Despite swapping an unfriendly incompetent agent for an approachable organised one, I don’t seem to have any auditions. I’ve tried getting new photos, reglossing the CV, putting calling cards in phone boxes, and nothing seems to work. Not that I’m overly upset about this. I mean, I’ve only cried about it 3 times in as many months. I’ve got my ambitions set on one particular job only, the casting for which is imminent, and after which point I will change my life completely, and think of something else to do. There speaks an addict.
However, instead of working towards playing this particular Dickens character, I seem to have become her. I spend all day in my own personal sweat-shop, making muffs, stitching words, and hoping, hoping that someone will buy something. In the meantime of any money coming in, I cross my fingers every time I use public transport that my Oyster card will still work.
This Saturday I made a discovery. I found myself in a ‘house sale’ in the wilds of West London, where media folk out posh each other. I can’t really explain how I got here. I only know that for some reason, without ever opening my mouth in agreement to the idea, I felt morally obliged to be there. The set up was that a woman (probably an ex actress/casting director/bored wife and mother) wanted to sell some of her home made tutt from home, and thought that it would be good to get other people to do the same. Here’s what I discovered: I HATE WEST LONDON and all who perpetuate the vile uptight, let’s competitively relax with alternative therapies off the Kings Road and send our kids (who are called Liberty and Flip Flop) to expensive schools, and network at the school gates with an intensity you wouldn’t believe lifestyle.
I find myself setting up my muff stall in a room where a dotty old lady is setting up her fairy grotto. She sells these home made pipe cleaner dolls for £50 each, and she does a roaring trade, befriending every little girl in sight. She has them running around for her, writing lists of fairy names, and begging them to visit her in her ‘fairy factory’. She’s really quite shrewd. She has a ledger into which each fairy is named and numbered, and ‘every day at 6 o’clock all the fairies everywhere – some are in Hollywood, others in London – they tap their wings and tell each other their news on the fairy line, so they won’t be lonely.’ This goes down a storm, along with the fact that her daughter is a very successful casting director. It’s funny how many times I am given this piece of information. I quite like the fairy lady.
The day goes downhill as West London mummy 1 arrives to sell her wares from the sofa to my right, and West London mummy 2 installs herself on the sofa to my left. Never have I met two more unfriendly people. Fairy lady and myself are totally ignored, and as friends of WLM1 and 2 arrive and start buying the most hideous items, I look on in horror and can’t help thinking they’re all cunts. I quickly realise that all the identikit mummies in their dress down Saturday uniform of tight jeans and UGG boots are all obliged to buy off their friends. They do not glance in my direction. It’s almost as if they know they’re not allowed. I sit and hand-embroider my labels all day, becoming steadily more invisible. I really am Little Dorrit.
Key moments are the repeated exclamation – ‘No darling, not at all, just pay me at the school gates,’ and a moment later on as I’m packing up. I’d phoned Mr Beaten to rescue me from the hell hole, having sold no muffs at all. It was 3 o clock and I couldn’t face the idea of staying till 8 when the sale officially closed. My hostess, obviously feeling guilty about getting me along in the first place, came to admire my work, and seizing on the fact that it’s all hand embroidered, says (of WLM2, who is just there) ‘Oh, Jocasta teaches embroidery at Chelsea!’ at which point WLM2 picks up a muff and I start babbling – ‘I’m just a novice really….my grandmother was an embroidery designer, shop in Berwick street…etc’ and the more I talk, the more she says nothing, looks stern, and eventually puts the muff down. What a cow! Even if she thought it was shit, she should have had something polite to say, like ‘it’s lovely/charming’. She could see that I’d sold nothing, and that she had sold hundreds of hideous purple chenille scarves, so it’s not as if I was any threat at all. I had a big rash where my moustache once was for god’s sake, and a yellow spot in the corner of my mouth. The only reason I can think of for this cold treatment, is that she thought I was too young, and therefore contemptuous.
I wonder if my own North London clique comes across in the same way as the West Londoners did to me? Is it just the snobby London world which excludes the outsider? I like to think that actually West London is the absolute worst place on earth, populated with insecure, soon to be out of a job media scum. But that’s just me.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
Monday, 1 October 2007
Are You More Interesting Than The Telly?
Are you more interesting than the telly? I think the answer to this is no. The telly is for right now; you can tell me later.
The thing is about whatever’s on the box at the precise moment you’re watching is that you could miss it, never to be seen again. Unless it’s something that will be repeated, the experience will be lost forever. The pitfalls are many. You could get distracted by the phone, overhead air traffic, underhead street violence, the murmurings of whoever’s in your company. I have a pet hate, and that is people talking over whatever I am trying to watch. I need to know the words Jeremy Kyle is about to utter on the subject of infidelity, just as I need to know what Richard/Judy/the suburban cunthead loose women have to say about fashion. It’s not that I would subscribe to any of these viewpoints, or actually choose to watch these programmes (honest). But if I’m in the presence of images flickering on a screen accompanied by dialogue, don’t talk to me. I need to know what’s being said. Turn it off and I’m happy to talk about anything.
Mr Beaten finds the genre of ‘film’ intriguing yet difficult. He loves to watch them (films), but is not very good at understanding the words spoken, and often misses key plot points. His favourite trick, therefore, is to wait for a key moment and say ‘what did he say? Sandwiches on the settee?’ I have developed a technique of responding as quickly as I can, and very quietly so I can continue to pay attention to what is really going on: ‘No, he said “See you in Hawaii.”’ The problem is that what I want to do at this point is stab him in the eyes.
Now let me talk about jazz. This is something I find interesting: Why does anyone think it’s OK to talk all over someone’s live performance? I know in the white wig days that people would swan in to ‘the play’ whenever they fancied it and traipse around gossiping in the boxes and buying oranges from prostitutes whilst the actors bellowed their lines. But the theatre has moved on from this, and we sit in silence, obediently getting bored or being engaged, depending on the quality of the work. Perhaps this isn’t true of weekday matinees where school kids feel free to comment on the action as it goes along ‘Oh my days! She’s a butters!’ ‘Your mum!’ etc. Apparently this is great as it shows they’re paying some attention, and actors will say things like, "There’s just no bullshit performing to kids. They’re so honest. So direct. I find it marvellously inspiring" I don’t think they hear the words ‘You ugly chief.’ and if they do they have this filter which translates them into whoops of admiration. Sometimes these audiences aren’t commenting on the action at all, but calling to each other about who fancies who, who’s dumping who, who’s a slag doing ‘it’ with someone not considered cool. This is when actors say "bunch of cunts. Can’t they see what I’m trying to do?!" and slope off to commiserate over a ‘pint’ at the ‘pub’.
I’m getting off the point, which is that at the theatre (excepting schools performances and panto), audiences sit quietly, wait till it’s finished, and clap at the end. Not so for jazz, which for the most part happens in bars and clubs. Mr Beaten has been playing several venues recently. Many of these have been in a recital, concert hall setting. He has also been playing a lot with his ‘jazz mum’ – a London diva of some renown - at the Vortex jazz club. Jazz mum is a lovely lady who wears ‘jazz gowns’, and has a ‘rock against racism’ past which has never quite left her.
Her devoted fans lap up her repertoire, whether she’s on form or not, and the Vortex is the temple at which they worship. This is one of those places with a loyal group of respectful audiences who like to sit at tables soaking up the (non) atmosphere of ‘JAZZ’; they liked smoking cigarettes, but now they suck plastic ones; they might wear vegetarian shoes; they definitely think you have to drink red wine in order to listen; but they save their chat for between sets.
Given the recent past, it’s understandable that I’d been lulled into a false sense of security. So when Mr B played at a ‘music venue’ in convent garden I was surprised by the level of noise coming from the people there. Admittedly, half of the venue was taken up by diners, many of whom did not know who was playing. I wouldn’t expect these people to show much sensitivity, even though Mr B diligently announced the name of every tune for us. The diners scoffed and laughed at their own personal hilarity. I think there was an office party at one table – they were the worst, obviously.
