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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13611684499081229202018-08-21T08:40:51.636+01:00As the Actress said to the Bishop...ACTING, SEX, FOOD, LONDON and size 0... and learning MANDARINIsabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-276680879368384622013-11-28T16:23:00.002+00:002013-11-28T16:28:06.933+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 lessons: lesson # 88 - "Can I get back to you? I'm right in the middle of Naomi Wolf's Vagina."

Courtesy of Realityandhope.com

Lucky Amy Tan! Her latest novel The Valley of Amazement has made the New York Times' 100 Notable Books of 2013, she's spending Thanksgiving in London, and gets to hang out with Barry Humphries aka Dame Edna and me. Well, strictly speaking, she's spending more time hanging with the Humphries but we did spend about an hour last night talking face to face.

It went something like this: me and some 149 other fans rocked up to Foyles bookshop on Charing Cross Road in London to hear her sold out talk about her latest book. I got there EARLY, had a nice chat with Andy, Foyles' event manager and possibly the sweetest man in the world, and landed a seat in the front row, directly in front of Amy, having guessed correctly which of the two chairs she would be sat in.

Then me, my tiger pants and hot pink patent Doc Marten's settled in waiting for the show to start. I passed the time reading Shanghai Baby by Wei Hui (Anais Nin and Henry Miller's Chinese baby) and chatting to my two neighbours. There was the lovely Brett, a young American English Lit student from Long Beach California who was spending one semester at the University of Leicester, had come down to London on the bus and was clutching his advance copy of The Valley of Amazement which his Mum had couriered to him from Long Beach. Then there was Brenda, a deep voiced older American lady from LA who turned out to be a documentary maker, a huge Amy Tan fan ('I've brought all 8 books from my collection for her to sign. Only found out this afternoon that she was doing this event and moved heaven and earth to be here.') and an even greater fan of my tiger pants.

The talk was great. Towards the end I was one of 3 picked to ask Amy a question ('In your work, you use elements of your real life mixed in with fiction, do you have any plans to feature Bobo (her Yorkshire Terrier puppy) as a character?') Not very highbrow but I figured that a month into her book tour, she might appreciate a question she probably hadn't answered before.

The road to restraining orders is paved with good intentions. Instead of informed and fun, I may have come across as the weirdo stalker with a crush on Bobo. But ever the consummate professional, Amy proceeded to answer my question with grace and thoughtfulness. Meeting Amy Tan in the flesh is how people have described meeting Queen Elizabeth II: flawless skin, tiny and luminescent. Amy has a transatlantic accent and a beautifully modulated voice not unlike the female Chinese speaker in my Pimsleur lessons who's pronunciation I'm trying to emulate. Everything she says sounds sexy and precious and in impeccable taste.

Unlike, some would argue, my tiger pants and pink Doc Marten's combo (and Oilyly bag).

I wish I could be her (Amy Tan that is). And if not her, at least her editor. Amy regaled us with an anecdote about working out how much sexual language and sex scenes to include in her novel, with her (male) editor. At the end of the conversation he said to her: 'Amy, let me think about it. Right now I'm in the middle of Naomi Wolf's vagina.' Turns out he was referring to Wolf's biography 'Vagina' published last year, which he also edited. Imagine being so good at your job that you get to edit Tan and Wolf in tandem.

...

Speaking of being good, here's an update on my Chinese lessons. I'm becoming more confident constructing more complex questions/answers and have been learning some interesting vocabulary: hobby, listen to music, classical music, read books, novels, gym, running, tai chi and coffee house. I also understand 'fill out this form, please sign here' and 'can I use travellers' cheques - they're in US $ - as I don't have any cash.'

And on the acting front? I met a healthcare specialist a few days ago for the first time and she greeted me with a 'have we met before?'. Now, I get that a lot. I look like people's Irish cousin, a long time friend, a French actress (my personal favourite), or someone on the telly (that would be me in the Heinz tomato ketchup advert which is still running on high rotation here in the UK - long may that continue.) It turns out that although we had never met before, she had indeed seen me before, in my first ever and only corporate gig out of Drama School: a video about the importance of children for clinical studies aimed at Healthcare Professionals. It prompted my husband to quip: 'So, you're big in healthcare.'

Looks like I am.

I'd rather be in the middle of Naomi Wolf's 'Vagina'.Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-74052383152587052822013-11-05T10:12:00.001+00:002013-11-05T10:29:09.228+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 lessons: lesson number 78 part 2 - "I want my MTV..."

Where were we? Ah yes, I'd just sat down to await my turn for the 'awkward moment' audition having just had an awkward moment of my own with my indiscriminate mention of budgie smugglers...

Casting studio dude: Isabelle? Up you go.

Me: Ok then. Thanks

Director: Hey Isabelle, thanks for joining us. Love your bag!

Me: Thank you.

Director: Everybody, this is Isabelle. You know, the one who shouts 'budgie smugglers' at complete strangers. Maybe we can get her to do it again. Ok Isabelle. Sit at the desk and imagine it's a family dinner table. This is the best holiday dinner ever but it's all about to go wrong. You get splashed with gravy all over but you pretend like nothing happened. You know, stiff upper lip and all that.

Me: OK.

Director: and... let's do it.

Me: Oh, patron saint of actors and lost causes please give me a sign: do I start now or do I wait for him to say action?

So I started miming being at the dinner table, eating, passing the salt, checking that my imaginary children had everything they needed, offering them more mash. I really got into it but suddenly realised there would be no cue for the gravy splashing and I'd better get a move on. So I did a weird all over body shudder and then wiped the imaginary gravy off my face and imaginary blouse with my imaginary napkin all the while trying to put a brave face on (which most likely resulted in me looking rather wild eyed and demented.)

Director: O-kay Isabelle... That was good. What was that!? Especially the set up. You took ages! But can we do the splashing again? And maybe this time you can carry on eating as if nothing happened... You're supposed to be an actor! I'm ever so disappointed I really expected more from a budgie wrangler. Ah well...

Me: Ok. I'm sorry!

Director: and... let's do it.

Me: Why oh why won't he say action? Or give me a cue for the splashing so I can act surprised? I'm so rubbish. I'm so not getting this job. Why are they even asking me to do it again?

So I repeated the whole sorry scene, tacking on a bit of brave face eating at the back end but to tell you the truth, my heart wasn't in it.

Director: Ok. Thank you. I hope the next one's better.

Me: Thank you. I'll never get another audition.

....

Fast forward to Saturday night and the MTV Staying Alive Foundation charity gala. (Check it out, they do really cool AIDS prevention work for young people.) We had the tux, we had the gown, (and the new trunks). I put on my fiercest face paint (I'd done a dry run a few nights before at 2 in the morning channelling Lady Gaga), sleeked my hair back (do you know how hard it is to slick back a short fringe?) and pulled on my gorgeous new dress.

I'd bought some gold and silver glitter sprays from Claire's (a UK chain that caters to the beauty needs of the under 12s which is about my styling age as I wasn't allowed to experiment with make up as a teenager) and sprayed it over every inch of exposed flesh - all the while hoping I wouldn't end up like the dead girl in Goldfinger.

We got to the party early and met up with my friend D. for a game of celebrity spotting: oooh look, there's Boris Becker, Linford Christie, and Julien Macdonald fresh from his stint on Strictly Come Dancing... Then the rest of the party arrived and - this is the thing with my friend D. - his other guests were more interesting than the A-listers! It was like meeting the cast from Cluedo but without a murder:

First there was Miss Scarlet, international conceptual artist who combines beauty, wit, the authority of an admiral, and a deep sense of humanity. She rocked the black fish tail look.

Colonel Mustard was a cool, suave and debonair American, working in DC (he denied being a spy but I'm sorry, regular people do not look that good in a tux). I made a mental note to ask him to explain the plot of Gravity's Rainbow to me once we knew each other better.

Professor Plum (the young cool version): a young engineer who builds Rolls Royce engines in his spare time (just kidding, that's his job). Imagine a cross between David Niven and Marcel Dassault in the making. I thought about my crappy little audition from the day before and cried a little on the inside.

Mrs White (the young sexy version): an opera trained Beijing-based performer with more wit and vim than Truman Capote, and Mr Green (the decadent playboy version) who had some fantastic anecdotes.

Then there was the Willy Wonka of Design, rivalling my friend D in the sweetness stakes. If it were me, and I'd designed the new London bus, and the UK pavilion at the Shanghai World Expo amongst other design wonders of the 21st century, I think I'd cop a bit of a diva attitude. But he was just lovely. He even complimented me on my mother-in-law hand me down of a clutch (which - if truth be told - does rock some pretty nifty giant diamante action) which made me feel 10 feet tall.

And finally, there was what appeared to be the by-product of a cougar's fantasy: combining the looks of a GQ model, a posh pedigree, rugby player, avid skier, sky diver, linguist, Cambridge scholar with a social conscience and all around cutie. I figure, once God finished putting him together, he took a step back and thought: 'gee I wish I'd based the whole lot of them on this model but I can't be bothered with a world wide recall so I know, I'll just make him a twin!' And he did. (The twin wasn't there because even at an MTV gala, you can only take so much perfection.)

I can attest he was pretty real as he ended up sitting next to me at dinner. I know, right, how lucky was that! Even luckier in the lucky stakes was that my husband sat directly opposite me so I was able to blow kisses and mouth 'I love you's' across the table all evening.

And that, as they say, is that.

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-2453024511970258462013-11-03T17:36:00.004+00:002013-11-05T04:08:21.347+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 lessons: lesson number 78 part 1 - "The ball gown and the budgie smugglers..."

'Hey, are you guys free on Saturday to join me as my guests at this charity gala black tie thingy? Should be quite an evening. I have a table!'

This delightful invite came through the cyber letterbox on Tuesday morning. Who could resist the chance to play dressing up and spend time with D. an old friend from the Lycee (old as in we've known each other for a long time as opposed to ancient, cos we're the same age so obviously he's quite young.) D. has got to be one of the most lovely and smart people I know - like, if Warren Buffett and Toblerone had a baby, that would be my friend D. Like totally.

Now all we needed were some serious grown up red carpet outfits to rock the night. Tux for hubby, gown for me. Easy peasy.

Not so easy as it turned out. Or peasy. First his tux: he needed a new one and seeing that he was in San Francisco for the week (without me but that's another story) I was on tux duty. In case you ever find yourself up the same proverbial creek without a paddle, I mean dilemma, here's a 10 step guide to purchasing a tux without a body:

1. Peruse the myriad of sites dedicated to the art of dressing men with style and good taste.
2. Check out the Brooks Brothers' website recommended by aforementioned sites.
3. Wait (7 hours) for it to be morning in California.
3. Call your husband and ask him to read you the sizes of the Brooks Brothers trousers and blazer he's taken with him.
4. Contact your local Brooks Brothers store and speak to the store manager.
5. Wait for the plumber to show up, fix the tap, and leave so that you can make it to Brooks Brothers before closing time.
6. Take one of your husband's suits with you as a proxy for a body.
7. Play tailor with Iliana the fabulously kind and competent store manager who I imagine moonlights as the fairy godmother.
8. Ask Iliana to put a tux shirt on hold for you (you will then need to run home, grab a measuring tape, follow Iliana's instructions and call her to give her your husband's shirt sleave length)
9. Hand over a some cash.
10. Pray that the tux will fit when your husband comes back and tries it on Friday afternoon.

With the tux sorted, it was time to find an evening gown. Did you know that you could rent a designer gown for the evening for £100 online? I got a bit carried away and looked at hundreds until it dawned on me I couldn't tell how the dress would translate from the tall skinny model in the picture to me, or what size to order. So I decided to forego the online rental option but not before Google's algorithm in its wisdom decided to plaster my screen with evening gown offers for ever more...

My next option was to go vintage - the only advantage of living in Shoreditch if you ask me - and so the next night I skipped Yoga with George and dragged myself shopping instead. The first two stores were an unmitigated disaster. One had the types of dresses you'd expect to see in a nightmare about having to shop for a dress the night before your wedding. The other... didn't stock evening gowns. With a heavy heart, I made my way to Rokit on Brick Lane.

Rokit is like Auntie Mame's wardrobe on steroids. You have to go in with a plan and stay focused. Within seconds, I was ambushed by some beautiful Chinese and Japanese robes and coats which I admired and tried on (I blame Amy Tan and her upcoming novel The Valley of Amazement) before coming to my senses and heading for the evening gown rack. Waiting for me were 3 black beaded gowns: 2 halter necks (my favourite option) and one Marilyn like spaghetti straps-ooh-la-la -I'm-not-wearing-anything-underneath chiffon and beads concoction.

I went back to the sales girl who'd joined me in admiring the pink Japanese silk coat and she showed me into the changing room.

The first halter neck looked great on but the beading was in pretty bad shape, so I put it aside as back up. The Marilyn number was... stopped by my shapely Spanish bottom so I never got a chance to see what it looked like because it was A SIZE TOO SMALL. The third halter dress was in beautiful condition with amazing beading. I tried it on and it fit like a glove - with that little extra wiggle room that makes you feel ever so slim! I bopped to Britney Spears' "Poison" as I admired myself in the (appallingly lit) changing room (which actually gives you cellulite on the back of your hands). The song ended, I took the dress off, checked the price tag (£45!!!) put my yoga gear back on , and headed for the till.

Me: Hi! I'd like to buy this dress please.
Desperate-hipster till boy who was younger than the dress: Yeah...
Me: It's beautiful, and it fits me!
Till boy: Yeah... (pause) It's great for Halloween.
Me (slightly peaved): It's not for Halloween! It's for a black tie dinner!
Till boy: Yeah...

...

Fast forward to Friday. My husband went to retrieve his tux alone as I had an audition in town. (Brief from the casting director: 'Needs to have a very British awkwardness to them (everyone else go home then cos I'm a shoe in). Interesting to look at. Perhaps larger than average nose, eyes, mouth teeth or ears - maybe not all on the same face!' I love a casting director with a sense of humour.)

As I arrived outside the casting studio, my phone rang with the tux update:

- Tux: double tick, gold star, perfecto! Well done me.
- Tux shirt: not so good, hated the pleats, too big, all wrong. As they say in the Eurovision contest: nul points.

Me: So you're picking up another shirt, do you need me to pick up anything else for you?
Him: I'd like some trunks please.
Me (walking into the lobby and checking my hair in the mirror): Is that like boxers but not so loose? You don't mean the bugdie smugglers?
Him: No definitely not the budgie smugglers, I hate those. The not so loose boxers is what I want.
Me: Ok. No budgie smugglers. Gotta go I'm at the casting now. Call you later.

I walked up the flight of stairs into the open plan reception.

Casting director: What's budgie smugglers?
Reception dude: Like speedos? I think it's an Aussie thing.
Film director: I've never heard the term budgie smugglers...
Casting director: Interesting expression budgie smugglers.

