some good PR for my friend backfired, leaving her under the impression that I am not to be trusted with information again, and leaving me with a rather negative impression of how the business works in this country.  If the information of that sort is of such a private nature, it should be stated when the role is offered, or couched in the contract.  That is how it works in L.A.  Every attempt to try to push or glean information is frowned upon in the UK, with an unspoken understanding that everything should just be kept hush, to prevent the masses knowing things that I believe are their right to know.  This,” hush hush” us and them attitude makes me think of Peter Gabriel‘s brilliant song, “You’re not one of us.”  I have to say that without the Captain here I felt that to be a very isolating experience, as I have always made a point throughout my life, to try and bring sunshine and goodness to my friends’ lives, but somehow I managed to muck it up this time.

Also, it transpires, that I am turning into a lunatic mumbling weirdo, as I apparently talked all the way through a film with a very close mate, (Silver Linings Playbook, go and see it, but not with me, obviously, as I am apparently a talker).  My close mate, who is practically family and therefore we tend to invite each other to absolute candour, told me that pretty much through large chunks of the movie, at full volume, I referred to this actor or that scenario, irrespective of the people in front of me turning round occasionally.  I am one of those people who hates talkers in the cinema.  What on earth has happened to me?  In my defence, I was a little agitated from the aforementioned Twittergate, so perhaps the abject loneliness of being without the Captain for one month has finally got to me.  Especially as I have been doing my office job and trying to negotiate my way through the sticky situation of extricating old tenants from my house, and bringing in new tenants.  And of course the burglar alarm went off all night, in the apartment that I am renting so we can include sleep deprivation as a cause as well.

So heavily has all this struck me, that I have actually headed down the path of morbid depression more than three times this week.  It does not help when I come to terms with the fact that I have not worked as an actress for two and a half years, and all that actually happens in my life as each day passes is that I just age.  My only achievement that I can number in the last two years is that I have given up smoking and cut down massively on alchohol.  Whoopdidoo.  Bring out the bunting.

So as a result of all this yuckiness, I have gone back to trying to write my book, and having re-read and edited all forty thousand words, I am not unimpressed.  So I suppose that is an achievement, although I have not finished it yet.  There is a tiny morsel of comfort, I suppose, in the fact that the whole of the UK appears to be in an angry truculent depression showing itself in mad bus drivers who swerve past you as they ignore your request while you stand in the rain to casting directors who decide not to even consider you (let alone see you) for the role of a comedic power mongering agent in a new pilot for a sitcom. (I MEAN, REALLY?!!!)

And, all my good mates out there will no doubt want to try and make all this better for me.  While I love all my friends and feel honoured and lucky to have them, I am sad to say that nothing can shake me from my mood.  Sitting and talking with mates does not cut it.  In the words of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, “Pity me, Charmian, but do not speak to me.”

Nietzsche, Fran Lebowitz and the Snow

To my surprise I achieved a First in my initial year at University in my subsidiary, Philosophy, which I studied alongside my chosen subject of Psychology at Bristol.  I know, I was as shocked as you probably are.  So well did my memory retain all I learnt in those salad days, that it was disappointing to be told by my brother that it was Nietzsche who said “That which does not kill us makes us stronger“, and not the hip-hop legend Kanye West, as I had thought, from his marvellous track, Stronger.  Both my brother and father are a bit like this, usually able to answer most questions on University Challenge, only my brother would also probably be able to translate his response into Latin, form a mathematical equation of it, which he might transpose into musical notes that he may later, in a moment of leisure, play on his banjo, yukele and guitar.

However, regarding that particular philosophy, I am not sure if Mr Nietzsche was entirely right.  I hope he is.  I might argue “That which does not kill me will make me more interesting.”  Since, when tough times force themselves onto people, they often build up such exceptional resilience that they, become more alluring as a result.  But, when I hear of pals flinging themselves into muddy obstacle courses, followed by swimming in open water, the ice of which they have to crack in order to be able to swim in it, I know that it would definitely be the death of me.  How on earth do people do it?  More importantly,WHY?