What was ridiculous were his friends who had actually come to hear him play. There I am watching and listening to a solo of B’s when into my line of vision lollops a classical conductor friend of ours. He sits himself down opposite me with his back to the players, kissing me on both cheeks, and begins the pleasantries! Does he really think what we did this summer is more interesting than the music being played? Maybe it is, but save it: "the jazz is for right now; you can tell me later".
I’m not actually that enamoured of the jazz idiom, but I must show support, and give constructive notes afterwards. This is part of the marital contract after all. I don’t think this is exceptional behaviour: as I have already said, there are plenty who watch plays and find them interminably boring, but they don’t discuss the weather throughout, or how they’ve moved along the allotment waiting list.
I can excuse the denser members of my coterie for feeling they have to fill what they perceive to be ‘silences’ in which they say to me ‘you look like you’re absorbing every note,’ and ‘he’s very talented.’ This is forgivable if irritating. But this man is a musician, and for some reason he thinks his interminable symphonies more deserving of concentration and attention than this crazy jazz, which is basically background music. I want to punch him. But then, I never liked him much anyway.
I think the answer is to be world-domination-level-famous, and then you can play at international concert halls and tell people off for coughing, like Keith Jarrett. As Mr B’s manager, I’ll have to see what I can do. In the meantime, I can’t change the weatherspoons-as-venue culture – alternative places need to be found.
The thing is about whatever’s on the box at the precise moment you’re watching is that you could miss it, never to be seen again. Unless it’s something that will be repeated, the experience will be lost forever. The pitfalls are many. You could get distracted by the phone, overhead air traffic, underhead street violence, the murmurings of whoever’s in your company. I have a pet hate, and that is people talking over whatever I am trying to watch. I need to know the words Jeremy Kyle is about to utter on the subject of infidelity, just as I need to know what Richard/Judy/the suburban cunthead loose women have to say about fashion. It’s not that I would subscribe to any of these viewpoints, or actually choose to watch these programmes (honest). But if I’m in the presence of images flickering on a screen accompanied by dialogue, don’t talk to me. I need to know what’s being said. Turn it off and I’m happy to talk about anything.
Mr Beaten finds the genre of ‘film’ intriguing yet difficult. He loves to watch them (films), but is not very good at understanding the words spoken, and often misses key plot points. His favourite trick, therefore, is to wait for a key moment and say ‘what did he say? Sandwiches on the settee?’ I have developed a technique of responding as quickly as I can, and very quietly so I can continue to pay attention to what is really going on: ‘No, he said “See you in Hawaii.”’ The problem is that what I want to do at this point is stab him in the eyes.
Now let me talk about jazz. This is something I find interesting: Why does anyone think it’s OK to talk all over someone’s live performance? I know in the white wig days that people would swan in to ‘the play’ whenever they fancied it and traipse around gossiping in the boxes and buying oranges from prostitutes whilst the actors bellowed their lines. But the theatre has moved on from this, and we sit in silence, obediently getting bored or being engaged, depending on the quality of the work. Perhaps this isn’t true of weekday matinees where school kids feel free to comment on the action as it goes along ‘Oh my days! She’s a butters!’ ‘Your mum!’ etc. Apparently this is great as it shows they’re paying some attention, and actors will say things like, "There’s just no bullshit performing to kids. They’re so honest. So direct. I find it marvellously inspiring" I don’t think they hear the words ‘You ugly chief.’ and if they do they have this filter which translates them into whoops of admiration. Sometimes these audiences aren’t commenting on the action at all, but calling to each other about who fancies who, who’s dumping who, who’s a slag doing ‘it’ with someone not considered cool. This is when actors say "bunch of cunts. Can’t they see what I’m trying to do?!" and slope off to commiserate over a ‘pint’ at the ‘pub’.
I’m getting off the point, which is that at the theatre (excepting schools performances and panto), audiences sit quietly, wait till it’s finished, and clap at the end. Not so for jazz, which for the most part happens in bars and clubs. Mr Beaten has been playing several venues recently. Many of these have been in a recital, concert hall setting. He has also been playing a lot with his ‘jazz mum’ – a London diva of some renown - at the Vortex jazz club. Jazz mum is a lovely lady who wears ‘jazz gowns’, and has a ‘rock against racism’ past which has never quite left her.
Her devoted fans lap up her repertoire, whether she’s on form or not, and the Vortex is the temple at which they worship. This is one of those places with a loyal group of respectful audiences who like to sit at tables soaking up the (non) atmosphere of ‘JAZZ’; they liked smoking cigarettes, but now they suck plastic ones; they might wear vegetarian shoes; they definitely think you have to drink red wine in order to listen; but they save their chat for between sets.Given the recent past, it’s understandable that I’d been lulled into a false sense of security. So when Mr B played at a ‘music venue’ in convent garden I was surprised by the level of noise coming from the people there. Admittedly, half of the venue was taken up by diners, many of whom did not know who was playing. I wouldn’t expect these people to show much sensitivity, even though Mr B diligently announced the name of every tune for us. The diners scoffed and laughed at their own personal hilarity. I think there was an office party at one table – they were the worst, obviously.
What was ridiculous were his friends who had actually come to hear him play. There I am watching and listening to a solo of B’s when into my line of vision lollops a classical conductor friend of ours. He sits himself down opposite me with his back to the players, kissing me on both cheeks, and begins the pleasantries! Does he really think what we did this summer is more interesting than the music being played? Maybe it is, but save it: "the jazz is for right now; you can tell me later".
I’m not actually that enamoured of the jazz idiom, but I must show support, and give constructive notes afterwards. This is part of the marital contract after all. I don’t think this is exceptional behaviour: as I have already said, there are plenty who watch plays and find them interminably boring, but they don’t discuss the weather throughout, or how they’ve moved along the allotment waiting list.
I can excuse the denser members of my coterie for feeling they have to fill what they perceive to be ‘silences’ in which they say to me ‘you look like you’re absorbing every note,’ and ‘he’s very talented.’ This is forgivable if irritating. But this man is a musician, and for some reason he thinks his interminable symphonies more deserving of concentration and attention than this crazy jazz, which is basically background music. I want to punch him. But then, I never liked him much anyway.
I think the answer is to be world-domination-level-famous, and then you can play at international concert halls and tell people off for coughing, like Keith Jarrett. As Mr B’s manager, I’ll have to see what I can do. In the meantime, I can’t change the weatherspoons-as-venue culture – alternative places need to be found.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
The Smallest Sandwich in the World
Dear Mr Selfridges
As a birthday treat on Wednesday 29th August, I had the misfortune of coming across your afternoon tea menu at the Selfridges hotel. I must confess that I didn’t choose the venue based on any more than the convenience of the location. However, after this first visit, I have no intention of ever returning. This was nothing less than a cream tea fiasco.
A party of four, and having partaken of similarly priced afternoon tea menus before, we decided to opt for 3 items from the menu to share, as afternoon tea portions tend to be generous, and we didn’t want to be sick during our evening dance class, nor did we want to be encumbered by a doggy bag.
The items we chose were:
Classic Sandwiches A selection of classic sandwiches with tea or coffee £6.50
Cream Tea Scones, clotted cream and jam with tea or coffee £6.50
Naughty But Nice A selection of fresh cream cakes with tea of coffee £6.50
Aside from the tortuously slow service – we had to beg to be given a menu; and then to be given the right menu (afternoon tea); and then to have our order taken - the thing that really shocked and disappointed us was the food itself. Allow me to take you through the problems:
Classic sandwiches consisted of the equivalent in quantity of one sandwich made from two very average pieces of white sliced. There were four different ‘soldier’ sandwiches – let me be very clear – there was only one finger of each flavour (egg mayonnaise, smoked salmon, cucumber, and cream cheese). Perhaps a diagram will help.
Now, I can forgive you for not knowing that I wouldn’t eat egg if you paid me, and that my brother is allergic to fish, and that my boyfriend’s idea of a bad time is any kind of soft cheese, but I think it is truly mean to charge so much for so very little. I can understand that with your overheads you would have to charge more than the food itself is actually worth, but this is taking it to an extreme.