I interrupted: 'Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson. Sorry, that was my husband, he just bought a tux and needs tighter fitting under pants, but not the really snug speedo type ones, you know: budgie smugglers. Have I made an impression? I hope it's a good one. At any rate you won't forget me any time soon, me and my budgie smugglers. You asked for that very British awkwardness. That awkward enough for you? Cos if not, I can do more! Just say the word. Awkward is my middle name.

So we had a nice chat, all 3 of us, about the merits of male underwear and gala dinners, and then the reception dude handed me a script, I filled out a form, he took a mug shot, and I went to sit down and wait my turn.

to be continued...
Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-49272418629802305002013-10-31T09:04:00.000+00:002013-11-05T10:24:19.741+00:00Learning Mandarin in 90 lessons: lesson number 77 - Happy Halloween!! "I need a dominatrix and I thought of you..."It's been one of those weeks.

First I discovered that our ex-neighbours (not the rock star in unit 4 who's judging The Voice UK next season but the nice couple below) were most likely professional spies.Then, I was asked to be a dominatrix.

But first let me update you on the Mandarin lessons. In the beginning, I went all Macbeth ('If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly.'),cramming 3 lessons a day, to 'only' managing the recommended 1 lesson a day. But I'm still going and determined to finish all 90 lessons.

Then when I'm done, I'll go back to the beginning and do them all over again until it STICKS. All of it.

As I approach the last 6th of the course, it goes without saying that I'm nowhere near qualifying for simultaneous translation gigs. I can however utter full grammatically correct sentences across several subjects ranging from the lackadaisical (going for a walk to the park and stopping by the lovely tea house), to the useful (finding the post office/hospital), to polite small talk (talking about the weather (hot, cold and now cool and warm), to the utilitarian (talking about business trips, hotel reservations, restaurant reservations, travel (by bus, on foot, taxi, subway, train, express train, plane, and boat).

I can talk about family (number of kids, age, where they live, where they study) and as of yesterday I can ask to speak to someone on the telephone, apologise about dialling the wrong number, ask about area codes, phone message and say 'I'll try calling back later'. I can also apologise for being late.

If you were to accompany me on my next trip to China, I could order food/lunch/dinner, although currently limited to ordering Peking Duck and mung bean cake... I'm more versatile when it comes to drinks so you could join me for wine/beer/water/tea (white or green)/coffee or white liquor.

Oh, and I have mastered the most important words in any language: right/left, fast/slow, expensive, good, too much, on/under, above/below, next to, in front of, here, there, where, and get on/get off.

I'd like to add a caveat to the previous paragraphs: I have no idea if my pronunciation is doing this extended vocabulary justice. So far, I've realised on my musical ear; the next step will be to practice with/on some native speakers. I will keep you posted.

Now, back to my ex-neighbours and the possibility that they may be spies - both of them:

First, I've got form. Three of my friends are DEFINITELY working the dark arts. (I know this because I love them to bits and they are simply too creative, smart, educated and let's admit it - devious, to be doing the most boring/random jobs on naval bases and political hot spots that they claim. And, whenever I've raised it, they've laughed nervously and changed the subject zippity quick. Besides, I've seen Mr and Mrs Smith.)

Second, I've got evidence that prior to moving into our building our now ex-neighbours did not rent in Islington, London as they told me, but rather owned a brand new flat in Vancouver, Canada. I also know for a fact that they have not since moved to Australia as they assured me but are now living in Germany.

Third, between them, they speak about 10 languages (the kind that you'd want to speak if you spent your days eavesdropping on potential terrorists and cyber hackers).

Finally, I was rather fond of them and would rather think of them skulking around some embassy in cat burglar outfits than as pathological liars.

What's this about being a dominatrix? I was asked to play the part of a dominatrix in a brand new feminist play about (amongst other things) bikini wrestling - on the recommendation of an ex-tutor from drama school (I must've made quite an impression). I had to turn it down because it clashed with another project - but I was tickled pink to be asked.

Plus, that's this year's Halloween costume sorted.

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-11314879650649428312013-09-23T15:47:00.000+01:002013-11-05T05:13:07.207+00:00Learning Mandarin in 90 lessons: lesson # 65 - "When being boring becomes an occupational hazard..."

It all started innocuously enough with two texts and three emails from my lovely agent. An audition (tick!), for a corporate film (un-tick!), paying a decent fee and travel to Berlin (re-tick!).

The brief on the second email read: "Business woman, mid 30s. She comes across as rather uptight and mean but that's only because she is a very busy business woman (unlike you, friendly actors, who are never busy). Underneath it, she's quite nice. Please wear full business attire (ie don't show up in your ripped jeans and with holes in your shoes.) to the audition. Scripts to follow (ie please learn your lines)."

The third email arrived the following day, with a script attached. (Note the use of the singular.) With my memorising skills in elite athlete shape thanks to the daily Mandarin lessons, I had my (four) lines memorised in no time.

Next morning, I took the business suit out of the wardrobe, still in the dry cleaner's protective plastic.This suit was a tried and tested stalwart: stretchy and forgiving, even on a fat day. But not today. As I zipped up the trousers, the seams tensed against my inner thighs and set off the voices:

French Isabelle: Oh la la la la! Je suis enorme!
British Isabelle: Maybe the fabric needs a bit of time to relax, you know, after the dry cleaning...
French Isabelle: Mais non! It's FAT I tell you. Ow could I let zis happen...
Spanish Isabelle: Stop it! Look, your bottom it looks like a sexy pomelo!
British Isabelle: Maybe its the Body Pump class, all those squats. You know you bulk up really easy...
French Isabelle: Oh let's just go, on va etre en retard.*
...

I stepped out of the tube station at lunchtime into passive aggressive rain: wet enough to turn fashion forward hair into an unruly matronly mop but not wet enough to warrant the use of an umbrella without coming across as the "Not the hair! Not the hair!" type.

I pulled out my black collapsible umbrella and strode purposefully towards the casting studio. The entrance overflowed with 20 year olds - definitely not in full or even limited business attire - filling out their casting forms. A very shouty piece of French rap blared from the shelf behind the greeter's desk. I felt old and overstuffed in my suit and glared at the greeter.

Me: Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson.
Greeter: Gregson... Gregson? It's upstairs.

I made my way upstairs to the other waiting room where four older actors in identikit dark blue business attire sat studying their scripts. Suddenly I felt young again and ooh look, I was in my brown tweed flared pant suit from Fenwick of Bond Street paired with my red patent leather heels from Rucco Linea. For a moment, I even forgot the tightness of my trousers. "Hi!". The blond lady seated across from me looked suitably uptight and didn't respond.

I made a point of not studying my script, because I knew my four lines and, as everybody knows, over-studying the script is an audition killer. Anyway, I hadn't brought the script with me. (They always hand out copies in the waiting room. As in always except for today.)

Suddenly one of the children from downstairs made his way past us towards the sign marked "Toilet". The bathroom boasted a floor to ceiling version of saloon doors last seen swinging to an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. I knew from experience (I'd been here before) that the space between those swinging doors and the actual toilet door was so short that you couldn't help being propelled rather painfully against that second door as soon as the saloon doors swung behind you.

Bang!

"Ow."

As we waited, the toilet doors went on to claim another 3 or 4 victims. We waited some more. And a bit more after that. The man seated to my right suddenly announced rather pompously that by his calculations, they were now running about half an hour late.

Suddenly the casting studio door opened and we all looked up expectantly. A middle aged man in a rumpled business suit came out, grabbed his coat, yelled "laser!" and left, chuckling. Finally the casting director came out.

Casting director: I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting. We're running a bit late. Just to recap: you're playing the BORING business person. But by the end of the script, you're quite engaged by the Tom character, he's young and cheeky and you'll let your personality shine through.

She turned to Mr. Pompous: Richard, follow me, your next.
Mr. Pompous (getting up to follow her): I think I may have learnt the wrong part...
Casting Director: Oh dear! Come with me.

The slightly chubby friendly looking man sitting across from me pointed at the toilet sign and asked me: "I'm sorry, I haven't been keeping track, is there anyone left in there?" I shook my head no. And with that, he got up, braved the swinging doors and collided with the girl who was coming out.

Mr Pompous reappeared a few minutes later script in hand and sat back down next to me.

Me (leaning over) It's a much shorter part, there aren't too many lines to learn.
Mr. Pompous: There are two scripts! They've given me 20 minutes to learn them...
Me: Did you say two scripts?

The Casting director reappeared: "Stephen?"
Mr. Chubby: Yes?
Casting director: Did you learn the right part?
Mr. Chubby: Yes, I think so...
Casting Director: Oh good man! Follow me!
Me: Excuse me, are we supposed to have one or two scripts?
Casting Director: Two.
Me: I only got script 3.
Casting Director (rolling her eyes): Agents! Wait here. No, not you Stephen, you come with me.

She returned with a script. Turns out Script 1 had a lot more lines...
...

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Chubby reappeared, collected his belongings and left. The casting director's child - I mean assistant - sauntered in behind him: "Hi everybody! Why don't you tell me your names so I can cross you off my list!"

'Everybody' - all four of us - dutifully gave their name and waited expectantly.

Casting director's assistant: Thank you!... So... which one of you is Isabelle?

Me: Tell me, are you - and this is a stab in the dark so correct me if I'm wrong - were you by any chance the one responsible for emailing us the scripts? I'm Isabelle.

Casting director's assistant: Really?

Me: Oh let me check. Am I? Ooh I don't know! Where's my brain?

I followed her into the casting studio. The casting director had disappeared.

Casting director's assistant: That's John on camera. Meet Mark, he's going to play Tom. Mark this is...
Me: Seriously? Isabelle.
Casting director's assistant: ... Isabelle who is playing the BORING businesswoman but by the end of it she'll be quite into you because you're a cheeky monkey type and the subtext... no that's another script.
Me: Did you just say subtext? Sorry, which script are we doing first?
Casting director's assistant (waving some papers at me from across the room): This one. And action!

Turns out it was Script 1. Turns the cheeky monkey didn't know his lines. Turns out he talked over me and left awkward pauses and stared at me expectantly whenever he thought it was my turn. Turns out he stood upstage which made it hard for me to talk to him and face the camera at the same time...

Casting director's assistant: Mark, you're starting to remember your lines!! That's GREAT! Let's go again. Isabelle please face the camera, I'm getting too much of your profile. And action!

I wanted to slap him. He made me feel uptight and mean and not even 'quite nice underneath.' He made my suit feel even tighter

We moved on to the second script. Twice. Turns out didn't know his lines for this one either. I wanted to bash him over the head with subtext.

On the positive side, I won't be seeing him again as neither of us will be getting a call to pack a bag, grab the passport and board that EasyJet flight to Berlin come Tuesday morning. And that's fine by me... I've got quite a busy week.

* We're going to be late

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-62213572086646949172013-08-17T08:40:00.001+01:002013-11-05T05:10:05.131+00:00Learning Mandarin in 90 lessons - lesson #47: "I'm going all Kim and Aggie on that ..."

Auditions are like the proverbial buses: nothing for a while and then several come along at once. The phone rang; it was my agent. My face lit up like a Martha Stewart Christmas tree not just because my agent is super lovely but because I guessed they were calling to tell me that I'd landed the crazy lady part from the other day.

They weren't.

Which just goes to prove either that life is unfair, or that actors have an inordinate sense of optimism.

Me: Hi!
Lovely agent: Hi Isabelle, did you get my email?
Me: No! Did I get the part?
Lovely agent: I don't know (agents are pragmatic types and cut to the chase) I'm calling you about another audition.
Me: Oh, cool!
Lovely agent: Are you online?
Me: Hang on, I'm logged into my other hotmail at the moment. (I've been using it since 1996 so have earned the right to carry on calling it that. I'm not calling it Outlook. It's my one woman private protest against the Microsoft corps.)
...
Me: Sorry, I can't seem to log in right now. (Microsoft!!)
Lovely agent: It's for tomorrow afternoon. Thing is, let me read you the casting description...
Me: Ok. Why do they feel the need to check with me, is it another nude part? Do I need to cluck like a hen or bark like a dog? Do I have to kiss a girl...
Lovely agent: It says needs to look like she has a lot of money.
Me: ??
Lovely agent (reading): She needs to be dressed like she has cash in the bank.
Me: I'm an actor, I can pretend I'm loaded!
Lovely agent: (laugh) Just go looking French, that always impresses the English!

The next morning, I checked my email (Problem resolved. Thank you Microsoft.) and read the casting description for extra intel. "She needs to be quite striking with red hair if possible and glamorous looking - she needs to look like she's got money!" Well darn it if I didn't wear my hair bright red for the past year and have only just grown it out back to its natural colour (in anticipation of dyeing it platinum blonde but that's another story).

Luckily I still had my trusted red bob wig and emailed agent accordingly (with reference picture) to ask which incarnation should attend the audition.

"No, stick with your normal chic!"

I'm telling you, just lovely.

I slapped on the face paint (I've been going au naturel since Shanghai so I felt like I'd awaken my inner drag queen) put on all of my jewelry (and I mean all of it), and took my most prized purse out of storage (it's a pastel pink Daisy bag from Tanner Kroller circa 2004 and cost so much money that I still wince when I think about it).

The casting studio was in the basement of a crumbling Clerkenwell warehouse. (A proper run down ruin of a thing that would make Shoreditch desperate hipsters tremble in their too tight and ill fitting trousers. Ha!) A trio of Balkan pirates lurked in the courtyard puffing on their cigarettes and glared at me. I spared a thought for the hipsters as I hurried inside.

So imagine my surprise then when I found myself walking into a... salon.

Well, I looked like a salon! It had a black glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a huge gilded mirror, statement wall paper on one wall, designer upholstered vintage chairs and a cutie on the front desk with a bleached under cut, a tight black leather t-shirt and a strong European accent. And a lisp.

Me: Hi!
Cutie: Bonjour! What ith your nombre?
Me: I'm Isabelle.
Cutie: I'm tho thorry. We've jutht had a bit of an akthident here and I need to print out thome more formth.
Me: Is everything ok?
Cutie: It wath jutht a cup of coffee but it went all over the dethk!
Me: Sorry to hear that. I'll just sit over here. There's no rush.
Cutie: (grabbing paper towels and giving the desk an energetic rub down) I'm going all Kim and Aggie on thith one...

The young casting director popped her head around the corner.

Casting director: Hi!
Me: Hi!
Casting director: We'll be with you in a minute. I spilt my coffee all over the desk just now, it went all over the forms...
Me: Ah.
Casting director: Jose, I'm so so sorry.
Jose the cutie: (with a big smile) It'th OK. You didn't do it on purpoth.
Casting director: You know Jose, I don't know what you were on about. Your teeth look great, I should have put you up for that part last week. Why didn't you want to do it?
Jose the cutie: Well, latht Dethember I wath doing The X Factor and even on thothe big showth they don't pay you till three month after. Tho I thought I'm going to take a break from being a danther!

Yeah, me neither.