I did manage to take myself out into the snow over this last week and found that to be more hardship than I could bear.  However, on a shallow note, I have decided to patent a new facial, entirely free of charge.  We can call it a Snafacial or Fasnacial.  It entails leaving the house when there is a blizzard outside with minus three degrees below.  You walk into it so that frozen ice and snow bashes onto your face for at least half an hour.  You then turn around, in order that it beats onto your back, but the wind changes so that it pelts on to your face for another half an hour on your way home.  Just as you feel that you may well freeze to death with nobody around to know or care, you reach home.  Well, let me tell you.  It minimises pores, refines the skin and makes it utterly radiant and silky.  You heard it here first.

Expensive business, this cold weather.  Not only is the heating bill going to be ghastly, but my umbrella broke on one of the other blizzard days, and while attempting to mend it I lost one of my leather gloves.  So I had to buy a new brolly and gloves.  How long will they last, one wonders until yet another gust of wind and snow snatch them away from me.  Oh dear, am I going on about the weather?  In case you hadn’t guessed, I HATE IT. HATE IT. REALLY REALLY HATE IT.

The Captain has now been in Hollywood for a week and it has been rather bleak without him.  Friends have rallied round to keep me company in a very touching way.  The German Prince (The Captain’s best friend) invited me out to dinner at my local Italian, Locale.  He picked me up in his Aston Martin which was VERY exciting, held doors open for me and behaved impeccably, so that when we entered the restaurant, I began to stutter to the (by now) familiar staff. ” I know what it looks like, but he is my husband’s best friend, honest.”  They placed their tongues firmly in their cheeks, glanced sideways at each other and smiled warmly.  The German Prince said, “There now, that’s smoothed the path.  It’s the other blokes you’ll have to worry about.”  At which point, they all laughed, in fact we all did, while I kept muttering, “honestly, really he’s just a friend. The husband’s friend.  Honestly.”  Staff nodding, looking at the Aston Martin.  Blimey, it’s easy to start rumours in Fulham.  Told the Captain on Skype.  He laughed his head off as well.  Quelle scandale!

I also met with an old buddy from school whose life had moved into a different direction, so that our separation had been regrettable for both of us.  We ate, drank, cried and laughed in Bar du Marche in Berwick Street, foolishly ordering five Cointreaus towards the end of the evening in an act of childish rebellion.  I slightly regretted the alcohol the next morning, but other than that I felt lucky to experience the sensation of becoming reacquainted with an old mate.

Finally on Saturday, I had tea time drinks with old work mates, in Princi, Wardour Street.  A glass of Prosecco cost £10, self-service, acoustics were poor and it was extremely crowded.  So while it was well-lit and nice enough place it will not be a first choice next time.  We went on to Souk in Lichfield Street, which was empty until some people saw us walk in, so they followed us.  It has always amazed me how few people allow themselves to have their own original thoughts.  They just watch and copy.  I cannot help but find it irritating.  However, it did not mar the gentle atmosphere and incredibly reasonable bill at the end of it, so all’s well that end’s well, to quote the bard.

I recommend to all to watch Fran Lebowitz in Martin Scorsese’s Public Speaking, a documentary about her.  She provides a refreshing challenge to the status quo, knowing that she may cause offence by her searing wit.  She has been likened to Dorothy L Parker, but I would say that while some of her observations are New York-centric, I find her wonderful to listen to and agree with most of her points of view.  She, unlike me, is prepared to say the things that may make her unloved and unpopular, and because she is not in need of popularity, she can afford the risk.  More of that, please.  Keep going, Ms Lebowitz, maybe someday, I will have your courage.

The 2013 Ramblings begin

Getting out of bed at 10.00 a.m. was tricky this morning, especially as the Captain and I had decided to return to our puritanical regime.  We had set the alarm for 8.00 a.m. in the hope that it would break us in for next week when I will return to my 7.00 a.m. rises.  Our routine entails getting up early, doing exercise at least once in a day, eating only protein, fruit and vegetables while excluding most carbohydrates and not touching alcohol.  Given that we gave up smoking a couple of years ago this places us right in the smug boring bastards category. So to get through it, the Captain uses various voices to endorse our philosophy, on the lines of, “Bread?  BREAD? We shan’t be eating bread my dear…”  which he punctuates with a high pitched laugh.  Luckily we have not lost our sense of humour, since we have decided to reject all the fun parts of life.  Alternatively, it is possible we have actually tipped the balance and gone mad.