Unfortunately our Cream Tea had to be sent back. Of course we accept the Mr Whip alternative to clotted cream as a London thing, but, cutting into one of our two scones, I found the consistency to be that of a dry, flaking pumice stone. Our waiter, suggesting that perhaps it was overcooked, removed the offending item, promising to return with a better one. As the waiting set in, we decided to make a start on the Naughty But Nice cakes. Now I am usually charmed by all things miniature, but these wouldn’t look out of place in my dolls house. And as for fresh cream, there wasn’t much of that in sight. Perhaps I had misread the menu? I checked and saw that cream was definitely mentioned, that at no point to the words ‘little’ or ‘petits fours’ appear, and that the word chocolate was omitted too. I looked back at the plate. There were four tiny brown items – one of which could only be described as a chocolate covered biscuit. I must say that these were not what I would call naughty at all. Perhaps the description in the menu should read: ‘puritan, abstemious cakes. Perfect for those on a diet’.
I must say at this point that we are very grateful to you for providing us with 6 mini jam pots to go with our two scones. My mother put them straight in her handbag to use as paint pots in her studio.
Thirty minutes later our second cream tea arrives, only this time it’s only 1 scone. It’s beautifully garnished with a couple of strawberries and looks very elegant on its own gargantuan tray. There is no jam, but a blob of marmalade! You can imagine my surprise I’m sure. I nearly fell off my chair. Imagine marmalade on a scone. It’s bizarre. My mother is less perturbed by the lack of strawberry jam than she is by the epic wait and the missing scone. She insists on another, and I retire to the toilet.
Now I must question your thinking on this one. Why do you have a menu framed on the back of the cubicle door? Is this to check things off as I go?
Your waiters were kind enough to deduct the actual tea off our bill as an apology for the poor service, but I think you can do more. This was a deeply scaring episode for me and my family, for whom afternoon tea at a hotel will never be the same. What can be done? Please book us into the priory where some of your work can be undone and we can be psychologically mended. And for our return into the world, perhaps some Selfridges vouchers and a few jam post wouldn’t go amiss.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours in utter disgust,
Mrs Beaten
p.s. My mother would like to point out that when we asked for our teapot to be refilled, it was returned having been topped up with boiling water alone, and therefore what we poured out was the colour of very pale urine.
As a birthday treat on Wednesday 29th August, I had the misfortune of coming across your afternoon tea menu at the Selfridges hotel. I must confess that I didn’t choose the venue based on any more than the convenience of the location. However, after this first visit, I have no intention of ever returning. This was nothing less than a cream tea fiasco.
A party of four, and having partaken of similarly priced afternoon tea menus before, we decided to opt for 3 items from the menu to share, as afternoon tea portions tend to be generous, and we didn’t want to be sick during our evening dance class, nor did we want to be encumbered by a doggy bag.
The items we chose were:
Classic Sandwiches A selection of classic sandwiches with tea or coffee £6.50
Cream Tea Scones, clotted cream and jam with tea or coffee £6.50
Naughty But Nice A selection of fresh cream cakes with tea of coffee £6.50
Aside from the tortuously slow service – we had to beg to be given a menu; and then to be given the right menu (afternoon tea); and then to have our order taken - the thing that really shocked and disappointed us was the food itself. Allow me to take you through the problems:
Classic sandwiches consisted of the equivalent in quantity of one sandwich made from two very average pieces of white sliced. There were four different ‘soldier’ sandwiches – let me be very clear – there was only one finger of each flavour (egg mayonnaise, smoked salmon, cucumber, and cream cheese). Perhaps a diagram will help.
Now, I can forgive you for not knowing that I wouldn’t eat egg if you paid me, and that my brother is allergic to fish, and that my boyfriend’s idea of a bad time is any kind of soft cheese, but I think it is truly mean to charge so much for so very little. I can understand that with your overheads you would have to charge more than the food itself is actually worth, but this is taking it to an extreme.
Unfortunately our Cream Tea had to be sent back. Of course we accept the Mr Whip alternative to clotted cream as a London thing, but, cutting into one of our two scones, I found the consistency to be that of a dry, flaking pumice stone. Our waiter, suggesting that perhaps it was overcooked, removed the offending item, promising to return with a better one. As the waiting set in, we decided to make a start on the Naughty But Nice cakes. Now I am usually charmed by all things miniature, but these wouldn’t look out of place in my dolls house. And as for fresh cream, there wasn’t much of that in sight. Perhaps I had misread the menu? I checked and saw that cream was definitely mentioned, that at no point to the words ‘little’ or ‘petits fours’ appear, and that the word chocolate was omitted too. I looked back at the plate. There were four tiny brown items – one of which could only be described as a chocolate covered biscuit. I must say that these were not what I would call naughty at all. Perhaps the description in the menu should read: ‘puritan, abstemious cakes. Perfect for those on a diet’.
I must say at this point that we are very grateful to you for providing us with 6 mini jam pots to go with our two scones. My mother put them straight in her handbag to use as paint pots in her studio.
Thirty minutes later our second cream tea arrives, only this time it’s only 1 scone. It’s beautifully garnished with a couple of strawberries and looks very elegant on its own gargantuan tray. There is no jam, but a blob of marmalade! You can imagine my surprise I’m sure. I nearly fell off my chair. Imagine marmalade on a scone. It’s bizarre. My mother is less perturbed by the lack of strawberry jam than she is by the epic wait and the missing scone. She insists on another, and I retire to the toilet.
Now I must question your thinking on this one. Why do you have a menu framed on the back of the cubicle door? Is this to check things off as I go?
Your waiters were kind enough to deduct the actual tea off our bill as an apology for the poor service, but I think you can do more. This was a deeply scaring episode for me and my family, for whom afternoon tea at a hotel will never be the same. What can be done? Please book us into the priory where some of your work can be undone and we can be psychologically mended. And for our return into the world, perhaps some Selfridges vouchers and a few jam post wouldn’t go amiss.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours in utter disgust,
Mrs Beaten
p.s. My mother would like to point out that when we asked for our teapot to be refilled, it was returned having been topped up with boiling water alone, and therefore what we poured out was the colour of very pale urine.
Sunday, 12 August 2007
Does My Moustache Look Big in This?
How is it possible that people calling themselves make up artists are so often completely deranged?
Last weekend I condescended to take part in a short, unpaid, film. These are usually a total drag unless they’re for your dear friends, which this was not. They always involve changing goalposts, and rinsing actors for all they’re worth. The inequality of this industry means that whilst you’ll get experienced actors to take part, the crew is often a different matter. You see, insecure actors will agree to do almost anything to keep their hand in, whereas crew will do things purely to work in an upward trajectory, earning points on their CV’s.
Ever the pro, and knowing that I won’t be needed until several hours after my actual call time, I arrive at the shoot equipped the largest weekend paper I could find. Here I am greeted by the most bizarre looking pair, who are, it seems, the make up department. What I see is two young women, one little, and one large. Both very round. Both plastered in foundation. No surprises here. I’ve noticed that the bigger the job you’re doing, the more experienced the team, the less crap they wear on their faces, and likewise, the less they put on yours. The thing I find odd is that they’re both wearing tight boob tubes. One is Turquoise, and one is ‘Wonderfully Orange’. It’s as if they’ve made an agreement on a uniform, or that they think this get up will give them more credibility or something. And I really don’t understand, as a thin person, what would possess anyone to wear stretch cotton without straps. I mean, it’s not going to do anyone any favours. The larger of the two (she’s actually scarily large), in turquoise, is wearing an old once-white bra, with a bobbly polyester pink back. The straps, now grey, are thick, and are cutting into her red sweaty flesh. I’m confused. The little one has opted not to wear a bra, and the result is exactly how I’d imagine my own breasts to look in such a get up – squashed and sad. I know it sounds arrogant and cruel, but imagine my consternation as I realise that these two are going to be responsible for my credibility on screen, and that they’re having trouble putting the other actresses hair into a pony tail.