After a while, I was called into the audition room with a kind looking and smiling fellow auditionee named Jonathan.

Director: Hi! So the ethos of this film... Ethos. Did he really say ethos? Is about the moment when you discover the piece of furniture of your dreams.
Me and Jonathan: Ok.
Director: Good. We're going to start with you Isabelle.
Me: Shall I use my bag as a prop?
Director: No, just put it down over there. But it's a Tanner Krolle! I want you to imagine that this (pointing at the couch) is a bed and I want you to sit on the edge demurely at first, then lie back, and exhale.
Me: Ok.
Director: And I want to hear you go 'phhhhh'...

I refrained from cracking an off colour joke about the actress, the director and the casting couch and instead did as I was told.

Director: And cut! That was great... Oh dear... but you didn't say 'perfect'. Oh, he meant 'perfect' not 'phhhhh'! I'm so glad I skipped the casting couch joke.
Me: Oh, right! Sorry.

So I did it again and made sure to say 'perfect'.

Director: Good. Now Jonathan, you stand here. Isabelle you sit on the chair over here and pretend you are sitting at a dining room table. It's the dining room table of your dreams and you love it. And Jonathan here is your husband and I want you to get more and more excited about the table and catch his eye and say "I love it!!!"
Me and Jonathan: Ok.
Director: Roll the tape. Action!

So we did the scene a few times. And a few times more for good measure. I started to feel slightly demented after the 10th "I love it!!!!!" "I love it!!!" but also indulged in a nice bit of miming as I checked the edges of the imaginary glass table of my dreams.

I thought Jonathan did great. I was sure he'd get the part.

Stepping back out into the waiting room, I found Jose the Cutie helping a very buff very beautiful model who was struggling with the zipper on his bag. He looked like Seal.

Seal: do you have some safety pins? I've got to ride home on my bike and this bag won't close.
Jose the Cutie (disappearing behind a door) I don't have thafety pinth but we have a thtappler. We'll go all retro punk!
Seal: (zipping up the bag) Got it!!!
Jose the Cutie (coming back in with the stappler): Here!
Seal: Thanks but I fixed it.
Jose the Cutie: Oh!
Seal: Thanks anyway.

And with that, Seal took himself out of our lives and back into the glossy pages of whatever high end fashion magazine he'd temporarily stepped out of. Jose the Cutie looked heart broken.

If Jonathan's up against Seal for the part, he doesn't stand a chance.

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-91987215985737624762013-08-15T19:32:00.002+01:002013-11-05T05:06:50.393+00:00Learning Mandarin in 90 lessons - Lesson 45: A man wearing a kilt walks into a room...
I finished work quite late last night which is why it wasn't till past 9pm that I discovered that (a) my wonderful agent had got me an audition, (b) the audition was for the following afternoon, (c) there were 2 pages of monologue to memorise. For once, and I hope I'm not jinxing it, I think I may have a decent chance of landing the part. The casting blurb read: "European looking, not too English: TICK; shouldn't look down market: TICK; should look like she's had some bad experiences but still look attractive: TICKish."

Further, the shoot is scheduled for the (UK) August Bank Holiday weekend: TICK!!!!; and the script calls for some harrowing emotional depth which is right smack bang in the middle of my range (those who dislike me might even say that it constitutes my whole range but there are very few of those people around, and most of them live - like - in my head.)

So this morning after I sprang out of bed extra early, I turned on the iPad, downloaded the script and set to learning my lines as I prepared breakfast. (I'm a girl, it's called multi-tasking.) Luckily, one of the (many) side benefits of studying Mandarin with La Methode de Pimsleur is that my memory is sharp sharp sharp and it took me less than half an hour to memorise the text.

Then I spent some time making the script specific to me. (It's a Method thing... it's about creating make believe for myself so that I don't have to 'act'. 'Acting' terrifies me because I still don't know how to do it - and instead I can just 'be'. Or 'do'.)

Later, over my lunch break (Mandarin lesson #45 which means I am half way to learning 'basic Chinese'!!) I headed off to the audition. On the way there, I ran into my good friend and sexiest Samba dancer alive Miss G. I took to be a good omen. (TICK!!)

I walked at a leisurely pace through the throng of tourists and played 'spot the men in kilts'. There were everywhere: walking down the street, in car parks, standing outside pubs, entering betting shops. My guess is it was either some sort of experiential promotion for Scotland Tourism, or they'd beaten a hasty retreat down South to avoid all the Southerners swarming their beloved Edinburgh with poncy plays.

Either way, I soon reached the door of the casting studio and was buzzed in by a young and friendly male voice. I climbed the stairs (see what I mean about the stairs) to the first floor and walked into a singularly sparsely decorated space. Table: one. Chair: one. Bin: two. Phone charger plugged in wall: one. Small 2 person sofas: four. One very blue carpet.

I filled out my form, had my mug shot taken and sat down waiting for my turn.

God I hate actresses.

Oh come on, you know what I mean, not my friends who are actresses, ACTRESSES.

Let me explain. I have nothing against jobbing actresses, nothing even against the schoolgirls/talent school types who show up in full Cheryl Cole make up, with skirts up to here and cleavage down to there. What I dislike is the middle aged, embittered actress full of self-hatred because she's lost her figure, (or worse: angry because she's starving herself to keep that figure), or her looks, or sex appeal.

Bzzzzzzzzz!

Casting assistant: Come in!

She made her entrance with a stroller and two (rather sweet) children in tow, proceeded to interrogate (antagonise!) the lovely casting assistant about the job, then abruptly left the room (and her kids) to take a call about a house she was in the process of buying. She wore a skirt up to there, revealing some pretty good and tanned pins, and some black patent leather pumps that made her feet bulge out.

Bzzzzzz!

A friendly looking lady walked in and I picked up my purse to make room for her next to me. I thought a bit of conversation would help wash off the bad karma from Madam Real Estate.

Me: "Nice trousers."

Miss Green Trousers: Thanks. (in a stage whisper) They're from a charity shop. I wear them all the time.

Me (realising too late the error of my ways and desperately trying to close the door I had unwittingly opened): That's nice.

Miss Green Trousers: Do they have a copy of the script? To the casting assistant: Do you have a copy of the script? I only got mine on email at 9 o'clock last night. Go ahead, you antagonise him too, that's just what we need.

Me: It's not that long, it's mostly description.

Miss Green Trousers: Oh I know! It's not a problem.

I started to dislike her green trousers.

Sound of footsteps and then a door (not the front door) opened and Mr. M the casting director walked into the room.

Mr. M: Hello!

All of us: Hello!

Mr. M: You don't need to be word perfect, just ad lib if you don't remember the words, we just want to see a natural performance straight down the lens.

Miss Green Trousers: You mean straight down the lens.

Me: !!!

Mr. M: ? Yes, you direct your performance towards the camera, as if you were being interviewed.

Miss Green Trousers: So, down the lens...

Mr. M turning to the lady seated on the other side of me: Helen! Hi! We'll start with you.

Helen and Mr. M disappeared behind the door.

Madam Real Estate came back in, phone call finished, and sat down. She gave the perfectly behaved children some sweets ('To keep them quiet!') and handed the little boy a device which he proceeded to switch on allowing us all to share in the inane voice over of whatever children's programme he was watching.

Madam Real Estate to casting assistant: Where are the toilets?

Maybe I'd been too hasty despatching the green trousers.. but before I had a chance to re-engage the casting assistant said: "Isabelle, it'll be your turn next."

Me: Oh good! Thanks.

Sound of footsteps again, the not-the-front-door door opened and out popped Helen. She gathered her things and on her way out threw a collective "Good luck ladies!" over her shoulder, which given that there was only one female part smacked of passive aggression and hypocrisy.

I let it slide.

Now it was my turn. What a dilemma! Did I go in right away or wait for a sign? What if they were waiting for me behind that door?

Suddenly Mr M. bounded out, grabbed the casting list from his assistant and gazed wildly around the room.

Mr. M: Now, who is Isabelle?

Me (getting up with enthusiasm): It's me!

Mr. M: Hmmm, ha. Who do we have next?

Casting Assistant: Isabelle.

Mr M: Hmmm, ha. Hmmm.

This isn't one little bit awkward. I'm an actor, I can use this in my performance. This is a gift!!!

Mr. M: (Finally. To me.) It's up the stairs.

I went through the door and discovered the narrowest and steepest little stairwell in London. I smiled to myself at the thought of Madam Real Estate in her patent leather stilettos. Karma!

At the top of the stairs, I was greeted by a mob of about 10 people. Seriously, I had a bigger audience than some of the shows at the Edinburgh Fringe.

Me to them: Hi! I'm Isabelle.

Them as a chorus: Hi Isabelle!

Mr M. suddenly appearing behind me: take a seat.

I took the proffered seat.

Mr. M: state your name and go straight into the monologue. And remember, straight down the lens.

And we were off.

Mr. M: and cut.

One from the mob: that was good. Now I'd like you to do it again, talking straight down the lens Isabelle!!! please and in the bit where you talk about your daughter, make it feel like it's hard for you to say.

Me: ok! Sorry about the lens thing!

Mob: Not a problem!!

And we were off again. Now the beauty of preparation is that if you trust that it's there and you leave it alone, it'll rise to the surface all by itself. That's the theory. In practice it's quite hard because you have to let yourself be, you have to leave yourself alone and trust that the work you've done will find its way into the performance so that you're not acting you are reacting...

I got to the bit about the daughter and a wave of sadness and fear rose in me and I surfed all the way down its spine and the room went so quite and no one moved till the end.

One from the mob: and cut! That was great. Thank you so much.

Mr. M: thanks, very good.

I got up, thanked them all, wished them a good afternoon and negotiated my way back down the stairs and back into the waiting room.

Me (to casting assistant): That's me done. Thank you. See you later.

And I walked back out into the sunshine and throng of tourists. Back into the real world, albeit one full of men wearing kilts.
Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-86841607072783063122013-06-24T17:36:00.000+01:002013-11-05T05:03:00.052+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 days: days 8 and 9 - L is for (old) Lesbian part 2

Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The door latch released and I was buzzed into the building. I climbed the stairs, up all 4 floors (what is it with casting directors and their aversion to lifts?), collected myself on the landing and removed my glasses. (I may be shortsighted and contact lenses intolerant but my acting persona refuses to wear glasses.) I knocked and wandered in.

It was a big industrial loft space. I made out an empty receptionist desk ahead of me and some tall potted plants to my left and took a few steps forward. And a few more.

Suddenly Mr. D materialised at my elbow.

Mr D: Mwah mwah.
Me: Mwah mwah.
Mr D: Hello lovely, take a seat. (He gestured vaguely in the direction of the potted plants.) I'll be with you in a tick.
Me: Ok!

I made my way back to the entrance and the potted plants and found the waiting area. I took off my jacket and sat down in a corner of the wooden bench dotted with cushions. Very boho. Someone had left their purse and jacket on the bench opposite. The wall was covered in movie posters. Then I heard it. The distinct sound of the ocean lapping a sandy beach 'Woooosshhh, moooooosshhhh, booooosshh, poooooshh.... ' emanating from behind the potted plants. I peered into the leaves but failed to uncover the lagoon, instead I spotted one of those white noise machines.

Before I had a chance to reflect any further on the sound accoutrement, a door opened and a tall, I mean TALL and slinky girl dressed all in black with a few visible tattoos and an eyebrow piercing emerged from a meeting room. She shook hands with a friendly looking lady, sashayed across the hard wood floor, swept up her purse and jacket and floated out the front door.

I figured Mr. D and his team were casting models for an upcoming project.

I went back to contemplating the movie posters.

The front door opened again and another TALL and slinky girl with cropped white hair in a long black leather coat swept in and sat down across from me. She took off her coat to reveal a leather/black silk combo body stocking. I stared at her high platform spiked boots.

Me (smiling): Hello!
Body stocking: Hi!
Me (pointing at her coat): It's cold out there! (especially for people with so little natural insulation) So much for summer.
Body stocking: I am from Iceland. This is not cold!
Me: Wow. Iceland, what's that like?
Body stocking: It's small and the cities have green (sic) and everyone rides a bicycle. It's great!
Me: Cool.
Body stocking: I come here for work. For a few days and everything is so big and grey. Then I go home!
Me: Mmmmm.

....

Body stocking: What is that?
Me: ?
Body stocking: That noise. You hear it?
Me: It's a white noise machine, set to the sound of the ocean lapping on a beach. You know, to relax us before an audition.
Body stocking: I don't need relaxing I'm from Iceland.

She didn't actually say that last bit but she was getting on my proverbial cleavage. There's only so much slinky skimpy TALL model natter I can take in pre-casting mode. As it turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Out came the nice friendly lady and Body Stocking was called into the meeting room.

They were definitely casting models. models with an edge by the looks of it, none of that commercial American Pie Barbie nonsense. It was more Girl with a Dragon Tattoo territory. I wondered what kind of film it was.

I waited.

...

The meeting door opened again and Body Stocking was kissed goodbye by the friendly lady who then made her way to me. "You must be Isabelle. So sorry to have kept you waiting. Please do come in."

They weren't casting models. They were casting an Indie Feature Film with a Lesbian Theme and I was either up against the tall skinny ones (ha ha ha) or I would end up French kissing the Body Stocking.

Me and the friendly lady, we had a lovely chat. Turns out she was the writer and director of the feature film. Her producer, a lovely German lady in skinny jeans and a black t-shirt, was also there. We got along like a house on fire. They asked me to talk about me (easy!) then they told me about the film.

Me: Are there any nude scenes or particularly explicit scenes in the script?
Friendly director lady: No, nothing like that. I think nudity's overdone. Even if it gets you into Festivals. I just don't buy it.
Me: Ok. I mean, nudity doesn't bother me.
Friendly director lady: Oh that's good. I don't know why some people get so hung up on it.

The friendly director lady and her lovely producer stared at me benignly.

Lovely producer: Thing is for the story to make sense, she's got to look at least 15 to 20 years older than her partner.
Friendly director lady: That's true. You're the right age on paper but you look so young. Can you look any older?
Me: Sure, I guess... with the right kind of lighting and no make-up (How old are we talking?)

And we chatted some more. About this and that. The part. The story. The other characters. And then we finished and I found myself back in the waiting area.

Mr D. materialised at my elbow. Again.

Mr D.: How did it go?
Me: Great! She's really lovely. I think we hit it off...
Mr D: When the brief came in I thought it would be right up your alley.
Me: Yeah. Like totally. (Yeah Like Totally? Who's there?) I'd love to do it.
Mr D: Alright then. Thanks for coming in. Bye.

And with that he walked me back to the front door and saw me out. (They do that casting directors, when they're casting from their own offices, they always make sure you leave. Or maybe that's just for me.)

Almost forgot! How's the Mandarin going? It's going. It's tough, but it's going. I'm learning how to count and learning to tell and ask for the time. But interestingly they're not teaching me 1 to 10. We've gone: 2 then 8 and 9 and 1 and 3 and 4 and 5.