I have continued to demonstrate the fragility of my mental state by shocking two very sweet passers by the other morning.  They were elderly gentlemen from the West Indies who were walking through the graveyard that both our bedroom and kitchen overlook.  By the nature of the conversation that I could catch across the breeze they were having quite an intense conversation.  So when I unwittingly marched from my bed, stark naked and opened the blinds, both staggered backwards a little, one of them slightly loosing his balance while the other reached out for him.  If this had been a visit to a loved ones’ grave, I certainly made it memorable for them.  It might have even made their Christmas or ruined it, depending on how you look at things.  All of it was unintentional, since I often amble around my bedroom starkers and have successfully opened curtains with no onlookers, except possibly those from the other world, in their graves.  Dreadful behaviour, who would have thought that such a well brought up girl could behave so badly?

We managed to successfully discombobulate the tree and paraphernalia, which is a challenge even when one is not hungover.  The Fulham recycling service is collecting it making me love Fulham all the more.  Clearing the pine needles while hungover was a challenge that I am not sure I can face again next year, so it might be worth the extra cost of a non-drop Christmas tree, instead of the “it’ll-do-we’ll-worry-about-it-later-oh-my-God- when-will-the-pine-needles-go-away????” type of tree.

The Captain’s departure for Hollywood is imminent and I will join him for a little, at some point.  He has prepared himself in every way, but we are not exactly looking forward to the separation.  On my part the office job, which I do twice a week to keep me sane and the wolf from the door will be a blessing, but how will I fill those other five days without him.  There are only so many museums one can visit, films one can see and friends one can meet before the sensation of not sharing my life will drive me bonkers.  Especially in the worst months of the year.  I can go and visit him on my visa whenever I want, but I felt it to be sensible to at least make myself available for acting work since I am not permitted to work in the U.S. for the moment.

Oh for an exciting acting job to take that boredom away.  Come on, ye gods.  Be on my side for once.  Give me a funny role to play, something that makes me and everyone else laugh, so that we can roar in the face of these miserable winter months.  If anyone, I MEAN ANYONE, mentions  a hosepipe ban this year, I will flip.  How much rain can a country actually have?

The plan, when I go back to L.A. is to visit Mexico so do keep up with me.  I may leave in February if my patience runs out.  Unlike anyone else, the Captain and I were sorry to say goodbye to 2012.  We had the adventure of our lives exactly as we hit our tenth wedding anniversary.  None of our beloved family died, none of our beloved friends died.  We found a wonderful home in Fulham and found out more about ourselves.  What’s not to like?  Is it too much to ask to have a 2013 filled with great work?  Go on, ye gods, tell me what you want and I will give you it, just hear my prayers.  The wonderful new year party we attended had many very brilliant guests, one of whom suggest we wrote our wishes on a pieces of paper and burnt them.  I recommend it as a great way to start.

Incidentally, do watch HBO’s Cinema Verite if you get the chance.  It depicts the true story of the first reality television family in the 1970s.  My hope for 2013 include having less of it, and seeing more women work in acting roles.  Seriously, can theatre companies justify doing all male plays, when there are three times the actresses and a third of the roles.  If that is not sexual discrimination, what is?  Rant over. Have a great beginning to 2013.

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 3,500 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 6 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

It would be a lie to say that I saw one… a partridge that is, in Fulham, outside my kitchen window.  But I did see a pigeon on what looked like an apple tree and the overall effect was similar.  By that I mean, that with all the leaves dispersed, leaving the dark brown natural sculpture of the tree, it is very possible to see any bird in any tree, in the days leading up to Christmas.

This was confirmed to me in Richmond Park, which I visited for the first time on Sunday.  The Captain and I were in awe of the amount of vast space made up of wintry trees, some of which had been felled forming works of art within the landscape.  The colours were more Van Gogh than Turner, with flax, mustard and olive hued grasses interspersed with cobalt and grey bodies of water.  Deer were looking bemused by would-be Fentons and their owners, swans were having a go at some early courting, children were gasping “Mummy, Daddy, it’s so beautiful.”  Honestly, they were right.  The light had that breezy shade of expectation, bringing all creatures, even the humans, into a generally benign humour.