I’m offered coffee by a runner, and I request my usual hot water, and something to eat, anything, a tomato sandwich.
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, having given up on the ponytail, shift their focus onto me. Svetlana (large turquoise lady) asks Ruby what the ‘look’ is for my character. ‘Dewey’ comes the reply, and Svetlana’s off, stripping all natural oils from my face, and brandishing her trowel. She layers it on thick, of course. When I glimpse the effect of beige paint, applied in stripes down my face, I remember why I don’t wear foundation. It slips into every wrinkle, creating furrows. It coats every hair, making what once could be described as ‘down’ a la Ms Monroe look more like fur. I look like grandpa from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
The next trick is to apply eye shadow – another thing I’ve never seen the point of. Svetlana, unlike you, I haven’t plucked my eyebrows into a state of permanent drawn on surprise! There isn’t enough space to between lid and brow for this kind of thing – especially not in three tones of pink.
This pinnacle of facial expertise then informs me, that I will damage my eyelashes if I insist on using eyelash curlers. Is she insane? Eyelashes are dead. I’m more worried about the skin on my face ever being able to breathe again.
The tour de force is the bright pink lip-gloss, lovingly applied just before lunch. This is then retouched 30 times before I shoot my first scene, in which I look more like a cross dressing prostitute than the girl next door I’m supposed to be.
I do the only logical thing in these circumstances. During my hour break, I nip next door and spend £30 on a yellow dress – it’s amazing how it feels to spend money when you’re earning none. It doesn’t even matter that when I get it home to show Mr B., he says it’s a bit childish. I retort that it’s rather Rosemary’s Baby. ‘Who are you? The baby?’
‘No’ I reply, ‘I’m Mia Farrow.’ I think that the conversation is closed, when he comes back with ‘Mia Farrow’s tall and blonde. Which bit of her are you?’ At which point I go to find the paint stripper to undo Svetlana’s work.
Last weekend I condescended to take part in a short, unpaid, film. These are usually a total drag unless they’re for your dear friends, which this was not. They always involve changing goalposts, and rinsing actors for all they’re worth. The inequality of this industry means that whilst you’ll get experienced actors to take part, the crew is often a different matter. You see, insecure actors will agree to do almost anything to keep their hand in, whereas crew will do things purely to work in an upward trajectory, earning points on their CV’s.
Ever the pro, and knowing that I won’t be needed until several hours after my actual call time, I arrive at the shoot equipped the largest weekend paper I could find. Here I am greeted by the most bizarre looking pair, who are, it seems, the make up department. What I see is two young women, one little, and one large. Both very round. Both plastered in foundation. No surprises here. I’ve noticed that the bigger the job you’re doing, the more experienced the team, the less crap they wear on their faces, and likewise, the less they put on yours. The thing I find odd is that they’re both wearing tight boob tubes. One is Turquoise, and one is ‘Wonderfully Orange’. It’s as if they’ve made an agreement on a uniform, or that they think this get up will give them more credibility or something. And I really don’t understand, as a thin person, what would possess anyone to wear stretch cotton without straps. I mean, it’s not going to do anyone any favours. The larger of the two (she’s actually scarily large), in turquoise, is wearing an old once-white bra, with a bobbly polyester pink back. The straps, now grey, are thick, and are cutting into her red sweaty flesh. I’m confused. The little one has opted not to wear a bra, and the result is exactly how I’d imagine my own breasts to look in such a get up – squashed and sad. I know it sounds arrogant and cruel, but imagine my consternation as I realise that these two are going to be responsible for my credibility on screen, and that they’re having trouble putting the other actresses hair into a pony tail.
I’m offered coffee by a runner, and I request my usual hot water, and something to eat, anything, a tomato sandwich.
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, having given up on the ponytail, shift their focus onto me. Svetlana (large turquoise lady) asks Ruby what the ‘look’ is for my character. ‘Dewey’ comes the reply, and Svetlana’s off, stripping all natural oils from my face, and brandishing her trowel. She layers it on thick, of course. When I glimpse the effect of beige paint, applied in stripes down my face, I remember why I don’t wear foundation. It slips into every wrinkle, creating furrows. It coats every hair, making what once could be described as ‘down’ a la Ms Monroe look more like fur. I look like grandpa from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
The next trick is to apply eye shadow – another thing I’ve never seen the point of. Svetlana, unlike you, I haven’t plucked my eyebrows into a state of permanent drawn on surprise! There isn’t enough space to between lid and brow for this kind of thing – especially not in three tones of pink.
This pinnacle of facial expertise then informs me, that I will damage my eyelashes if I insist on using eyelash curlers. Is she insane? Eyelashes are dead. I’m more worried about the skin on my face ever being able to breathe again.
The tour de force is the bright pink lip-gloss, lovingly applied just before lunch. This is then retouched 30 times before I shoot my first scene, in which I look more like a cross dressing prostitute than the girl next door I’m supposed to be.
I do the only logical thing in these circumstances. During my hour break, I nip next door and spend £30 on a yellow dress – it’s amazing how it feels to spend money when you’re earning none. It doesn’t even matter that when I get it home to show Mr B., he says it’s a bit childish. I retort that it’s rather Rosemary’s Baby. ‘Who are you? The baby?’
‘No’ I reply, ‘I’m Mia Farrow.’ I think that the conversation is closed, when he comes back with ‘Mia Farrow’s tall and blonde. Which bit of her are you?’ At which point I go to find the paint stripper to undo Svetlana’s work.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Schnorrers
Why do I have such a fucking big mouth? You know how you meet people when you're abroad? And you say, 'When you're in London, you'd be welcome to stay'? But you don't actually expect anyone to take you up on it. And what you envisage when they do, is actually of some trouble free stay involving the odd evening together, but basically you stay out of each other’s way. Well, this time it's got me into trouble.
Mr Beaten and I are quite uptight when it comes to our house. We can't help wincing when people slam the kitchen drawers (That's something they don't tell you about the new 'drawer culture'. Whereas once your plates were stationary on a shelf when at rest, now they're at constant risk of breakage as they get moved about every time you want something, and then shunted back again at alarming speed. Not sure about this kitchen revolution.); We can't bear people to put things in the sink, for fear of it chipping, and a washing up bowl is too ugly for Mr B; We have an organic obsession which means we never have enough to eat in the house; and I can't countenance using a worktop as a chopping board. So, when someone comes to stay, we whip ourselves into a frenzy, absorbing each other’s stress and giving each other migraines. It's a barrel of laughs.
When our disabled French twin friends asked if one of them could stay for 2 weeks (2 weeks!), the right-on side of me felt obliged to accommodate them - although my mother was away for a week, so I put our guest at her house for one of the weeks. Thank god. Of course, the stay had to be just after Mr B's mother announced that she would be descending on us. Because this woman has no concept of manners, she didn't think to let us know how long her stay would be. So she did, in fact, overlap with the French. I made Mr B. turf mummy from the spare room, on the grounds that the French was disabled and needed a bed and wasn't fit to sleep on the floor. So that was a pleasant moment of retribution. She really is an unbelievable cunt.
The French had omitted to tell me that they were coming ensemble - I was expecting the half twin package, but I got the full compliment for the first couple of days. This was actually OK. They're so small it seems wrong for only one of them to be in a double bed, and I feel like a presenter from Sesame Street, because for once I am taller than someone. I'm also less responsible when they have each other.
The brief harmony ceases when Twin One and Mother B. leave. Then I seem to be left with an interminable eight-day charge of caring for a schnorrer (I don't know if there is a suitable translation for this - think piss taker).
Twin Two goes to English classes every day, and is up and out early, but back by four and expecting entertainment. I begin to notice, because I'm horribly mean, that she has contributed nothing to the household. When we run out of cereal, rather than replacing, she manages to find Mr B's packed lunch bars to shnaffle. Stocks begin to run low, and I'm working and haven't had time to shop. One day I'm delighted to see the French one return from school with groceries, but these never make an appearance into the kitchen, and are obviously to take home as foreign delicacies.