What else have I learned? To go. Going to (which is the same as to order and to want).

I've learned how to say: 'or' when it's a question and 'or' when it's not a question. I can say lunch (but not yet dinner). I can order 2 beers (and up to 9 so I'm sure to make friends).

'Me too' and 'what about you'.

'When' is relatively easy but 'later' is a bit of a tongue twister (I'm going to have the best diction in English when I'm done with this course).

So I'm making good progress and I can say entire phrases. But understanding what people are saying to me at conversational speed is a bit of a challenge. I'm still decoding the words rather than just inhaling their meaning. But I'm sure it'll come.

So the forecast looks something like this: Mandarin blossoms with decreasing chances of cloud and rain (a Chinese euphemism for jiggyjiggy - I didn't pick that up on the course, it's from the Inspector Chen novels by Qiu Xialong) with Body Stocking.

Until tomorrow...Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-65681571352294197812013-06-22T16:22:00.000+01:002013-11-05T04:59:23.732+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 days - days 7 and 8: L is for Lesbian
I received a slightly apologetic call from my lovely agent yesterday afternoon.

"I know you're busy with work but Mr. D (casting director for feature films) called up and specifically requested you for a project. D'you think you could free yourself up to go to the audition?"

Mmmm...

Is the Pope Catholic?

I dutifully freed up my diary for Monday lunchtime.

Ping!

Right on cue an email arrived from my agent (lovely and efficient), confirming the audition time and place and providing me with some details about the project as supplied by the casting director.

It read: Indie feature film. Profit share. (ie no pay upfront but we'll feed you and if we make any money you'll get a piece of it). Lesbian subject matter.

I'd rather it paid something upfront but other than that, I look forward to meeting up with Mr D. for the first time in 4 years.

I'll now throw in some insight into the inner paranoid workings of an actor's mind - free of charge:

I met Mr D straight out of drama school. I wasn't auditioning for him you understand, it was more of a meet and greet kind of thing. He was very kind and complimented me on my coat. Then I didn't hear from him again and I assumed he'd:

a) decided I was a an appalling actor (they can tell you know, even without an audition to go by)
b) forgotten about me (there's always the proverbial exception to confirm the rule)
c) black listed me (for some obscure, unknown and unspecified reason. I guess just because, you know, he could)
d) all of the above

But no! All this time, he'd had me sitting in the giant doll house of his mind, where (I imagine) he keeps his collection of actors.

I felt a rush of warmth and gratitude towards Mr D and looked forward to our lunch meeting. He'll be well impressed when I mention in passing that I'm learning to speak Mandarin and aiming to be conversational by mid September. I mean, I'll be impressed! I might even get the lesbian part without having to audition.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm not conversational yet, seeing that I have just completed lessons 7 and 8 of Pimsleur Mandarin Chinese part 1. So how is it going?

I'm still getting the 'OMG! I can't remember a thing' feeling at the end of each lesson so I have been making sure to run each session twice, in some cases preceded by a third run of the previous day's lesson for good measure. Only now I break it up: one hour in the morning, half an hour in the afternoon. That way I'm keeping up to speed but my brain doesn't explode.

Something else I've noticed is that I catch myself uttering words and phrases out loud in Mandarin - and sometimes I don't even understand what I'm saying. Sometimes it happens at night.

Do you think that's slightly freaky? I'm more inclined to think I'm mimicking young children's behaviour when they start talking: Ma! Mah! Mamamamamamamama! Papa! Papa! Chicken! Cow pat poo! Bird pat poo! (These last two shamelessly borrowed from Aardman's Creature Comforts.)

Or in my case: where is the Beijing Restaurant? I want to eat now. I don't want to eat later. I want to eat lunch. And my favourite: I don't want to eat at your place... but I'd like to do some shopping. (That will come in really handy in the Chinese Soap when I get cast as the Western gold digger.)

There's also the faint possibility - it's only a vague impression for now - that this language programme is actually an alien's experiment in human behavioural brainwashing. Here's an example:

I'm being taught to say 'I would like to drink some tea, or some beer.' The thing is I like to drink water not beer. But I'm not being taught how to say 'water', and if they don't teach me how to say it before the end of the course, I may very well feel compelled to switch to drinking beer. D'you follow?

Like I said it's just the faintest outline of a possibility, for now. But let's keep an eye on it.

Until tomorrow...Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-29764166016076984142013-06-20T14:44:00.000+01:002013-11-05T04:57:33.982+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 days - days 5&6: "Freak Out! Le Freak c'est Chic..."

Go on.

Humour me for a moment and close your eyes.

Imagine you're standing on a treadmill.

Visualise the dash board. For those who can't or wont trust a freestyle approach, there's a programme button to set the type of exercise you might want: interval, gradual climb, high intensity, etc...

Are you still with me?

Right. Now, open your eyes.

What do all these programmes have in common? A warm up section before they get down to business.

So why did I think for a minute that my 90/90 Chinese Lesson Masterplan would be any different?

Because lessons 1-4 were a walk in the proverbial park, that's why.

I thought to myself: 'this learning Mandaring business is a piece of (moon) cake.'

Surprise!!!

That's one piece of cake I won't be eating any time soon.

Words, so many new words: Long Peace Road. College Street. Over here, over there, everywhere. Go to. Want to. Don't want to. Now. When. Later. Not later. Not Now. Your place/my place (you never know when that could come in handy). When? Where?

Then I remembered the underlying philosophy of this intense language programme: listen, repeat, and relax!

So I did. Repeat that is. And repeat. And repeat...

Now I can say Long Peace Road and I can say Street but try as I may 'College' is just not going in. I'm just going to have make my (Long) peace with it and let it go.

I listened and repeated, and listened and repeated again. I played back lesson 5 twice, and stopped and started until I got it right. Today I even replayed lesson 5 a third time before moving on to lesson 6 which I then went over twice.

That's an hour and a half of Mandarin.

My brain is so addled right now it's probably shrunk to the size of a raisin. Please don't ask me anything. Especially not how to say 'College' in Mandarin because I may just squash you like a bug as I fall over in a coma.

I won't know whether the overdrive (some would say commitment, but I think crazy's more like it) pays off until lesson 7 but I promise to keep you posted.

Until tomorrow...

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-46953958824352977062013-06-19T15:08:00.000+01:002013-11-05T04:56:34.740+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 days - Day 4: Spending the day as a totally ordinary person

I'm the kind of person who gets to the airport at least 4 hours before scheduled departure so leaving myself 5 minutes to walk from Piccadilly Tube station to the Soho casting studio was really cutting it fine.

Then I had a senior moment. Where was Beak Street? I stood on Brewer Street, staring at the street sign across the street willing it to read Beak Street. But it wouldn't, it read Brewer Street.

I know Beak Street. My old hair dresser (before he got famous and moved to LA) was based in Beak Street. Beak Street used to be my home away from home. But there I stood on Brewer Street, outside Scoop, unable for the life of me to conjure up Beak Street in my mental map. Soho's not a good place for asking directions because these days most shops are manned by people who live out in the burbs and who have no intimate knowledge of the area. Then I saw it, no not Beak Street but a locksmith's with two old types behind the counter who looked like they'd been in there since the days when Soho was all strippers, hookers and porn cinemas.

Me: "Hello. Excuse me may I ask (which incidentally I now know how to say in Mandarin) where is Beak Street?" (and as of today I can also say that in Mandarin)
Guy #1 behind the counter: Beak Street you say? Dunno. Pete, d'you know where Beak Street is?
Guy #2 behind the counter (a.k.a Pete): Beak Street? Isn't that off Rupert Street?

Me: Where the h*^% is Rupert Street? Do you have an A to Z or a map?
Guy #1: I don't have an A to Z...
Me: Really? No me neither, I used to, back in the day when the dinosaurs roamed the earth but now I have an app on my smart phone. But it's on the blink for some reason so that's why I'm asking a human being for direction.
Guy #1: ... but I have a map!

He brandished a reassuringly huge good old fashioned 20th century foldy-uppy map of greater London. Before I had a chance to grab it, he turned to the street index.

Guy #1: Beak, B, B....
Me: Take your time why don't you, I have all the time in the world, it's not like I'm lost in the middle of Soho with an audition starting in 1.5 minutes
Guy #1: ... aha! G 5.

With much rustling, he turns the map over, unfolds it, refolds it.

Guy #1: G!
Me: I got it thank you, I'll take it from here.
Guy #1 (coming closer to a sudden an painful death that he could ever imagine): Can you see ok it's kindda small?
Me: Hey, I know I'm going up for the ugly part but does it say ANYWHERE that's it's Old and Ugly? Yep I can see just fine.

And there it was! One block up from Brewer, on the other side of Golden Square, where it has and always will be.

I thanked the locksmiths and rushed up the block and back down Beak St (because by then I'd walked all the way down to the wrong end), rang the buzzer, climbed the rickety stairs two at a time and bounded into the casting rooms.

Me: "Hello, I'm Isabelle Gregson."
Lady behind the counter (handing me 3 pages of forms): "Hi Isabelle, please fill these out BUT (handing me two scripts) please read the scripts first. I've given you the French and the English versions (why? the casting brief said ugly native French speaker, it didn't say Brit with a Jane Birkin accent), and you'll need to memorise the lines in French.

I thanked her and took my seat in the waiting area, next to a sweet looking little wisp of a thing (so much for ugly) and across from another girl, and set to memorising my lines.

The door opened and the casting director emerged from the audition room.

Casting Director to the girl sitting across from me (not the wisp of the thing, the other one): Hi! You'll be going in a couple of minutes.
Girl to casting director: Hi! You don't remember me, but we've met before...

Well, clearly, seeing as you've just insulted both the casting director's memory and ability to do her job, you're not getting the part. Can you spell Own Goal?
...

A while later, and it was a while because I managed to fill out all 3 recto verso pages of forms, the casting director came out with Miss Own Goal, and sent her on her way.

Wisp of a thing to Casting Director: Excuse me, may I ask (yup, can still say that in Mandarin) what might the shooting dates for this be?
Casting Director: I don't know! Ask your agent! I'm just the casting director.

Wow! Thank you Miss Own Goal #2.

Casting Director: Isabelle? Make yourself known!
Me: Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson.
Casting Director: Leave your purse out there, no one's going to steal it!
Me (torn between separation anxiety and audition nerves): Uh, OK...

The audition room was small, dark and pretty muggy. I was introduced to the director, to a girl who was going to be reading with me (the token Frog, presumably there to judge auditionee's accents and fluency as none of the others spoke a word of French), the camera man, and two other bods who kept their own counsel throughout.

Director: Hi, so today I want you to imagine you are an ordinary person...
Me (slightly overegging it on account of nerves): Because any other day, I am a most ex-tra-or-di-na-ry human being!
Director: Uh, right so you are an ordinary mum coming home. Now, I don't want any acting, I just want you to be yourself!

I fell in love with him then and there. Here's a man I thought, here's a man who really knows how to relate to actors.

Me: Sure.

What I really wanted to say was: "Sorry, I need time to prepare, what's my motivation exactly?" You know, just to mess with him.

And off we went, we ran the lines three or four times. I did my best to pretend I was interacting with the camera even though the girl who was reading with me was sitting quite a ways away from it. You try that at home, try directing your answers away from the voice asking the questions...

Director: Thank you... Maude.
Me: Thank you (did he just call me Maude?)
Casting Director: It's Isabelle!
Director: I mean Isabelle.
Me: Bye (Harold!)

And just like that I was spat back out into the relative airiness of the waiting room and reunited with my purse.

And what about Mandarin lesson number 4? Still going strong although lots of new words were thrown at me today and I felt a little insecure as I couldn't remember them all. So I ran the lesson twice. (You're allowed to.) But some of the words and expressions I learnt in the first two lessons are now firmly established and I can rattle them off without actually thinking about it or translating every word. It's a great feeling.

Better feeling than the audition because, let's face it, I'm not getting the part.

I'm not ordinary enough.

And I'm not Maude. Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-9798229847403627672013-06-18T12:01:00.000+01:002013-06-20T12:04:02.249+01:00Learning Chinese in 90 days - Day 3: In conversation with French Meerkats
The casting brief from my agent read: "French mum, 30-35, doesn't need to be too pretty..." Now, this is what separates the starry eyed wannabees from the hardened pros. First, bypass the Ego. Let me tell you something: ugly/old/stupid/nerdy/unsexy, they're all good. I'm not a swimsuit model, I'm a method actor. I can play 10 different types of pimple if required. You want ugly? I can do ugly! You want me to interact with an imaginary talking stoat/meerkat? You want me to deliver the lines in French even though the script is in English? Yes Yes Yes. Hey, I'll play the stoat if you want me to (it's a long running campaign so the puppet is probably getting paid more than the real people).

It's day 3 of Mandarin lessons so I'm not quite ready to do an advert in Mandarin but in 87 days, well, it may be a whole other story... What if I get cast in a long running soap on Chinese TV? Eastenders/BBC casting: eat your heart out!

So how are the lessons going? They're going well. The trick is to relax into it and not get hung up if you can't remember a word or expression. It's a bit like the Heathrow Express: if you miss one, you know there'll be one along in another 15 minutes. What new words have I learned? "Here", "there", "where"... and most importantly: "I don't understand what it is you are saying." Betcha that's going to come in really handy (especially as I'll be hearing that being said to me quite a bit).

Until tomorrow...

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-15476009897277094802013-06-17T16:26:00.000+01:002013-11-05T04:50:56.176+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 days - Day 2: Of Pimms and Plimsolls

Cannes Festival?
Check.
French Open?
Check.
Summertime in London?
Not last time I checked.

It's 27 C (that's about 84F) in Shanghai. I'm just putting that out there. Make of it what you will.

Where was I? Day 2 of the Mandarin Chinese lessons. Here's something weird: I'm remembering words today that I couldn't remember yesterday during the lesson. It's like my brain's been studying in its own time.

Worth every penny. (Now if only I could get my body to exercise in its own time, like when I'm sleeping. I'm just saying.)

So what's the secret?

It's called the Pimsleur method (as created by the late Dr. Paul Pimsleur). The whole caboodle is based on something called "graduated interval recall" which goes something like this:

Listen - Repeat - Repeat - Listen - Don't Stress Isabelle - Repeat - Don't Stress! - Listen to this other word - Repeat - ...

You get the drift.

At the risk of sounding like a fortune cookie (get it! Fortune Cookie, Chinese restaurant...) KNOWLEDGE IS THE WISDOM TO LISTEN MORE AND STRESS LESS.

So what have I learnt so far? Hello, Goodbye, Excuse Me May I ask, I am an American (which is untrue but one of the more benign forms of American Imperialism), I speak English, do you speak English? And just as importantly, I can now understand these short sentences/expressions as spoken by a native speaker - and the metaphorical tickle this gives me is too good not to share, like a freshly made pitcher of Pimms.

So onwards and eastwards... see you tomorrow on the other side of Day 3.

Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-4011333702564901792013-06-16T20:26:00.000+01:002013-11-05T04:50:31.523+00:00Learning Chinese in 90 days - Day 1: .As the Frog Said to the Beijing Duck... I'm learning Mandarin.

You heard it here first (well, technically speaking my Facebook friends read it first on Facebook but you're getting the context).

It all started with lunch at the Albion Caff with a long lost Anglo-Scottish friend from the Lycee who's spent the last 20 years in China. What can I say? Blame it on the pork and apple sauce (him) orthe devilled kidneys (guess who), or on my drinking a shot of espresso for the first time in a couple of months, but I decided then and there that I was going to learn to speak Mandarin, like now, right away, tout de suite, immediatamente.

This was on Friday.

I know what you're thinking. I do.
'She should stay off the coffee or stick to decaf.'
'That's a bit (insert appropriate word) impulsive, random, mad.'

So? Remember I'm the one who went in for a couple of voice lessons and quit my job to go drama school...

This my friends, in comparison, on the scale of life altering decisions, is what the English like to call 'a doddle'.

Besides, it's not that random. Or impulsive. It's been bubbling away in the back (and sides) of my mind since my first visit to China in 2010. Allow me to share a favourite fantasy of mine: I'd like to go and live in Shanghai some day. More specifically I'd like to live in a flat in the French Concession district. And in order for the fantasy to be complete, I'll need to communicate without having to rely on English, or miming, or a tourist guide with pictures of various foods and toiletries essentials. I want to blend in (ha ha ha - well it is still called the French Concession) as much as possible.

Before I lose you completely, for the rational types amongst you, there is another more prosaic reason: let's face it, some 1.5 billion human beings speak Mandarin so English as the Lingua Franca is in danger of becoming a bit passé (that's right you Anglophiles, French used to be the Lingua Franca and look where that got them, and before that it was Latin. And who speaks Latin? Even my friend TP elected to learn Greek (and Urdu I believe), not Latin. Plus, I like a challenge.

So what's the plan? To learn the basics so that I can communicate verbally. No reading or writing. Not yet. Leave that and the acquisition of an extended vocabulary (and possibly a Masters in Chinese Literature - but let's not get ahead of ourselves) for later. For now, we're talking 90 lessons in 90 days. That's right. There's no homework, no writing and no reading. Just one lesson a day, everyday, for 90 days. You learn through a particular frequency of repetition, building over time and you learn by ear (key for a language that has four tones for every sound, leading to at least 4 different meanings).

To sweeten the deal, the first lesson is free! Hurray. I do love a bargain.

So day 1 was Saturday. (I did try the free lesson on Friday evening but I was too excited - from the caffeine - and couldn't concentrate properly). It was a bit overwhelming. I couldn't remember half the words. But the lovely male voice (I think he's a relation of the voice on my sleeping app) soothed me, recommended I take a chill pill (not in so many words but that's definitely what he was trying to convey) and explained that all the words would be revisited in lesson 2.

I decided to trust the voice. Firstly because his Mandarin is pretty good. Secondly because I really want it to work. Thirdly, because the course doesn't come cheap.

So I'm going to keep ya'll posted via this wee blog here and see if I can sort my Mandarin Ducks from my China Plates.

Until tomorrow...Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-7343020953563489562011-06-29T09:54:00.000+01:002011-06-29T09:54:31.705+01:00Back in 10 minutes

Hello. Hello?

I know it's been a while.

I've been kindda busy.

All will be revealed soon on my sister blog "A girl's gotta eat!"

See you soon...Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-89030745680746704822011-05-17T20:02:00.001+01:002011-05-17T20:11:07.316+01:00Now put your clothes back on
As you'll already know if you read the last entry (If you haven't, now's your chance: As the Actress Said to the Bishop...; "Now take your clothes off". No one will ever know that you missed it first time round. Except for me of course.) I was called in to re-audition in my bathing suit last Friday. Lucky me. My agent who is nothing if not thorough reissued the casting breakdown. After briefly toying with the idea of saying Non! I thought better of it (I could do with the money) and re-read the breakdown - just in case they'd decided to ditch the swimwear. This time it specified: "dress smart casual" but sadly, it still requested that I wear a bathing suit under my clothes.

The sort-of diet is going well thank you... but having to fit a 30's style bathing suit underneath anything that doesn't resemble a tent remains a limiting factor. So I plumped for a pair of custom made pinstripe blue Thai style trousers (you know the kind that are open on the side but wrap around the front and back - handy for flinging off burlesque style when I revealed my bathing suit underneath) and some rubber soled high heeled red patent leather shoes so I wouldn't trip.

As a rule, I try and conserve energy before an audition. It's amazing how much you need once the adrenaline gets pumping. But not on Friday. First I went to Zumba and did the rumba, the salsa, the cumbia and some chachacha for a whole hour before power walking into Soho in my heels. I figured lunch could wait. (I find it so much easier to suck in my tummy when I'm starving. Don't you?)

Given the casting director's time keeping record, I arrived on the dot for my appointment at one o'clock. There was a new girl on reception: efficient, unflappable and friendly (although it turned out she wasn't even working there, she was just temping for the morning.) "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson." "Hi, just fill out this form." (What? Again? I used my madwoman flowing handwriting... that will show them.)

1:05pm

Me to the unflappable temp, with a light tone: "How much of a wait is there?"
Unflappable temp: "They're pretty much on time but it's first come first seen basis, we're not going by call time." She gave a little shrug as if to say: "That's not how I would do it either but what can you do?"

There were 4 other actors waiting. Older on average than the group from Wednesday. I didn't have anything else to do (other than get some lunch) so I stayed put and settled in for a long wait.

Older brash blonde woman stepping into reception to other blonde looking rather washed out in a pale summer dress: "Oh hi! I haven't seen you in ages..."
Pale dress wishing she'd worn more make up and a red dress: "I know. It's been so long..."

And I (we all had) to endure yet another mind numbing conversation between two ageing and painfully middle class actresses (I have nothing against the middle classes, I mean I'm middle class but there's regular middle class and then there's painful middle class - like those two.) This time it was weddings.

Brash Blonde: "I 'd like to know who she (Kate) worked with to make sure her face didn't set in a nervous grimace, you could tell she was so nervous."
Pale Dress: "I wonder how she managed not to cry. I bet she wore waterproof mascara just in case."
Oh do shut up already.
Brash Blonde's re her own upcoming nuptial (make a break for it you poor man whilst you still can): "I'm worried I'll cry and ruin my make-up on the day."
Pale Dress : "You have to treat it as a performance. You're an actress."
Brash Blonde: "But I cry watching pet food commercials!"
Die both of you. Die now.

Then Brash Blonde got called in and it all went blissfully quiet. One by one they all went in. Then the temp left. I was bored so I got to chatting with the owner of the casting studio, as you do. Poor woman. Poor woman? Poor me! I bet she'd never had a captive audience before. That's how I found about the temp being a temp. And found out the name of the gloomy guts who'd been manning reception on Wednesday. I found out lots of things about the ins and out of the casting studio industry (not much money in it but lots of work) and its evolution over the last 20 years (email has gone and ruined the notion of lead times).

Then it was my turn to audition. After the usual 'look into the camera, name, agent, right profile, left profile, show us your hands, show us the other side, any commercials in the last year?' the casting director announced: "This is definitely about less is more. I just want you to take your shoes off and lie there on the couch and relax." So I did. "Wiggle your toes a bit." So I did. "Not so much." I obliged. "Have a look around as you relax." I did. "Have a stretch. Good. Now wiggle your toes again." It went on like this for a good 5 or 10 minutes. I've never worked so hard at doing nothing and relaxing on a couch.

Then it was thank you and goodbye. I don't think I'll get it. On account of my toe wiggle probably being too continental. But the best bit? After all that angst and trouble I went to, no one asked to see my bathing suit!Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-46578845220044315182011-05-12T19:36:00.000+01:002011-05-13T21:26:31.492+01:00Now take your clothes off

Another week, another audition.

The call from my agent came in late on Tuesday evening. These late calls are never a good sign. It usually means the job is being rushed through and that somebody or possibly several individuals are not being given enough time to do things properly. None of this ever bodes well for the actors involved being as they are at the bottom of the proverbial food chain, one down from lowly plankton. (This goes for big stars like Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie too except they get paid pots of money to compensate.) "Can you do 1:30 tomorrow? It's in Soho. I've sent you the details. Just bring a bathing suit..."

A bathing suit! I downloaded the casting breakdown: "multiple ages and looks, no overweight people please, must be comfortable auditioning in a bathing suit."
Several thoughts immediately came to mind, all of them negative: I already have a 2:30 appointment in the diary. I don't want to wear a bathing suit. I shouldn't have to disrobe unless I'm getting paid.Why a bathing suit? I don't like the idea of some appalling audition footage of me surfacing when I get my big break. I don't have time for a quick fake tan. I'm not sure I know where to find my bathing suit.

Now, my former drama school class mates and anyone who saw my one woman show at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe will attest to my willingness and indeed enthusiasm to disrobe for art. Nudity on stage or in front of the camera, if it suits the role, does not phase me. Of course, I will starve myself for a few months before hand and exercise like a demon (who wouldn't?) but - seriously - I don't consider it a big deal.

So.
What's the problem with auditioning in my bathing suit?
Honestly? I'm feeling a bit fat (not in absolute terms but certainly in that no-tan-just-coming-out-of-winter-skin kind of way) and I really don't want to have to undress in front of a bunch of strangers and have them film it.

Fair enough?

So I toyed with the idea of calling my agent to cancel.

But I have a rule: to try never to act based on Fear or Ego. Cancelling the casting felt pretty much like Fear and Ego were doing the talking. In the end - and I'm going to spare you the agonising and toing and froing - I settled for wearing my cute stripey 1930's bathing suit under my jeans. And I set off for Soho early (before I changed my mind). With luck, I would be seen quickly and then have plenty of time to get to the next appointment.

I must have known deep in my soul that there would be some sort of trouble ahead because on the way I stopped by WHSmith for the impulsive purchase of a book of crossword puzzles (I really had to look hard for it, it's all gone Sudoku in the puzzle section) and some sugar free gum.

I got to the casting studio at one on the dot. The lobby was heaving with people, some were sitting, most were standing. I pushed my way through to the pretty but bored brunette receptionist on duty. "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson." She crossed my name off the list: "Please fill out this form. Also, there's a bit of a wait so you may want to go and grab a coffee and come back later."

No one had warned me that Puff Adder would be making an appearance. (If you don't know Puff Adder, check the blog archive.) I think it must have been all the Fear that conjured it up.

Puff Adder: "How long a wait exactly."

Pretty receptionist now rather sullen, having taken an immediate dislike to Puff Adder: "Well, like half a hour maybe, or more. It depends."

It depends on what you sulking git?

Puff Adder: "I have another meeting to get to after so I'm not sure I'll be able to wait that long..."

And with that I sat down. Or rather Puff Adder stole the empty seat from the girl who'd just gone into the casting room. Let the rest of them stand. I pulled out the crossword and immediately struggled with it. You should have gone for Sudoku and now it's too late.

You know how sometimes, when you're somewhere really beautiful and you're in love and all relaxed you become hyper aware of everything around you: the colours, the sounds, the smells? Well, I was having one of those moments but in the nightmare version.

The tall Chinese model on my left was clicking her long fingernails and intermittently running them through her long hair so they made that almost but not quite blackboard sound. Then there were two actor friends chatting mindlessly.
Rihanna clone: "Yeah like I was in LA like and it was soooo cooool!"
Pretty boy: "Yeah? Like how? I'm off to Canada next week, I mean LA is quite far from Canada innit ? But I have my son with me so like you know I have responsibilities but like - LA? Definitely! So how was it?" Rihanna look-alike: "Oh my God, like, you know it was like really cool and stuff but like I had to learn like 4 scripts a day cos they're so much more professional over there."

Then the receptionist drone pulled out her sandwich and started to chew on it very loudly.

The crossword wasn't getting any easier, even with Puff Adder cheating and checking the answers at the back.

Pretty boy from before: "So like did you work a lot when you were out in LA like?"
Rihanna wannabe: "Like not really but I'm going back like in the Summer."

Und so veiter as they say in German.

After some 15 minutes the door to the casting room opened and everyone looked up in anticipation. Pick me! Pick me! The girl whose chair I was using came out and proceeded to crouch down to retrieve her various bags and coats from under me. Casting director: "The director's taking a break so we'll just be a while before we call the next person in." But of course.

And on and on in went and dragged. Every 15 minutes of so someone else would be called in. In between, the casting director would return a few calls or check email, or the director would take a loo break.

2 o'clock rolled around. There were only about 5 of us left. I couldn't tell if the witch on reception had decided to stick me to the back of the queue on account of Puff Adder.

2:10: still 5 of us left.

2:15: four of us left.

I'd calculated that I needed a good 15 minutes to get to my next appointment. I had now been waiting for an hour and a half - or only (only!) 45 minutes beyond my call time. I'd made it all the way to the audition, in my bathing suit. I had faced my Fear and Ego and won! So I got up, explained to the receptionist that I could no longer wait as I had another meeting and I left.

You don't end up 45 minutes late by accident. It's takes a lot of dedication. Some would even call it an art form. Puff Adder calls it just plain unprofessional. I couldn't possibly comment.

-------
UPDATE! Guess what, yes, my agent just called... the bathing suit audition has been rescheduled for tomorrow so watch this space....Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-30477379910395571352011-04-29T16:35:00.001+01:002011-04-29T16:45:51.321+01:00It's hot and crazy in the kitchen - the sequel

Well what do you know? As if to prove the point that you can never tell with auditions, my agent called to tell me I had landed a recall following last Friday's disastrous casting session. "The problem is... they won't pay you a recall fee." When have any of them ever paid me a recall fee? "That's fine." "Oh and they've pencilled you for the shoot..." Pencil shmencil...

I'm kindda cranky this week. He would go as far as to say 'she's a bit feral'. It's a hard one to diagnose: a sense of general blahness rather than anything specific. At first I blamed it on the general social malaise (are we or are we not still in a recession?), then I blamed it on the three day week effect (this is our second 4 day weekend in a row) which has meant cramming in 5 days' worth of 'stuff' into 3, then I thought it might be due to media overload I wish them well but enough already with the Royal Wedding. Then I remembered.

Firstly, I've just bleached my teeth. This makes me toothy for a day or two. As in on edge. I manage the sensitivity with 12 hour ibuprofen, but I may need to shift it up a gear and get some Ritalin to get a handle on the mood swings. Secondly, I'm on a bit of a diet so I'm not thinking straight.

Where was I going with this? Audition recall. Just to refresh your memory, last Friday's audition was tragic: I had a barney (that's a quaint British word for altercation) with the girls on reception, then I yelled at the casting assistant, and finally had an emotional melt down with the casting director. Me, I'm all for second chances even if they aren't paying me a recall fee so I figured I'd go and knock their proverbial socks off at the recall.