Several adventures have been in the diary since I last wrote my blog.  I went ice-skating at the Natural History Museum for a dear friend’s birthday.  I have always loved it, since I first tried it as a child in Kobe, Japan.  Since then, I have been a handful of times, including in Central Park, New York, which was unforgettable with the white ice and cerulean sky, Manhattan filling the eyeline. Even though I am not brilliant,  there is always the mysterious potential to become better at it.  Within an hour, I was floating around the surface with occasional help from a very attractive gentleman who insisted on being called The Nice Ice Man.  All lights a glitter in the aforementioned trees, music surrounding us and smiling faces floating past you.  What’s not to like?

The big event, however, was the reunion after twenty-seven years,( for some twenty-nine years), of my school, Woldingham formerly known as the Sacred Heart Convent, Woldingham.  I had studiously avoided any such thing for that length of time for so many reasons.  My memories were of some bullying and unhappiness, in addition to which, having been an actress all this time, my pride would have enjoyed me turning up in a limousine with bodyguards and autograph hunters.

I am proud to say that I have grown up a little since indulging myself in those fantasies, decided to bite the bullet and go.  Best decision of my life.  Not only was I knocked out by how wonderfully my fellow inmates, sorry,( did I say inmates?), I meant scholars, had blossomed, but I was inspired by the warmth of the welcome.  I had forgotten how formative the years are between eleven and eighteen, and in some ways, we had been each other’s surrogate parents.

The day began at Westminster Cathedral for Woldingham’s Carol Service.  It stated clearly in the programme, to congregate quietly at the beginning of the service.  We, of course, a somewhat rebellious year immediately disobeyed, gasping at recognising each other and hugging one another as if our lifeboats had collided.  Following a good exercise for our tonsils and lungs, (I  belted out every carol I knew) we met at the Territorial Army Headquarters in Horseferry Road.  Mulled wine and yelps of joy took place, while I had to dash to a casting.

The casting was in Beak Street.  I arrived to greet at least six other ladies up for the same role.  The role was for something that would eventually be animated, and entailed sitting in a chair, showing surprise at a paper airplane being flown into ones lap and then showing some form of happy, knowing expression on ones face.  Worth the two years of classical training and twenty-five years in the profession?  Of course not, but who is going to shun a job with a fee that has three noughts at the end of it.  Exiting the room, another four ladies awaited their turn to show their great prowess at facial expressions.  I treated myself to a taxi back as it had started to snow, mulling over the unfortunate timing of receiving the news that I had not got the Moliere tour that I had been hoping for ten minutes before entering the reunion.  Ahhhh, the life of an actress.

I returned in time for the reunion photo and we went on to a wine bar, where we proceeded to drink and talk, to the point that we alienated, unintentionally, the rest of the wine bar.  So frothy were we, that I am surprised one of us did not get some music decks out so that we could all dance.  I think I can safely say that if was an historic night for me.  The Captain says that I have been a nicer person since, so whatever demons I had have been exorcised. Amen.

A post script is that my super hero, Sister Pirquet has given up being a nun and become a psychotherapist.  I was profoundly happy to hear that, and that the other hero, Miss Angela Watkins who carried the torch for Shakespeare, had died.  May she rest in peace, I loved her to bits.

Other bits include discovering a pre-made fondue from Waitrose that my parents have introduced me to.  Do it, easy stuff, tastes like and is the real thing, made in Switzerland, and all you do is tip it into the fondue pot and sit with your beloved stuffing your face with it.  As I have said before, what’s not to like?

A book that I would recommend, though do not go looking for depth in it, is Mary McCarthy’s The Group.  Handed to me by my new literary Twitter-mate, (she knows who she is), it’s worth a look simply for observing the time in which it was set, perhaps even to have a glimpse of the New York literatti of its time.  Somewhat style over content, it is enjoyable in its distracting nature, but do not go looking for a soul, you will not find it.

I have been to my office party, which was a delight at the Wilton’s Music Hall, I thoroughly recommend their library where they do little functions.  Their venison sausages are brilliant.  Also the Holby City Party much dancing and laughter happened.  Who would have thought so many giggles could be had in the Holiday Inn at Elstree.

Now we head towards Christmas.  The weekend will be dinner with my mother-in-law, while the Captain attends a Cavalry Army reunion.  She and I will either go to Locale, in Fulham, which I thoroughly recommend or I will create a spectacular Italian dish at home.  The sunday the Captain will take her to Kew, and I will catch up on all the TV shows I have recorded.  Christmas Eve, we hire a car and head to my parents, in West Sussex and on to the Swan at Fittleworth, the best restaurant in the whole of West Sussex, and the big day itself will be spent at my brother’s new huge beautiful home and vineyard in the same county.  New Year is a black tie dinner in Ashwell which will include the German Prince who is always good for a lark.  And so it proceeds into 2013, Happy Christmas and Bloody Fantastic New Year, to each and every one of you.