I feel bombarded by passive aggression. Not only does Twin Two refuse to speak French in an effort to improve the English, but she also refuses to understand anything I say to her which she doesn't want to hear; she goes round being disabled, so you're caught between trying to treat her equally, whilst only doing so if it means being nice and accommodating, which I don't normally do for anyone else.
The week draws to a close, and reaching the final night, I can no longer face cooking for the guest (which I've done every night, apart from one in which I was out and fretted over what she would eat). My mother suggests a movie, La Vie En Rose, but schnorrer face wants to see an English language film. So mother buys tickets for Hairspray. Schnorrer doesn't offer to pay. With time to kill, we go for a Chinese. I pay. Schnorrer yet again doesn't offer, or say thank you! The upside is that mother is able to witness at first hand the schnorring. Schnorrer doesn't even like the film that much, and says that the language is basic, but given that I can't understand two thirds of what she says, a bit of basic wouldn't go amiss in my opinion. What’s the point of trying to talk about ethics if you can’t talk about sandwiches?
Anyway, it's over. My best friend asked to stay the other day. I told her to fuck off.
Mr Beaten and I are quite uptight when it comes to our house. We can't help wincing when people slam the kitchen drawers (That's something they don't tell you about the new 'drawer culture'. Whereas once your plates were stationary on a shelf when at rest, now they're at constant risk of breakage as they get moved about every time you want something, and then shunted back again at alarming speed. Not sure about this kitchen revolution.); We can't bear people to put things in the sink, for fear of it chipping, and a washing up bowl is too ugly for Mr B; We have an organic obsession which means we never have enough to eat in the house; and I can't countenance using a worktop as a chopping board. So, when someone comes to stay, we whip ourselves into a frenzy, absorbing each other’s stress and giving each other migraines. It's a barrel of laughs.
When our disabled French twin friends asked if one of them could stay for 2 weeks (2 weeks!), the right-on side of me felt obliged to accommodate them - although my mother was away for a week, so I put our guest at her house for one of the weeks. Thank god. Of course, the stay had to be just after Mr B's mother announced that she would be descending on us. Because this woman has no concept of manners, she didn't think to let us know how long her stay would be. So she did, in fact, overlap with the French. I made Mr B. turf mummy from the spare room, on the grounds that the French was disabled and needed a bed and wasn't fit to sleep on the floor. So that was a pleasant moment of retribution. She really is an unbelievable cunt.
The French had omitted to tell me that they were coming ensemble - I was expecting the half twin package, but I got the full compliment for the first couple of days. This was actually OK. They're so small it seems wrong for only one of them to be in a double bed, and I feel like a presenter from Sesame Street, because for once I am taller than someone. I'm also less responsible when they have each other.
The brief harmony ceases when Twin One and Mother B. leave. Then I seem to be left with an interminable eight-day charge of caring for a schnorrer (I don't know if there is a suitable translation for this - think piss taker).
Twin Two goes to English classes every day, and is up and out early, but back by four and expecting entertainment. I begin to notice, because I'm horribly mean, that she has contributed nothing to the household. When we run out of cereal, rather than replacing, she manages to find Mr B's packed lunch bars to shnaffle. Stocks begin to run low, and I'm working and haven't had time to shop. One day I'm delighted to see the French one return from school with groceries, but these never make an appearance into the kitchen, and are obviously to take home as foreign delicacies.
I feel bombarded by passive aggression. Not only does Twin Two refuse to speak French in an effort to improve the English, but she also refuses to understand anything I say to her which she doesn't want to hear; she goes round being disabled, so you're caught between trying to treat her equally, whilst only doing so if it means being nice and accommodating, which I don't normally do for anyone else.
The week draws to a close, and reaching the final night, I can no longer face cooking for the guest (which I've done every night, apart from one in which I was out and fretted over what she would eat). My mother suggests a movie, La Vie En Rose, but schnorrer face wants to see an English language film. So mother buys tickets for Hairspray. Schnorrer doesn't offer to pay. With time to kill, we go for a Chinese. I pay. Schnorrer yet again doesn't offer, or say thank you! The upside is that mother is able to witness at first hand the schnorring. Schnorrer doesn't even like the film that much, and says that the language is basic, but given that I can't understand two thirds of what she says, a bit of basic wouldn't go amiss in my opinion. What’s the point of trying to talk about ethics if you can’t talk about sandwiches?
Anyway, it's over. My best friend asked to stay the other day. I told her to fuck off.
Saturday, 21 July 2007
A is for Acting, B is for Bollocks
There is a certain kind of actor I would rather avoid. When confronted with a whole room full of them, my mind works fast to construct an escape plan. I start to wonder how bad it would be karmically if I announce I have to leave because of a death in the family. Having a huge capacity for guilt, I am unable to do this, and I try to think of brilliant white lies.
This Wednesday I had an appointment to do an 'audition workshop' for an international tour of third rate physical theatre. You know, pale imitations of what was ground breaking twenty years ago, and has since become part of established commercial theatre style. 'Come dressed for a physical theatre workshop' read the email. Duly, I arrive in my lovely red tracksuit. I am early. I am the first one there, and then I observe the instrument clad, one man band style worst nightmare sort of actors begin to arrive. These are the people who can't crack a smile, are unable to respond to my polite chat, and are totally up their own arses. They are all white. They all speak RP. They are desperately competitive. There is thirty minutes to kill before the workshop is due to begin. Having been stonewalled by the first two I speak to, I wonder how this time will pass. It's no surprise that people start to comptetively 'warm up'. This is people doing lots of stretches and horse noises with their mouths. Sometimes there is a bit of girly marshal arts movement going on, or abit of imaginary plate moving. Most important is the nonchalant blank face which everybody adopts in the exectution of this wanky series of moves.
I have nothing against dancers and athletes warming up their bodies. They do risk injury if they don't. But actors at an audition? Give me a break! This is just plain showing off. It makes me want to kill them. Or at the very least cuss their mums. So I wander about outside for a bit, then I sit on the floor in the hall, and I think my face is pretty plain. There is probably a huge sign above my head reading 'I think you're all cunts!' Maybe I should get one of those signs. This bodes really well for the next two hours passing in a fun way. It bodes brilliantly for me being imminently employed.
So the workshop begins, and the director makes a joke about how the wage will be paid into the actors' bank account, but there will be cash per diems which is basically 'beer money'. Hilarious! There were a lot of guffaws, particularly from a woman who had an amazingly determined face. I mean she really wanted this job bad. It's weird when people laugh and they don't smile. What follows are some rolly aroundy type exercises, then some improv games which are excrutiating, then some singing.
And now I know what is worse than competitive stretching. It's actors doing competitive singing. This is when they all try and sing the loudest whilst they're learning a song for the first time, and don't get it right because they're not listening. It's horrific. Then we have to take it in turns to sing this new song in pairs in a round. It's horrendous. Having had complete contempt for these people, I suddenly have enourmous empathy. What once were confident bellows become tremulous little squeeks. Words are forgotten, notes are out of the window, and still the maniac workshop leader keeps conducting them round and round, on and on, over and over, stretching the humiliation for all it's worth. And I feel warmth for these people, as despite the shameful performances, each one is cheered by all. My own performance is much like everyone elses. Horrid. I am the only one to laugh during it though, which I think makes me pretty cool.
At the end I don't wait to hear if they want to see me again. I don't feel that warmly towards them, and I've got things to do, like an audition for a job that I actually want, only now I'm way to tired and sweaty and my legs hurt and I just want to lie down. What is it about these physical theatre types which means they think that to be a good actor you must be able to walk with your knees bent a lot and have really strong thigh muscles?