It was being held at the same location (but of course) as last Friday's audition. I decided to give myself plenty of time to get there so I could stay nice and chilled. So I cleaned the house, stopped by the post office, walked all the way over to the butchers, dropped in on the chemist, picked up some groceries and then dropped everything back at the flat before heading out, which left me just enough time to rush out again and catch a tube (subway) to the audition.

I got there with 10 minutes to spare. After struggling with the glass front door like an imbecile (they buzz you in but the door always sticks so you end up making faces at the reception people to indicate that you're pushing but it's not working and they make faces back mouthing the words 'just push' and then just as you're about to give up and go home the door magically flings open and you fall in, powered by your own exertion.) I stumbled into the foyer.

Me with an engaging smile to the new girl on reception: "I always struggle with that door for some reason! Please don't call security, I'm harmless. Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson, I'm here for the recall."
New girl: "What's your name? Oh sorry, you said. Please sign the ledger."

I obliged.

New girl: "Just take a seat."
Me: Here we go again... "You mean up here?"
New girl: "Yes."
Me: "Not downstairs?"
New girl: "No. That's right. Just sit right here." She pointed at the couch.
Me, with a broad smile: "OK."

Even though it wasn't ok - obviously - I settled on the couch and immersed myself in the paper I'd brought with me.

"Oy. Oy!"

I looked up to find the new girl's side kick on reception waving at me, a bit indignant. "Yes you! You can go downstairs now!"

Determined to avoid any repeat of Friday's performance, I swallowed my pride, dismissed various murderous thoughts, smiled some more and headed down the stairs.

There were five people in the waiting room. All adults. No twins. To my relief, the young casting assistant from Friday wasn't there. She'd been replaced by someone a bit less impressionable and better organised.

Unflappable casting assistant: "Please fill out this form."
Me: "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson... don't you need to check my name off on your list?"
Unflappable casting assistant: "No. Don't tell me how to do my job. I could break you with my thumb. Just fill out the form and bring it back."

I smiled, took a seat, put my paper down on the chair next to mine and filled out the form as instructed. She took my mug shot and gave me a sheet with my name written on it and the number 32. (It turns out they'd abandoned the first come first serve system and were instead sticking to appointment times.)

I sat back down, went to grab my paper and realised that the guy one seat over had taken it. He wasn't being rude. He'd assumed it wasn't anybody's. So I didn't say anything and waited my turn. But waiting is harder without a paper.

Number 29 was called. Some more people came in. Then it was number 30's turn (who happened to be the guy who'd stolen my paper). I grabbed my paper back.

"I'm really very sorry but I've only got like just a wee minute so if you can squeeze me in next that would be great!"

Me and everyone else looked up at the tall and rather skinny Scottish guy with an incredibly whiny voice who'd just come into the room.

Unflappable casting assistant: "Well, these people (pointing at the five of us) are in front of you."
Whiny Scottish guy: "It's just that I don't have much time..."
Unflappable casting assistant, with a slight edge creeping in:: "Well, if someone's happy to switch with you that would be fine but otherwise you're going to have to wait."

Nobody offered to switch places.

Whiny Scottish guy: "Oh I don't want to p*ss anybody off..." but of course not, you just want to jump the queue.

Just then the door open and the casting director came out calling for number 31.

Number 31 to whiny Scottish guy: "It's my turn but I could switch with you if you'd like."
Whiny Scottish guy: "Well as I said I don't want to p*ss anybody off..."
Casting director interrupting him, to her casting assistant: "Wouldn't that throw your numbers?"
Casting assistant picking up on the hint: "Well, yes. It would."
Casting director to whiny Scottish guy: "It's going to mess up her system. What time do you have to leave?"

This went on for another five minutes. At least. I remained ensconsed in my paper, suddenly consumed with interest by the article on wedding party dresses and the fact that the colour yellow is on trend for the summer.

"Number 32!"

I sauntered past the casting director into the casting room. Sadly Fred wasn't there. His replacement (I use the term loosely), a nervy little guy with corkscrew hair raced out of the room with an "I've got to pee!".

The carpet and small round table were covered in flour (presumably from the chef auditions). I stared at the mess. A disembodied voice reached me from the back of the room. (Without my glasses, I'm terribly short sighted.) "Hi, I'm Stanley, I'm the director." Oh my goodness the director thinks I'm ignoring him. "Hi Stanley. I'm so sorry: everything's a bit of a blurr without my glasses." I could just about make out another silhouette next to him which I assumed was the client. I tried to gauge whether the casting director remembered my outburst (casting directors remember everything) with some friendly small talk. "How did you go with your bread dough?" The director groaned. Casting director with a hearty laugh: "Oh it well really well! Although this one chef told me it was a pretty bad dough."

We grinned at each other for a while until Fred's replacement popped back in the room with an empty bladder and clean hands.

We did the whole audition over again, just like on Friday. No reaction from Stanley or his shadowy off-sider. Then he had me try it in a completely different way. They had a little chuckle over my performance - I remember thinking "that sounds like a good chuckle" - then the shadow next to him leant over and whispered something. And then it was thank you and good bye.

Will I get it? Who knows? Does it matter? Not really. The money (about a 6th of the big money job) would pay for a few cases of chocolate but I couldn't eat them because I'm on diet. I could always put it towards next month's rent.Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-15953919436300503932011-04-22T17:07:00.000+01:002011-04-22T17:07:00.415+01:00It's hot and crazy in the kitchen

The casting breakdown for Thursday's audition read: 'male or female, a chef, someone people would be a bit scared of but with a warm side as well... Must have characterful face.' So I thought: Monica (from Friends). (Although I'm far closer in type to Monica than I could ever hope to be of the boys' favourite Rachel, let me remind you that it was Monica who bedded Magnum PI and if I'd been in charge of the storyline, she would have married him.) Anyway, I figured if I could channel Monica in her restaurant kitchen haranguing her staff, I'd be in with a chance.

The message from my agent asked me to turn up at 12:25 at The Green Room, to meet a casting director I hadn't come across before. And I thought 'cool' because meeting new casting directors is always a fantastic opportunity: if they like you, they'll keep you in mind for future jobs. That's why you should always be extra nice to them and always on your best behaviour. But more on that later.

It being summer and all, I walked into Soho for the audition. I know it's only April but seriously: it's been 25 degrees (that's 80's to save you the mental arithmetic) for – like – a WHOLE week and the heat shows no sign of abating. After that, who knows? We're assuming it'll go back to cold and rainy through August – so for now, it's summer.

I strolled into the casting studio with 25 minutes to spare and was a little taken aback by the welcoming spread of the muffins and croissants on the counter. Usually, you're lucky if you get a water cooler in the corner dispensing tepid water in those tiny blink-and-you'll-crush'em paper cups. Thankfully, I have my priorities straight so I figured I'd check-in with the girl in the unflattering wrap dress and lank hair before I demolished the carb feast.

Me: "I'm Isabelle Gregson. I'm here for the casting."
Jabba the Hutt with a dismissive smirk: "No you're not. No castings here this morning. Call your agent."
Me: "This IS the Green Room?"
Her: "Yes."
Me: "I thought the food was too good to be true!"
Her: "Yes, well that's definitely not for you!"
Me: "Well, obviously not, these are for the poor little orphans from some war torn country although I bet you've got room for a few under that dress. Stretchy fabric is so forgiving isn't it?"

I didn't actually say that but I thought it very loudly in my head. (I'm still more than a little pissed off because I did not get the big money job. I bet the other girl with the shoes got it.) And because I didn't want my great acting training to seize up just because I'm going through a bit of a dry spell, I smiled at her sweetly.

I stepped back out into the sunshine and dialled my agent.
Me: "Hi, it's Isabelle. You sent me to the wrong place!"
Agent: "Let me check. (long pause) Oh good Lord! I'm so sorry, it's actually at 4:15. And it's not at the Green Room, it's in Beak St (which is also in Soho.)"
Me: "How much money?"
Well, all I can say is that even though it wasn't anywhere near as much as the big money job, it was still worthwhile going home and then coming back out to Soho for the casting at 4:15.

So I did.

I arrived at 4:05, 10 minutes early, feeling rather hot and a bit fed up what with all the speed walking and the heat.

Me to one of the two girls on reception: "I'm Isabelle Gregson. I'm here for the casting."
Chewing gum girl: "Take a seat. It's a bit crowded downstairs. They're auditioning twins! They'll call you."

I sat down.

Next to me, a stage mother was fretting over her two girls: "they're all identical twins downstairs!" "I know Mum, and we're not even twins!" Well good luck to you…

I checked the time: 4:17.

Me to the same girl as before: "My call was for 4:15, are they running late?"
Her: "I think yeah a bit. It's kids and it's twins so it's taking twice as long."

I went back to my seat.

I checked the time again: 4:40 and noted that Solitaire playing girl #2 on reception had directed 2 people downstairs in the last 5 minutes. Could it be...? I promised to listen out for the next one to see if they were up for the same audition. You see, until you sign in with the casting folks (as opposed to the girls on reception), you might as well not have arrived. And as it's often first come first serve, if this girl was letting people through I could end up waiting an awfully long time.

4:45. Solitaire playing girl to short little guy with Italian accent who'd come in for the same audition as me: "… down the stairs."

I hurtled across reception so unexpectedly that the little guy took a few steps back.

Me to Solitaire girl: "Are you kidding me? I got here over 30 minutes ago and your colleague (pointing finger accusingly at Chewing gum girl) told me to sit up here and wait and all this time you've been sending people downstairs? What is this? Luck of the draw?" (As I said before, I'm a little cranky on account of not getting the big money job.)

Chewing gum girl hastily called down to the studio and was told to start sending people directly.

I raced down the stairs (ahead of the little guy) through a warren of corridors which finally expelled me hairball style into the waiting room. I turned on the rather young and meek looking blonde woman who was manning the desk. "What kind of deal do you have going on upstairs?" I recounted the whole sorry affair and must have done a really good job of scaring her because she tried to bundle me in to see the casting director in front of the remaining set of twins.

5:00 My turn! The casting director is the maternal type and an old friend (well maybe not an old friend but she's had me audition for various jobs over the past few years so I think she's a fan).

Casting director to me: "What happened out there?"

Now, see, this is where I went wrong on account of being really tired, and cranky, and feeling quite frankly like I'd auditioned several times for this job already. So instead of saying "Don't worry, it's all sorted. There was a misunderstanding upstairs. Your girl down here dealt with it really well." - which I'm sure you'll agree would have been the thing to say - I launched into the whole sorry saga. It all came out in an angry jumble which made me sound like a crazy woman and made her look at me with a mixture of apprehension and impatience.

That's when I decided to stop talking.

Casting director: "(pause) Anyway, this is Fred." Fred was a beautiful young Afro-Caribbean god who happened to be operating the camera. Well maybe he wasn't a god but he was definitely too beautiful and too perfect to be called Fred. He smiled a gorgeous smile that lit up the windowless room and came over to shake my hand.

Fred: "Hiyadoing?"
Me: "Oh. I'm real' good." Liar.

Casting director: "Alright, shall we make a start?…I want you to imagine that it's really cold and windy and you're out in your beach hut (?) with your kids (!) and your husband (!!) and it's been an awful day…"

I remember thinking "What ever happened to the scary chef? Am I even in the right audition?" but recovered and did as I was told. Badly. I wasn't prepared to be a harassed mother, I was all set to be an intimidating chef and now I was too angry and tired to shift gears.

In between two takes the casting director lifted a book and peered inside a bowl on the table in front of her: "My bread dough is rising!" she giggled.

I'm sure you've had those hyperreal dreams that suddenly turn completely surreal and you're just glad to realise you're in a dream because when you wake up it'll all be OK? Well this was like that except I was awake.

Casting director: "It's for the chefs' auditions later!" We had a good laugh over that even though I'd long lost my sense of humour.

Then we were done. I wished her and Fred a happy Easter, was rewarded with another dazzling smile from Fred - I bet he's like that with all the mortals - and promptly walked into the closed door.Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-19470137984802171552011-04-18T10:12:00.000+01:002011-04-18T10:12:41.715+01:00Pencil skirts and stilettos

 IG as BP by Oscar Grillo

 I received the casting breakdown for another commercial. It read: "Business woman, slightly OTT, wears designer suits. Please wear a suit to the audition." I thought "oh boy" because I didn't really like the sound of her. This is not a good thing. I'm an actor not a critic: my job is to understand, not judge. (At least not from the outside. Self-loathing is totally acceptable.)

As I said, she sounded pretty horrid but as a jobbing actor you can't afford to be picky (or lazy) even if you're convinced you're about to land another big job and so I called my agent to say I'd be there. I put on my face (the eyeshadow is getting quite a workout this week) and picked out a well fitted jacket to go with my grey pencil skirt and black suede round-toe stilettos. I checked the ensemble in the mirror. Although it owed more to Betty Boop than the OTT business woman I think Gok Wan would have been proud. (If you don't know him, check him out, he's like a 21st century fairy god mother but British Chinese and with really cool hair. He has a gift for styling and can make any woman feel good about her body. Honestly? He's amazing. I'm going to ask for him as my Christmas present.)

So I packed up my outfit, threw on a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers and made my way to the audition. Thing is, I tend to approach London like Parkour: charging around town scattering tourists, crossing on the red, daring death defying hops on trains just as the doors are about to close, and racing up the very steep escalators two steps at a time... And no one does Le Parkour in a pencil skirt and stilettos. Not even me.

I was headed for the Soho casting studio of red marker pen fame. (I know, two days in a row...) This time it was packed to the rafters with people. All of them unpleasant size 0 women in suits and stilettos or stuck up boy-men in ill-fitting suits. All of them except the lovely Nina, an ex-drama school colleague, who greeted me with her usual warm smile. Nina is blessed with that elusive trifecta of looks, smarts and kindness of spirit. She's blonde in that exotic Nordic way that some English women have, driven and an absolute sweetie. Let me put it this way, in my next life, I want to be her.

Me to the man at the front desk: "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson. I'll need to get changed before I go in."
Front desk man: "Fill out this form first and I'll take your picture, that way you won't lose your turn in the queue… they're running a bit late."

How nice is that? I had a quick chat with Nina whilst I filled out my form.

Me: "I was here yesterday."
Nina: "I know, I follow your blog!" (Hi there Nina!)

Then I walked over to Phil so he could process it, (for it was front desk Phil who - bless his little heart - didn't remember me or the red marker incident) as he expertly juggled scripts, phone calls, registration forms, and mug shots. Turns out he'd suffered a perforated ear drum since we'd last met. (Greater Universe, if you're listening, I don't think this should happen to nice people like Phil.)

Anyway, leaving Phil aside, I went to get changed and came out a different person. Literally. Oh, it's not the first time this has happened: I call it the wardrobe effect. I came out in character, as the OTT business woman. I could feel the tension in me, the perfectionist streak, the impatience. It's not so much a question of talent, I was just tapping into that very real side of my psyche which I try so hard to keep in check. Because it is rather vile and no one likes try-hards.