Showbusiness For Ugly People

I have been avoiding writing the blog in an attempt to write the novel.  I have written half a chapter and drew to a halt again.  Brilliant.  Genius.  I  tried kick-starting myself back into action by taking myself back to the practice of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.  She dictates that as an artist one should take oneself off for an artist’s date once a week and one should write a flow of consciousness in the mornings as a first port of call.  Well, I took myself off to window shop in Peter Jones.

I know I am making excuses, and I seriously love Ms Cameron’s suggestions, but she does live in California or somewhere like that.  I recall that while I loathed L.A., bouncing out of bed and doing things was pretty easy.  The air is light and dry, whether it is sunny or not, so that there is no hesitating about taking a one hour walk/jog by the beach just to start the day, let alone sitting on a balcony to jot a few thoughts down.

London, on the other hand as it slithers into the depths of winter is a completely different matter.  Firstly the bed happens to be the nicest place in the world.  It is soft, warm and cocooned against the perils of icy, damp air with understandably miserable people who are trying to make their way through it.  So getting out of the cosy nest to write mindless pages as one waits for the heating to come on seems to have fallen by the wayside.  The energy required to then write the continuation of the novel after commuting an hour and half to work and the same time back through flu-ridden rush hour also strangely eludes me.

However, I did take myself off on a solo quest to window shop and perhaps even to actually shop.  That soon lost it’s joy.  The novelty of  Peter Jones wore off fairly quickly as I approached each empty aisle with delight, thinking that I could plough through the various items, alone in my musings.  As soon as I started to touch an item at least four women surrounded me.

You might be forgiven to assume that they were shop assistants.  Wrong.  They were customers all wanting to see what I was touching so that they too, might have a chance to touch or sniff it.  Taking myself off to the next empty aisle, the same happened, so that by the third and fourth time, I realised that I was indeed the Pied Piper of shopping.  Someone in the retail industry reading this blog should hire me immediately.  It seems that I make people want things by looking at them and touching them.  Seriously, I could actually make you some money.  I’ll take 10%, by the way.  And 20% for couture.  Anyway, enough plugging.

I went to see Christopher Hampton’s translation of Uncle Vanya at the Vaudeville directed sensitively by Lindsay Posner.  The title role was played brilliantly by Ken Stott, but I was particularly struck by Chekhov all over again with this production.  Yes, I was there on press night when a rather famous director started shouting at a leading member of the cast, and while the scandal of who did what was mildly exhilarating, it has not upstaged my admiration for both Mr Hampton’s eloquence and Mr Posner’s wish to tell the story.

The Captain is in Cape Town filming for five days.  No doubt he will be sunbathing as I write this account.  I went there myself to film a Clarks Shoes advert back in the 1990′s.  It was bizarre how I got it.  I had up to that point never been up for an advert let alone done one, so I doubted very much to achieve it at all.

With that in mind, I had booked my first proper holiday with a non transferrable flight to Malta to stay with a good friend.  I went out the night before the casting, knowing the filming clashed with my holiday, and also aware that adverts were as good as buying a lottery ticket.  In other words, I was not going to get it.  So I let my hair down that night.  I was at that glorious age when drinking simply made the skin have a rosy glow the next day, instead of the minor nervous breakdown that I now have, if I drink too much.

Well, you know the rest.  I got the job, had to cancel the holiday (the flight cost £300) and I made £12 000 out of the advert.  When the director spoke to me, he said, “Ah, it’s you.  You know why you got the job? ”  ”No,”  I said, blinking, innocently. “You laughed when you got it wrong in the first take.  I thought we could use that laugh in the ad.”  My laugh got me £12 000.  Two years of training in classical theatre, and all I needed to have done is laugh throatily in auditions.  Bingo.  I have obviously learnt since that it does not work in every scenario, having laughed several times, loudly, with no luck.  Still, at least I am not on I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.  That programme demonstrates the fact that politics is clearly “Showbusiness for ugly people”.