This Wednesday I had an appointment to do an 'audition workshop' for an international tour of third rate physical theatre. You know, pale imitations of what was ground breaking twenty years ago, and has since become part of established commercial theatre style. 'Come dressed for a physical theatre workshop' read the email. Duly, I arrive in my lovely red tracksuit. I am early. I am the first one there, and then I observe the instrument clad, one man band style worst nightmare sort of actors begin to arrive. These are the people who can't crack a smile, are unable to respond to my polite chat, and are totally up their own arses. They are all white. They all speak RP. They are desperately competitive. There is thirty minutes to kill before the workshop is due to begin. Having been stonewalled by the first two I speak to, I wonder how this time will pass. It's no surprise that people start to comptetively 'warm up'. This is people doing lots of stretches and horse noises with their mouths. Sometimes there is a bit of girly marshal arts movement going on, or abit of imaginary plate moving. Most important is the nonchalant blank face which everybody adopts in the exectution of this wanky series of moves.
I have nothing against dancers and athletes warming up their bodies. They do risk injury if they don't. But actors at an audition? Give me a break! This is just plain showing off. It makes me want to kill them. Or at the very least cuss their mums. So I wander about outside for a bit, then I sit on the floor in the hall, and I think my face is pretty plain. There is probably a huge sign above my head reading 'I think you're all cunts!' Maybe I should get one of those signs. This bodes really well for the next two hours passing in a fun way. It bodes brilliantly for me being imminently employed.
So the workshop begins, and the director makes a joke about how the wage will be paid into the actors' bank account, but there will be cash per diems which is basically 'beer money'. Hilarious! There were a lot of guffaws, particularly from a woman who had an amazingly determined face. I mean she really wanted this job bad. It's weird when people laugh and they don't smile. What follows are some rolly aroundy type exercises, then some improv games which are excrutiating, then some singing.
And now I know what is worse than competitive stretching. It's actors doing competitive singing. This is when they all try and sing the loudest whilst they're learning a song for the first time, and don't get it right because they're not listening. It's horrific. Then we have to take it in turns to sing this new song in pairs in a round. It's horrendous. Having had complete contempt for these people, I suddenly have enourmous empathy. What once were confident bellows become tremulous little squeeks. Words are forgotten, notes are out of the window, and still the maniac workshop leader keeps conducting them round and round, on and on, over and over, stretching the humiliation for all it's worth. And I feel warmth for these people, as despite the shameful performances, each one is cheered by all. My own performance is much like everyone elses. Horrid. I am the only one to laugh during it though, which I think makes me pretty cool.
At the end I don't wait to hear if they want to see me again. I don't feel that warmly towards them, and I've got things to do, like an audition for a job that I actually want, only now I'm way to tired and sweaty and my legs hurt and I just want to lie down. What is it about these physical theatre types which means they think that to be a good actor you must be able to walk with your knees bent a lot and have really strong thigh muscles?
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Parental Guidance
This is what I've learnt. I am a terrible babysitter. I have no idea about boundaries; I am unable to be strict; I'm not even fun. I am a failure.
This is a tale of two cousins, or three or four. American cousin from New York is holidaying in London with her family (a girl aged 7, a boy of eleven, and a husband). In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity I have offered to look after the children for an evening. Entirely characteristic of my extended family, this involves several uptight phonecalls between myself and another cousin, Lobotomised of The Bishops Avenue, who starts every sentence with, 'Well we're very relaxed...', who has been looking after the children during that day, along with her own brood. She usually finishes all of these misleading sentences with the various limitations she must insist on - 'Well we're very relaxed but:
We can't drop them off near that cinema, it's too far away'
We have to get rid of them before the baby's bed time.'
We don't want you taking them on the tube at night.'
What started as an innocent suggestion becomes a mammoth undertaking of logistical insanity. I decide to remain 'very relaxed' in the negotiations, and eventually after spending most of the day on the phone, agree to meet the kids at their hotel in Euston.
The moment Lobotomised of Bishop's Avenue's husband is out of sight, we get straight on the tube to Marine Ices, where I make the mistake of allowing them to order whatever they like. American children know how to order - on the side, on top, extra whipped cream etc. Actually, this part of the evening is looking good. Dora doesn't eat her ice cream, but polishes off most of my spaghetti. Tom, who is already getting a belly, consumes his triple special sundae extraordinarily fast. I'm sure too fast to taste the different flavours, and only so that he can get a cold sensation in his mouth. Unfortunately, this meal only takes us to 8 o clock, and I'm wondering how on earth we will fill the next 4 hours. I don't understand any of their jokes, nor they mine, and the prospect of an evening in their sugared up company looms unpleasantly. I decide, therefore, that we will take the bus back to the hotel - see the sights of Camden Town. What a mistake. Dora pretends to be homeless at the bus stop, sitting on the ground and begging for change, whilst Tom begs me for gum. For some reason I relent, on the condition that it is carcinogenic sugar free. They return with a pack of Hubba Bubba of a colour and flavour that makes me feel old.
Why do children always want stuff? Their appetites are incredible. I suppose they are not in a position to buy anything themselves, whereas grown ups can spend their money on whatever they like, whenever they choose. So they just keep asking because they don't know when they'll get their next consumer fix.
The bus seems to take an age to come, and when it does, the two hyper monkeys cause mayhem running up and down the bus. I clearly look like a very bad mother.
Back at the hotel, Dora paints my nail a shade of Barbie pink. There are murmurings about ordering room service because 'mommy said we could.' Of course, the reality is that they aren't hungry. But they won't admit that.
I manage to stall them by getting the pay per view movie up. We select 'My Super Ex Girlfriend' on the basis that it isn't a baby film, and the sex and violence is probably mild enough for the parents not to mind. I pretend not to notice when there is a superhero sex scene involving the bed shunting through into the next apartment.
It's all going OK. They seem to have forgotten about the room service. They seem involved in the movie. I can relax. Then the screen goes dark, and we can't seem to get the picture back. Tom seizes the remote and in an effort to get the film back on, keys in the room number. Only it's now on the erotic channel and all we can see is a leather thonged bum wiggling, and occupying the entire screen. I panic. This will appear on the bill for the room. I'm doomed. On the phone to the front desk I'm screaming 'We won't pay for the porn. Please don't charge for the porn!'. They say they'll send someone up to sort out the TV. In the meantime Tom has dialled room service, put the receiver to my ear and pointed to Chicken Noodle Soup on the menu. What can I do? I relent.
The kids are getting twitchy. The man hasn't come to fix the telly. The chicken soup is yet to arrive. Tom does the only logical thing he can. By the kettle is a box full of zero calorie fruit flavoured powders for people who don't like water to use to make it palatable (fat Americans). He opens a mini Perrier, and just as I'm saying 'I don't think you should do that' he tips a sachet in. The result is that pink soda shoots into the air, covering Tom, the ironing board, the carpet. Trying to rectify things he covers the neck of the bottle with his mouth, only this just focuses the intensity of the jet from his mouth. He's very sorry. We try our best to clean up, and the chicken soup arrives, which nobody wants of course.
I can't bear to see the waste, and guilt trip them into eating it, which makes me feel awful, so I tell them to stop, only the boy won't and keeps slurping it down, which makes me feel worse, and then he has to lie down with a headache.
The man comes and fixes the TV, and we resume watching, peacefully. By the time the parents arrive home, all is calm. Tom is in bed with a flannel on his head. Dora and I are reading horoscopes. We decide we'll keep quiet about the soda incident, and I hope that the porn makes no appearance on the bill. I go home wondering what the trick is to childcare, and why are kids so weird?
This is a tale of two cousins, or three or four. American cousin from New York is holidaying in London with her family (a girl aged 7, a boy of eleven, and a husband). In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity I have offered to look after the children for an evening. Entirely characteristic of my extended family, this involves several uptight phonecalls between myself and another cousin, Lobotomised of The Bishops Avenue, who starts every sentence with, 'Well we're very relaxed...', who has been looking after the children during that day, along with her own brood. She usually finishes all of these misleading sentences with the various limitations she must insist on - 'Well we're very relaxed but:
We can't drop them off near that cinema, it's too far away'
We have to get rid of them before the baby's bed time.'
We don't want you taking them on the tube at night.'
What started as an innocent suggestion becomes a mammoth undertaking of logistical insanity. I decide to remain 'very relaxed' in the negotiations, and eventually after spending most of the day on the phone, agree to meet the kids at their hotel in Euston.