I came back to the waiting room and sat across from Nina ("Boy, you look different!") in the only free spot left but only after having to ask this girl to move her stuff from the bench which she did reluctantly and with a bit of an attitude. Then Nina left and whilst I waited my turn I eavesdropped on the conversations around me.

A rather nasty woman is slutty high heels (you know the ones, they're that little bit too high for day time), too much fake tan, and an 80's style hair was talking to a rather plain but sweet looking girl with big cheeks who was sat in the corner: "You're wearing a pant suit. The casting director specifically said that we should all wear a skirt...well at least you remembered the silk scarf."
Sweet girl, in a kind of bleat: "I just wore what my agent told me to wear."
Slutty 80's woman: "If you go in like that the casting director'll probably throw you out!"

If there's one thing I hate it's selfish actors who try to sabotage others' confidence to give themselves an edge.

Me to the sweet girl: "Don't worry, the script has loads of characters in it so we're not all auditioning for the same part. My brief came straight from the casting director and it just said a suit and didn't mention a scarf so I'm sure you'll be fine." She perked up a bit after that and I stopped channelling Joan of Arc.

Skinny boy in suit and headband (?!!!) with annoying whiny voice to the selfish cow who'd been hogging the entire bench: "Is this brand in the UK?"

Or at least that's what I thought he'd said so I figured I'd put in my two cents worth and illuminate him, because he was obviously ignorant as well as stupid and annoying.

Me: "The company exists in this country but it's a conglomerate, not a consumer brand. So you wouldn't find their stores on the high street under that particular name."
Skinny Headband Boy: "But are they in the UK?"

This went on for a while until Selfish Cow interrupted: "Actually, what he's asking is whether this campaign will be running in the UK." Then she smirked. Then Skinny Headband Boy starting snickering (at me I figured). Then I felt myself go very red and like I wanted to get out of there. Then I realised that I was in character which was probably a great thing ahead of the audition and that made me feel better until I realised I was sort of giggling out loud. Then it was my turn to audition so I sashayed up the stairs (it was either that or lifting the skirt above my head).

Casting director, after the usual meet and greet: "So I want you to imagine that you are a business woman who travels a lot and who is always super punctual and on top of things. You are at the airport and things are being delayed and cancelled. I just want to see how you react." I couldn't believe my luck. She was describing me at my worst: what he calls my 'psycho mode'. I could do that with my eyes closed. So I did my thing. Casting director: "Perfect, exactly what I was looking for!"

Then I packed OTT woman away, gave a friendly wave goodbye to the stilettos and skinny suits, and made for home, bounding along the roof tops like David Belle in that BBC advert.Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-71074185682597319502011-04-15T17:24:00.002+01:002011-04-15T17:39:54.680+01:00Total Recall

So I got a recall! (See previous entry for the full story.) A RECALL! In the acting world, getting a recall (or call back) is exciting: it's concrete feedback that you did something right at the first audition and that the casting director/advertising agency/client liked you. It's a marvellous feeling. Even better than getting pencilled (which for those of you who've just joined or those who simply weren't paying attention.... you at the back... is a term that means you're on standby for the job but with no guarantees that you'll actually get it.)

But the excitement is short lived. Soon you have to face up to reality: a recall means a second audition, for the same part, but this time against some tougher competition (because all those other people who are being recalled are 'good' and were 'liked'.) Then there's the thought that you're one step closer to getting the gig which generates a fair bit of 'oh please don't let me mess this one up' nervous tension. When I get nervous, I go into preparation overdrive.

So I made sure to eat sensibly the night before. (Pasta and other carb heavy dinners give me a moon face the next morning which is not a good look on camera.) I made sure to get a good night sleep (by wearing a heavy duty industrial noise cancelling headset), and set the alarm so that I'd have plenty of time to get ready without having to rush. I also laid out the same outfit I'd worn at the first audition because why mess with the juju?

I have a tendency to exist in a parallel Universe which answers to an entirely different set of laws (which he refers to as 'bug logic' the origins of which I will explain some other time). For example, in my universe, a recall always takes place at the same location as the original audition, whereas in the real world, it doesn't. But I had the presence of mind to check before leaving the house and thus avoided a crisis. See, preparation is the mother of all success. The casting studio (for the regulars among you) was the one where I had my fit of pique with the red marker over the misspelling of my name the other week. It was uncharacteristically empty but I knew I was in the right place: I recognised the nice fellow and one of the two attractive but uptight brunettes from the first audition. The nice fellow was called in first which was a shame because he'd been regaling me with some more hilarious accounts of his long suffering agent. Also it left me alone with her.

Even though I didn't like her (What can I say? She irked me.) I thought I should make conversation to keep things chilled. Big mistake.

Me to the brunette: "I see you've got your lucky shoes on again." I'd commented on her rather nice beige suede open toe high heel sandals at our first meeting.

Brunette: "Yes..."

And then she did something that really put me off, she repeated the exact same thing she'd said to me about those shoes the day before yesterday. How could she not remember telling me this? I remembered her and her stupid conversation, and her silly shoes that she was "still breaking in"... so how about some reciprocity you selfish cow? (I know that I have a keen - some would say OTT - sense of observation and a prodigious memory for all things trivial but that is no excuse.) But wait, it gets better. Next, I asked her a question and she didn't register it. She just carried on talking. Make of it what you will (I did) but it was just me and her in this big room and no one else, and she just kept going with her monologue. She was obviously on a one ticket round the world self-absorption trip with no room for anyone else's baggage.

It only made me more determined to get the commercial, if nothing else so that she wouldn't.
Then it was her turn to go in. Then she came out and it was my turn. She wished me "good luck" and I did the same, even though neither one of us meant it.

So how did it go? Honestly, I couldn't tell you. A bit like the first time: it went OK. Not brilliant, not crap. Hey, whatever it was got me to the recall. Fingers crossed it works its magic again...Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-39474470471040606192011-04-12T18:58:00.005+01:002011-04-13T14:20:39.245+01:00oooh la la gimme that French feeling...

The day didn't have the most auspicious of starts. If I were to slow down my brain process it went something like this: Wham! Blackness. Shock. Heavy. I'm dead. Pain.Ow! Whazzat? Head. More pain.

Clasping both hands to the top of my head I instinctively moved away from the source of danger and lay flat on the living room floor. The sound of rushed footsteps and he hovered into view. "Are you ok?" He had his worried face on. The face of a man who knows that my talent for self-inflicted pain is impressive and limitless in its creativity and that given half a chance I will find dramatic and novel ways of braining myself. In terms of pure destructive power, Dr. StrangeLove has nothing on me.

I'd been retrieving some files from the lower part of the antique desk when the desk flap flew open unexpectedly and banged me pretty hard on the head. It sounded something "Pssshhhiiiiii Wack!" which - I grant you - has a certain dynamic ring to it. I wished, and not for the first time, that all my furniture came from IKEA so that I stood more of a chance in case of ambush 'part ammeublement'*. Just in case you're getting the wrong idea, I love IKEA. As a matter of fact I'm writing this sitting on my tomato red IKEA couch. The desk on the other hand is patently not from IKEA on account that it is possessed by some sort of head banging spirit, is older even than IKEA's founder, and comes from a land as warm as Sweden is cold. The wood contracts and distends across the seasons and the lock on the desk flap can stick. Our solution is to leave it precariously wedged shut even though it means that from time to time it'll come flying open.

Like this morning, when it flew open and connected with my skull. Him: "What's your name? When's my birthday? Where were you born?" To distract him and give myself something to take my mind of the pain I requested a glass of water even though what I really wanted to do was burst into tears and call for my mother.

Now, apart from a persistent headache (not strong enough to warrant pain killers, but strong enough for me to try and milk it for all it's worth), and a dull pain in my nose (my nose?), I'm feeling pretty well recovered, all things considered. So thanks for asking.

The thing is, I had some things to do and an audition. The casting brief was rather promising: woman (check), 40's (ok, check), looks wealthy and expensively groomed (I can scrub up and put on my Sunday Best and look French – so: check). The script called for some comedic talent. As it happens, I make a great comedy villain, it's like the bull's eye of my casting type. Think Sue Sylvester from Glee crossed with Audrey Tautou. I did a little mental victory dance, this was going to be easy-peasy...

But as I kept scrolling down (I always do that with email, it's amazing the amount of detail people leave in the tail…) I discovered that it was a pretty big job in terms of money. Not big as in 'I would never have to work again', you understand. Not even 'I could take the rest of the year off' big. But big enough so that if I were to get it and go out and buy a case of chocolate bars, I would have a bit of change left over. Maybe small change for Johnny Depp, but good enough for me. As it dawned on me how much the job was potentially worth, I started feeling nervous about not landing it.

When I get nervous, I google. I checked out the production company who would be filming the commercial. They were a French outfit who in addition to ads, produce feature films for the French market. (As it happened, they'd produced the film I was watching last night, a hilarious French comedy. It was so funny in fact that he agreed to watch it with me even though he'd already seen it on the plane. And he never does that.) My casting performance could potentially land me an audition for a French feature film. This could be the start of something! I have one, ok two words for you: Marion Cotillard.

Marion or not, I started feeling even more nervous about not landing the job.Why is it that the thought of not getting something 'big' feels worse than not getting something 'average'? It's perverse.

"Hope and Fear are two sides of the same coin so take that fear and turn it into the hope side of things..." With his wise advice ringing in my ears (either that or the ringing was from the blow to the head) I headed out to the audition in the still glorious (if slightly cooler) London sunshine. The casting studio was empty when I arrived with my 'face' on, dressed in my Sunday best, with my Paul Smith sunnies tagging along as good juju. After a few seconds of 'oh my god the place is empty! Have I got the wrong date? The wrong time? The wrong location?' I gave my name to the nice receptionist who ticked it off her list and gave me some paperwork to fill out. Then she took my mug shot (I made sure to stare straight at the lens) and then invited me to join the others downstairs (which is were everybody was).

There were two attractive but rather pinched brunettes. The kind that you would clock as elegant and attractive but not the kind you'd want to hang out with. So I didn't really talk to them. There was one friendly blonde lady called Lucy who it turns out – are you ready for this – worked as a mid-wife and birthing partner in between acting jobs. She confessed she was rather sleep deprived on account that one of her clients was due any day now and she'd been worried about sleeping through the phone call if it came during the night. I thought she was really sweet. If I don't get the job I hope she gets it. Honestly, this world needs more nice people like Lucy.

Then there was a guy who regaled us with anecdotes of previous auditions, including the time when he tripped down the stairs and tumbled down the last flight just as the casting director was coming out. He was nice too.

The audition itself was pretty straight forward. I went in on my own. I wouldn't say that I nailed it but that's the nature of auditions: when you think you've got it sewn up you don't get it, and when you think you did so-so, you might just get it (or not). But between you and me, can you keep a secret? I really hope I get it.

PS So this was all yesterday... I have just received a message from my agent telling me that I have a recall (2nd round of auditions for shortlisted actors) for this job tomorrow! Woop Woop!Isabelle Gregsonhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-57555853398982591312011-04-09T10:16:00.001+01:002011-04-09T17:32:28.285+01:00The little madam and the key to everlasting happiness

Before I launch into anything else, I want to acknowledge the absolutely wonderful weather that London is currently blessed with. You have to see it to believe it: it's warm, it's sunny, it's lasted for more than one day, and there's no rain in the forecast unless you live in Scotland where it's been raining solid for the past week. My Paul Smith sunglasses are getting a real workout.

Earlier this week my agent called with news of an audition for a leading chilled food brand. The casting break-down read: "woman, attractive but not too much, with experience."

Apart from killing with faint praise, I'm not sure what the descriptor 'attractive but not too much' is meant to convey. I'm going to assume it means neither elephant man nor drop dead gorgeous but somewhere in the middle - which probably applies to 95% of the population.

Drop dead gorgeous' on the other hand, or DDG applies to 1% (and I'm being generous) of the population under the age of 18. Let's say Brooke Shields in those 'nothing comes between me and my Calvin Kleins' ads back in the eighties. If you're too young to know what I'm talking about just google 'Brooke Shields Calvin Klein' under 'images' and you'll see what I mean. Or here's another example: I give you - and in a category all of her own - Naomi Campbell in her heyday.

The remaining 4% consists of very attractive women with good bone structure and regular features and who are blessed with good genes. However, before you start hating them, let me assure you that even they don't look DDG without good styling and make-up, great lighting and possibly (definitely) some touch-ups courtesy of PhotoShop. If you don't believe me, check out French ELLE's April 2009 no-makeup covers  featuring eight famous beauties (including Eva Herzigova, Monica Bellucci, Sophie Marceau, and Charlotte Rampling). They look nice - sort of - but not DDG.

Truth is, most women can look absolutely stunning with good styling, good make-up (and most importantly some effective coaching to up the self-esteem and self-confidence) as demonstrated in any good make-over programme or some of those hour long cosmetic infomercials on morning TV. It just takes time, dedication, discipline and money. That's all. So unless you're really bored or earning buckets of money because of it, it's probably not worth the investment (except for the self-esteem bit.). If you're not up to it, don't worry, have a burger, have cup cake or two, read a book, learn a new language, eat some chocolate, treat the family to some hot air ballooning and enjoy your life.

(Tip of the day : pick your best/favourite feature and next time you look in a mirror, focus on that one feature and nothing else. This is really hard to achieve but if you can master it you will have found one of the keys to everlasting happiness.)

Where on earth was I? Oh yes, the frozen food audition. The breakdown also read 'with experience'. The French in me thought it made it sound a bit like they were looking for a Madam to run a Nevada brothel. But what I think they actually meant was 'with acting experience'. Acting experience is code for 'we are looking for some really fine tuned performances here, from people who can take direction and turn on a dime and work fast - because time is money and we don't want to be paying over time for some prima donna who can't give the director what he wants. We don't want a re-shoot, so please, no time-wasters.'

Well, last time I checked I wasn't Naomi Campbell (unless she shrunk in the wash) and I have a Masters Degree in acting so I think I'm qualified: I emailed my agent back to say I'd be there.

Did I mention we're having the most glorious weather? Full of goodwill and buoyed by the sunshine, I walked into town to the casting studio in Soho. Along the way, I stepped briefly into Men are from Mars Women are from Venus: I was walking along, holding my tummy in like any self-respecting ballet dancer. Did it stick out through the thin fabric of my top? As I wandered past a young construction worker, he took a break from munching on his sub to cheerfully exclaim "And we have nipples!! Wey hey hey..." Actually, he'd mistaken the lace on my bra for nipples which I took as a sign of youth and inexperience and wishful thinking. (But I thought better than to point that out to him. Might've put him off his lunch.)