The moment Lobotomised of Bishop's Avenue's husband is out of sight, we get straight on the tube to Marine Ices, where I make the mistake of allowing them to order whatever they like. American children know how to order - on the side, on top, extra whipped cream etc. Actually, this part of the evening is looking good. Dora doesn't eat her ice cream, but polishes off most of my spaghetti. Tom, who is already getting a belly, consumes his triple special sundae extraordinarily fast. I'm sure too fast to taste the different flavours, and only so that he can get a cold sensation in his mouth. Unfortunately, this meal only takes us to 8 o clock, and I'm wondering how on earth we will fill the next 4 hours. I don't understand any of their jokes, nor they mine, and the prospect of an evening in their sugared up company looms unpleasantly. I decide, therefore, that we will take the bus back to the hotel - see the sights of Camden Town. What a mistake. Dora pretends to be homeless at the bus stop, sitting on the ground and begging for change, whilst Tom begs me for gum. For some reason I relent, on the condition that it is carcinogenic sugar free. They return with a pack of Hubba Bubba of a colour and flavour that makes me feel old.
Why do children always want stuff? Their appetites are incredible. I suppose they are not in a position to buy anything themselves, whereas grown ups can spend their money on whatever they like, whenever they choose. So they just keep asking because they don't know when they'll get their next consumer fix.
The bus seems to take an age to come, and when it does, the two hyper monkeys cause mayhem running up and down the bus. I clearly look like a very bad mother.
Back at the hotel, Dora paints my nail a shade of Barbie pink. There are murmurings about ordering room service because 'mommy said we could.' Of course, the reality is that they aren't hungry. But they won't admit that.
I manage to stall them by getting the pay per view movie up. We select 'My Super Ex Girlfriend' on the basis that it isn't a baby film, and the sex and violence is probably mild enough for the parents not to mind. I pretend not to notice when there is a superhero sex scene involving the bed shunting through into the next apartment.
It's all going OK. They seem to have forgotten about the room service. They seem involved in the movie. I can relax. Then the screen goes dark, and we can't seem to get the picture back. Tom seizes the remote and in an effort to get the film back on, keys in the room number. Only it's now on the erotic channel and all we can see is a leather thonged bum wiggling, and occupying the entire screen. I panic. This will appear on the bill for the room. I'm doomed. On the phone to the front desk I'm screaming 'We won't pay for the porn. Please don't charge for the porn!'. They say they'll send someone up to sort out the TV. In the meantime Tom has dialled room service, put the receiver to my ear and pointed to Chicken Noodle Soup on the menu. What can I do? I relent.
The kids are getting twitchy. The man hasn't come to fix the telly. The chicken soup is yet to arrive. Tom does the only logical thing he can. By the kettle is a box full of zero calorie fruit flavoured powders for people who don't like water to use to make it palatable (fat Americans). He opens a mini Perrier, and just as I'm saying 'I don't think you should do that' he tips a sachet in. The result is that pink soda shoots into the air, covering Tom, the ironing board, the carpet. Trying to rectify things he covers the neck of the bottle with his mouth, only this just focuses the intensity of the jet from his mouth. He's very sorry. We try our best to clean up, and the chicken soup arrives, which nobody wants of course.
I can't bear to see the waste, and guilt trip them into eating it, which makes me feel awful, so I tell them to stop, only the boy won't and keeps slurping it down, which makes me feel worse, and then he has to lie down with a headache.
The man comes and fixes the TV, and we resume watching, peacefully. By the time the parents arrive home, all is calm. Tom is in bed with a flannel on his head. Dora and I are reading horoscopes. We decide we'll keep quiet about the soda incident, and I hope that the porn makes no appearance on the bill. I go home wondering what the trick is to childcare, and why are kids so weird?
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Politics of The Dance
Realising that my physical activities are limited to climbing the escalators in the tube and one pilates class a week, I decided to join my friend Joey at a Lindy Hop class.
I've always been a bit funny about partner dance classes. There is something a little bit sad about them. You feel like it's a place for social misfits gather to find a life. My snobbishness about this is totally hypocritical - I am a social misfit, and my life rarely makes an appearance. But, remembering sweaty palms and gum chewers in salsa classes, and people who count in your ear in ballroom dancing, I'm dubious about the whole idea. However, having a camp jitterbug enthusiast on your arm can only improve the experience. He's been sending me Utube jitterbug links ever since to help me feel 'fabulous' at the class.
How wierd is this? The class takes place at a synagogue. I didn't know that shuls were like church halls - you know, open to all sorts for evening activities. Does this mean there's a tango class at the local mosque? Anyway, there's no shortage of dancing partners aged from 17 to 90. It's funny. I have this gravitational pull attracting men over the age of 70 towards me. I always have, and my mum's the same. At first it seems harmless enough. I'm dancing with a charming octogenarian called Bill. He's telling me I'm a wonderful dancer and whirling me round. Then he's throwing me in the air which is quite exciting. Then he's saying 'I want to do acrobatics with you,' and I don't think he means good clean dancing fun with your clothes on. I laugh it off, and report back to Joey who thinks it's hilarious.
Next I'm dancing with a handsome young man who can dance (!)(gay) who is wearing a t-shirt with HACKNEY on it. It's all going rather well. I'm not moving really stiffly, nor am I wondering where to look or what facial expression to have. I do scream in his ear at one point, which he's not impressed with, but I did think I was going to fall over what with all the spinning. We dance to several tunes in a row, and then we're wondering off the dance floor towards my friends. It's chat chat chat, and then he says he's going home. We say bye, and carry on chatting and dancing. Half an hour has passed and I need a drink. Walking towards the water cooler I spot HACKNEY leaning against a wall hanging out on the other side of the room, and it dawns on me that HACKNEY thinks we're sad people and felt it was necessary to lie to us. He said he was going home in order to escape our hideous presences! I scuttle past pretending not to see him and report back to Joey who finds it hilarious. I am really rather gutted. How is this possible? Is it because I'm a rubbish dancer? Is it because he thought I was in love with him and was planning our wedding? Is it because he thought Joey fancied him and was planning their wedding? Now I'm wondering how I can go back to Lindy Hop, and I'm wondering whether there's another class somewhere else.
There is something about the politics of partner dancing. You see, after the class, there is 'free' dancing. This means that the women sit on chairs round the edges and the men come and ask them to dance. This has been happening for hundreds of years. Part of me is glad. I don't have to risk rejection and humiliation for the sake of practicing steps. I just have to sit and wait for someone to ask. But then, you can only choose to dance with those who ask you. And, some of these are horrible. One man has repeatedly made the same joke week after week. What happens is this: He comes up to you when you're chatting to a girlfriend. He puts out his hand to ask you on to the floor. He pulls you up, and at the same time sits himself down in your seat and turns to talk to your friend. I told him that you can't make the same joke twice. It isn't funny. Still I dance with him. Fuck knows why. For him, it's like a competition. He tries to trick you into dancing 'wrong'. You know, he'll set up a step on 1,2, and 3, and you'll join in - only he stops on the 4, and leaves you doing it on your own. After my last dance with him I sat down, and said 'cunt' to the girl next to me, who pretended not to hear.
I saw Bill at another class who got very excited that I was there, and told me I was a wonderful dancer (again) and that he wanted to do acrobatics with me (again). Only this time, as I was turning to leave, he said to me
'Listen, I really want to see Dirty Dancing at the theatre.'
Oh shit, I think. How am I going to get out of this?
'But it's too expensive'
Phew.
'So I thought, what about watching it on DVD?'
Oh no! I can't go to his house!
'Look, I got 2 for £5!'
What is he on about?
'Have one.'
Now that is wierd but not as awful as I thought it would be. But he has started leaving messages on my ansaphone asking when I'm going again. So now I'm avoiding HACKNEY and Bill.
I was supposed to go tonight, but Joey wasn't going, and I really can't risk any encounters on my own.
I've always been a bit funny about partner dance classes. There is something a little bit sad about them. You feel like it's a place for social misfits gather to find a life. My snobbishness about this is totally hypocritical - I am a social misfit, and my life rarely makes an appearance. But, remembering sweaty palms and gum chewers in salsa classes, and people who count in your ear in ballroom dancing, I'm dubious about the whole idea. However, having a camp jitterbug enthusiast on your arm can only improve the experience. He's been sending me Utube jitterbug links ever since to help me feel 'fabulous' at the class.
How wierd is this? The class takes place at a synagogue. I didn't know that shuls were like church halls - you know, open to all sorts for evening activities. Does this mean there's a tango class at the local mosque? Anyway, there's no shortage of dancing partners aged from 17 to 90. It's funny. I have this gravitational pull attracting men over the age of 70 towards me. I always have, and my mum's the same. At first it seems harmless enough. I'm dancing with a charming octogenarian called Bill. He's telling me I'm a wonderful dancer and whirling me round. Then he's throwing me in the air which is quite exciting. Then he's saying 'I want to do acrobatics with you,' and I don't think he means good clean dancing fun with your clothes on. I laugh it off, and report back to Joey who thinks it's hilarious.
Next I'm dancing with a handsome young man who can dance (!)(gay) who is wearing a t-shirt with HACKNEY on it. It's all going rather well. I'm not moving really stiffly, nor am I wondering where to look or what facial expression to have. I do scream in his ear at one point, which he's not impressed with, but I did think I was going to fall over what with all the spinning. We dance to several tunes in a row, and then we're wondering off the dance floor towards my friends. It's chat chat chat, and then he says he's going home. We say bye, and carry on chatting and dancing. Half an hour has passed and I need a drink. Walking towards the water cooler I spot HACKNEY leaning against a wall hanging out on the other side of the room, and it dawns on me that HACKNEY thinks we're sad people and felt it was necessary to lie to us. He said he was going home in order to escape our hideous presences! I scuttle past pretending not to see him and report back to Joey who finds it hilarious. I am really rather gutted. How is this possible? Is it because I'm a rubbish dancer? Is it because he thought I was in love with him and was planning our wedding? Is it because he thought Joey fancied him and was planning their wedding? Now I'm wondering how I can go back to Lindy Hop, and I'm wondering whether there's another class somewhere else.
There is something about the politics of partner dancing. You see, after the class, there is 'free' dancing. This means that the women sit on chairs round the edges and the men come and ask them to dance. This has been happening for hundreds of years. Part of me is glad. I don't have to risk rejection and humiliation for the sake of practicing steps. I just have to sit and wait for someone to ask. But then, you can only choose to dance with those who ask you. And, some of these are horrible. One man has repeatedly made the same joke week after week. What happens is this: He comes up to you when you're chatting to a girlfriend. He puts out his hand to ask you on to the floor. He pulls you up, and at the same time sits himself down in your seat and turns to talk to your friend. I told him that you can't make the same joke twice. It isn't funny. Still I dance with him. Fuck knows why. For him, it's like a competition. He tries to trick you into dancing 'wrong'. You know, he'll set up a step on 1,2, and 3, and you'll join in - only he stops on the 4, and leaves you doing it on your own. After my last dance with him I sat down, and said 'cunt' to the girl next to me, who pretended not to hear.
I saw Bill at another class who got very excited that I was there, and told me I was a wonderful dancer (again) and that he wanted to do acrobatics with me (again). Only this time, as I was turning to leave, he said to me
'Listen, I really want to see Dirty Dancing at the theatre.'
Oh shit, I think. How am I going to get out of this?
'But it's too expensive'
Phew.
'So I thought, what about watching it on DVD?'
Oh no! I can't go to his house!
'Look, I got 2 for £5!'
What is he on about?
'Have one.'
Now that is wierd but not as awful as I thought it would be. But he has started leaving messages on my ansaphone asking when I'm going again. So now I'm avoiding HACKNEY and Bill.
I was supposed to go tonight, but Joey wasn't going, and I really can't risk any encounters on my own.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Breast Food
I've reached that point in my life when most of my friends are having babies. In fact, the ones who don't (myself included) are made to feel like social reject freaks. This is particularly apparent at children's parties, where self satisfied parents make love eyes at their progeny whilst sporting the latest in bugaboo chic.
Anyway, this weekend I went to visit my relative (40's), her baby (15 months), her boyfriend (20's and looks like something out of MAD comic with B.O.) and their new house (you know, victorian terrace with knocked through rooms and a big social kitchen - they might as well be media wanker cunts, but in fact they don't really work too much and are spending an inheritance). I get there, and the child, who is walking about in hard soled shoes and has 16 teeth, is being breast fed. Now babies I don't mind being fed in this way, but this girl eats sausages! Obviously, I don't pass any comment on the use of the breast as comfort. I mean, who am I to comment - I am yet to bear any of these creatures. And I know that in other cultures children are breast fed for a long long time, but I am just disturbed by the sight. The child is kind of distracted anyway, and keeps looking round at me. Is she saying 'Look what I've got' with her glances? Or is it more like 'What else is happening?'. Perhaps she's saying 'Do you like my soil covered toes? And what about the attractive mango slime all over my dungarees?'
It gets worse when Alfred E. Newman alike boyfriend comes in, sees child on breast and says 'Are you having some bosom? Can Dada have some?' and proceeds to make slurping noises as he moves towards the scary nipple. If he wants to do that shit, can't he wait till I've gone? Please?
I think of my friend M, whose baby (2) is so clean and tidy, and asks to clean her hands. This child is not nurtured at the breast (my relation intends to feed hers till she's 2). She sits at her high chair and is 'reasoned with' (bribed), and consequently is a perfect doll. Yes, she might be a bit repressed, but I'd far rather that than the mango smeared, toes in earth breast chomper.
Welcome to my first posting by the way! It won't always be about babies, I promise. But I do intend to provide some almost fascistic guidelines on how to live with a bit of Edwardian lady in you. It may be the only hope we have for surviving the trashiness that is postmodern London, innit.
So to conclude tonights rant: Ladies. Don't be smug. Repress your children. Make them uptight and clean. Make them independent unclingy cold people. And don't feed your husband in public.
Goodnight.
Anyway, this weekend I went to visit my relative (40's), her baby (15 months), her boyfriend (20's and looks like something out of MAD comic with B.O.) and their new house (you know, victorian terrace with knocked through rooms and a big social kitchen - they might as well be media wanker cunts, but in fact they don't really work too much and are spending an inheritance). I get there, and the child, who is walking about in hard soled shoes and has 16 teeth, is being breast fed. Now babies I don't mind being fed in this way, but this girl eats sausages! Obviously, I don't pass any comment on the use of the breast as comfort. I mean, who am I to comment - I am yet to bear any of these creatures. And I know that in other cultures children are breast fed for a long long time, but I am just disturbed by the sight. The child is kind of distracted anyway, and keeps looking round at me. Is she saying 'Look what I've got' with her glances? Or is it more like 'What else is happening?'. Perhaps she's saying 'Do you like my soil covered toes? And what about the attractive mango slime all over my dungarees?'
It gets worse when Alfred E. Newman alike boyfriend comes in, sees child on breast and says 'Are you having some bosom? Can Dada have some?' and proceeds to make slurping noises as he moves towards the scary nipple. If he wants to do that shit, can't he wait till I've gone? Please?
I think of my friend M, whose baby (2) is so clean and tidy, and asks to clean her hands. This child is not nurtured at the breast (my relation intends to feed hers till she's 2). She sits at her high chair and is 'reasoned with' (bribed), and consequently is a perfect doll. Yes, she might be a bit repressed, but I'd far rather that than the mango smeared, toes in earth breast chomper.
Welcome to my first posting by the way! It won't always be about babies, I promise. But I do intend to provide some almost fascistic guidelines on how to live with a bit of Edwardian lady in you. It may be the only hope we have for surviving the trashiness that is postmodern London, innit.
So to conclude tonights rant: Ladies. Don't be smug. Repress your children. Make them uptight and clean. Make them independent unclingy cold people. And don't feed your husband in public.
Goodnight.
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