I have to confess that I gave my tummy muscles a bit of breather after that, because - obviously - no one was looking at them. For those of you who feel offended on my behalf please don't be. I spend a lot of time at the gym, I watch what I eat, and I wear sunscreen because I made the informed decision (I also went to an all women's college) I'd rather be whistled at than ignored. And if anyone were to overstep the mark, I reserve the right to hit them over the head with my umbrella or my purse, granny style.

When I got to the casting studio, I checked my hair (my new hair!!) in the mirror downstairs, and tucked in my tummy once again before negotiating one of those impossibly narrow and twisty staircases that are a feature of Soho townhouses.

I emerged on the first floor landing to be confronted by the mayhem that is a gaggle of actors waiting to be called into an audition. Do these people ever stop talking? (Apparently, my sunny disposition did not extend to feeling charitable about other jobbing actors.) There was a nice man at the front desk who was directing traffic - ballet master style - to the two casting rooms upstairs.

I smiled warmly. "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson, I'm here for the frozen food casting." (I don't believe in the 'keep them guessing' school of introductions. Tell them who you are, remind them what you are auditioning for, and save everybody some time. Plus it's good practice for later: does anyone remember Liz Taylor presenting an Oscar some years ago? She came up to the pulpit and said "Good evening. My name is Elizabeth Taylor." The crowd tittered but for the record, when my turn comes, that's exactly how I'm going to do it.)

Front desk man gave me the usual casting form to fill out and a copy of the script. He pointed to the casting list:"Is your name spelled right?" It read 'Isabel Gregson'. I went from sympatico to psycho in under a micro second. "No it certainly isn't!" I grabbed the first pen I saw which happened to be a red marker. "Oh and in red too, that'll show them." I ignored what I took for sarcasm but which in hind sight was probably a brave stab at humour in the face of Armageddon, and wrote my name down I-S-A-B-E-L-L-E in big letters as I muttered under my breath.

I stopped muttering when I discovered a casting director hovering at my elbow. I prayed that (a) she hadn't witnessed my little outburst and (b) she wasn't the one I was due to audition with. She wasn't: front desk man called out some names and two actors followed her up the stairs. I went to stand in the corner against the wall for the obligatory mug shot. As I waited for front desk man to print it out I tried to make amends. "What's your name?" "Phil." He stapled my photo to the casting form." Thanks Phil, you've been really helpful." And off I went to join the fray in the holding room where I managed to find a spare bit of bench. I glanced at the mug shot which was definitely not DDG. I had stared into the wrong bit of the camera (everything goes blurry when I take my glasses off), far above the lens which gave me a rather dreamy and ever so slightly demented appearance. Ah well, I'll know for next time: should've laughed off the mis-spelling of my name instead of freaking out at Phil with the red marker.

To pass the time, I glanced around the room. It was heaving with people but as always, no one else looked the slightest bit like me (not even the people waiting to go in for the other casting). I felt like it was my first day at school all over again, that I would never make any friends and that any way they all looked stupid. Then I stared out of the window to wait my turn. No one on the street below looked like me either.

"Isabelle Gregson? Studio 2."

Relieved, I propelled myself and my purse out of the waiting room onto the stairs with unfortunate timing as I ended up sandwiched between the casting director who had witnessed my outburst and the two people who's turn it was to audition with her. So we had a bit of 'oh-who-what-ah-sorry-you-want-to-get-through' dance on the second landing outside studio 1. We all emerged unscathed (thank goodness for the Brits!) and I continued my ascent. I knocked on the door of studio 2.

"Come in!" I recognised that voice, it was the lovely K. who'd auditioned me the week before for a big fast food brand. We'd got along famously well - even though I didn't get the gig. But more on that later.

K: "Forget the script. I want you to not act at all, just look normal."

Believe it or not, that is an incredibly difficult thing to do unless you've gone to drama school or have years of experience under your belt. The minute you tell someone to act normal, they start - well - acting anything but normal. Being 'experienced' I did nothing of the sort and obliged by just standing there.

K: "Let's do it again, just a smidgen more."

I duly gave her a smidgen more.

K: "That's great. Now look left, and look right. Perfect! That's exactly what I was looking for. That's all I need."

I thanked her. As I said, I think she is rather lovely and very friendly and smart.

K: "By the way, did you ever get a recall for that fast food commercial?"
Me:"No..."
K:"Oh what a shame! You were on the short list you know. But I think the client made some changes to the brief..."

Now, actors live in a binary world: you either have the gig or you don't. No one ever tells you that you were short listed. If I don't get it, I just assume they thought I was crap. Being told that I had been a contender, albeit fleetingly, made me feel really good. For about a second.

K: "Bye! Don't worry, we'll definitely get you something. You have a great look!"

Now that made me feel really good for the rest of the day.

Epilogue: BTW ('by the way', not 'bacon tuna and watercress'), it's been three days now and I don't think I got the frozen food gig. The recall was scheduled for the next day and the call never came. Maybe I made the short list again, maybe I was the first one to be discarded. Maybe I was the top choice for the Advertising Agency, the director and the casting director but the client wanted a safer option (or the DDG option). And what if I'd got the job? The funny thing is, getting the job/not getting the job, none of that matters. Getting the lead role in an blockbuster film? It's good but it doesn't really matter. Honest. In the scheme of things, as an actor the most important thing is the next audition. And the one after that. Get your head around that one and you will find the second key to everlasting happiness.Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-60115273335957800392011-04-02T21:30:00.001+01:002011-04-03T12:39:56.593+01:00George Clooney's pet

As I discarded the vegetable peels (I was making wild rabbit stew) I observed - and not for the first time - that a pet Vietnamese Pot Bellied pig would come in handy as a friendly eco-alternative to the bin. (I don't have the luxury of a compost heap as I live in a flat.) Why? (Why do I want a pig not why do I live in a flat.) I don't know why! George Clooney - who's rather made a success of his acting career - had one apparently. Who's to tell that the two aren't connected? I should try and find out.

In the meantime, I've finally gone and done it: I had my hair cut. I'd been working pretty hard (contrary to popular belief, in between jobs, actors don't tend to wait around sulking by the phone, they keep busy learning new skills - like coming to grips with a fiendish piece of new web design software) and decided to go for a brisk short walk in the sunshine. My destination? The local Tesco's, a few blocks away. Uncharacteristically for a visit to the supermarket, I took the time to apply some mascara and lip gloss and even rubbed a bit more styling putty into my hair for good measure - noting en passant that I should really get around to getting a hair cut. I even brushed my teeth. I stepped out in my dark denim flares (the kind that only look good paired up with high heels), my little flat healed biker boots, an orange t-shirt from Holland (the country not the brand) my purple suede hold-all and to tie it all together (or just because) my pink knock-about dufflecoat... And then almost as an afterthought, I grabbed my beautiful new Paul Smith sunnies. (I got them last August, and even blogged about it in the entry I've Been Touched by Midas. They still qualify as "new" because London's only had something like 5 days of sunshine since then.)

So far so good. I was half way down the block when I stepped into one of those parallel universe moments where I suddenly turn into my impulsive alter ego. I love being impulsive. Normally, I'm such a sucker for routine but being impulsive makes me feel like Angelina Jolie in one of her action films: thin and sexy and hard and then she gets Brad Pitt for real and forever. (I'm not lusting after Mr. Pitt, I'm just trying to illustrate my point.) Where was I? Impulsive: on the way to the supermarket, out of the blue, I called the hair salon. It's Isabelle, would Luigi be able to fit me in before the end of the week? Tomorrow or today? Today would be great. How about 4pm? (So far that was just planning. Nothing Angelina about that. Wait for it! Here comes the impulsive bit...) How about now? Now? Yes. Now as in how soon? Now as in the 20 minutes it'll take me to jump on the tube and get to you. OK then. See you in 20 minutes.

How's that for impulsive?

As I vaulted into the tube station, and I switched back (I have no control over these switches, I wish I did) to my more familiar neurotic and cautious mode, it occurred to me that although I wouldn't be arrested by the Tesco style police I wasn't necessarily dressed appropriately for a visit to Luigi at Taylor Made. I don't know about you, but when I go to my hairdresser's I like to look my best. Same with my dentist. I toyed with the idea of buying a cheap (cheap!) pair of heels and/or a new top in the station's shopping arcade. I don't know whose ideal I was trying to live up to but I came to my senses and hopped onto a train instead.

So feeling rather short-legged and under-dressed - especially once I took off my uber-stylish Paul Smith sunnies - I sat down for my pre-shampoo consultation with Luigi. As I've mentioned before, it usually goes something like this: Me: "Hi. It's been a while, I should've come to see you sooner." Luigi: "It's not that bad!" (That's true, only because Luigi - in addition to being a real sweetheart - is also a hair god: a hair cut with Luigi never really grows out, it's your hair that gives up.) Luigi: "So what do you want to do?" Then I say the three magic words: "Up to you." I surrender in this way because a haircut by Luigi is a beautiful thing. Because that's what I imagine Angelina would do. And because hair grows back.

I wrestled into the salon robe and lowered myself into the shampoo chair (you know what I mean) and gave myself up to the ministrations of the new shampoo boy. All I remember is saying "Hi, I'm Isabelle." He said "I'm from Japan. My name is..." and then he applied his hands to my head and - did he aim for a pressure point? - I melted like soft butter. Literally, my entire body went "flump" into the shampoo chair, my neck turned to jelly and my spirit floated up and away, light as a feather. For the next 5 - 10? - minutes I levitated, without a care in the world, with the kind of serenity that still eludes me in my yoga practice. If Luigi is a hair god, this guy is the god of head massage. All I can say is if he can do hair as well as he washes it, he's going to be a star.

Hair washed, I glided back over to the consultation chair, placed my purse at my feet, and grabbed two fashion mags. For the record, I am a CFB. A closet fashion binger. I LOVE FASSSHHHHHION! There I've said it! I am not a slave to it (remember I was wearing flat shoes with my jeans that only work with heels) but plonk me somewhere with the latest copy of Vogue and I will keep myself happily occupied for as long as it takes me to read it from cover to cover (including the credits, the small print, and the classified ads at the back). So there I was, embedded in Elle, oblivious to all around me, Luigi expertly wielding his scissors around my head.

Half way through the cut, the young receptionist materialised at Luigi's elbow: "Hi... this girl here is new in town and she's just wandered in and wants to know if she could come in and just watch you cut hair for a while." What can I say, this is London. Luigi, bless his heart, said OK: "Hi, I'm Luigi. Just sit yourself here where I can see you." She sat there for a while (I couldn't really see without my glasses and besides I was deep in the accessories section) and then she took off. Suddenly, I had "that" feeling and looked down at my feet: "Where's my purse?" I did a quick scan around the chair. My purse had vanished. Me again, but a whole lot louder: "Where is my purse? It's purple. It was at my feet when I sat down." I stood up (from the adrenaline pumping. I even made a mental note of it for acting purposes.) Luigi had stopped cutting and turned an unhealthy shade of white. The entire salon stood still. Before the panic had a chance to set in, one of Luigi's assistants darted to the end of the row and held up a purse (mine). "Is this it? I put it there to tidy up 'cos I didn't realise it was yours."

Oh dear God. Call off the police. Luigi and I had just lost a collective decade of our lives to the overzealous tidy-up brigade. Still, I was grateful to have my purse back.

I sat back down clutching it and immediately checked the contents: mobile phone (cell): check, cash: check, credit card: check. As I said to Luigi: "I figure I should double check cos if my wallet is missing I'm going to be washing hair for the next three months." We had a little chuckle over that - not so much because it was funny but rather because we both felt so relieved the worse hadn't come to pass. (To the girl who likes to watch people cut hair: I am really sorry I assumed you were the one who had taken my purse.We're all of us very sorry.) Luigi resumed the cutting and I realised that in all the excitement, I'd lost my appetite for the fashion binge. (I may try and replicate the circumstances and see if it works just as well on chocolate cravings and will keep you posted on the results of the experiment - we could be on to a winner.)

Then a tall girl with apricot hair sat down next to me and one of the salon's stylists started weaving long blonde extensions into it. It turns out he was one of four finalist in the Hair Extension Stylist of the Year competition and was prepping up his hair model for the last round. He was wonderfully catty and petulant as only the truly passionate and talented can be. Some competitors were openly using hair pieces and hair clips: "In a hair extension competition? Can you believe it?" I wished him well. He was planning to dye the whole thing apricot and then dip the ends in pink. I hope he wins.

Then with one last flourish of the hair wax, Luigi was finished. I thanked him. Grabbed my purse. Paid up. And put my sunnies back on. Then me in and my new hair strode out into the dazzling Spring sunshine -and how else can I describe it: it felt as good as if I'd just put on a sexy pair of heels.

Now George Clooney, if you're reading this, about those pet pigs...Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1361168449908122920.post-27079104594405683682011-03-27T18:05:00.003+01:002011-03-28T13:42:31.450+01:00I love a good shoe fetish!

Yesterday afternoon, we went to see a show. I was able to enjoy it properly because neither I nor anyone else I knew was in it. When you're an actor, doing a show is easy, but going to see someone else's show? You have no idea. It's like trying to navigate the Titanic through the eye of a needle, whilst riding a unicycle.

Consider this: if you think a show was really bad (or worse: average) you have to lie. You have to. There's no two ways about it. Because if it's someone important (read: someone who can get you an audition or an acting job or someone who can blacklist you) your instinct for self-preservation will make you lie through gritted teeth. And if it's someone you care about, you have to lie by omission because they know that you know it was crap. If you're lucky and there was one small detail you enjoyed then you can tell them how much you loved that one bit and say nothing about the rest. (Unless of course the one bit you enjoyed was someone else's performance.)

On the other hand, if it was good (or the PR was excellent which amounts to the same thing) and the show has that je ne said quoi buzz and everyone and his dog thinks its fantabulous and it's getting a transfer to Broadway where everyone who matters will see it (or more importantly hear about it) then it's time to turn green because next thing you know, your mate will have moved to LA, been offered a lead part in a successful TV series, become "richer than God" (as someone else once put it), deleted their FB page and stopped returning your phone calls and emails. This has happened to me. I won't tell you his name other than it begins with a T. (T my darling, all these years I let you call me Isy even though I hated it, so if you're reading this, stop ignoring me and give us a job! Or introduce me to someone who can.)

So what did we go and see? It was a musical, called Shoes, by Richard Thomas (who did Jerry Springer, The Opera) and Stephen Mears. It was billed as a wonderfully fluffy confection of songs and musical sketches all to do with shoes. We went along with some friends who are straight out of a Jackie Collins novel in that they and their lives (down to their children and pet chinchilla) are picture perfect. He is an attractive and successful serial entrepreneur and she is his beautiful and uber-elegant blonde wife. Not only are they perfect, they are also lovely people.

I took us to the wrong theatre. I kid you not. Now, before you judge me, let me explain and give you some background. The show was at the Peacock Theatre which is an annex of Sadler's Wells (another theatre). Confusingly, the show first opened at Sadler's Wells before transferring to the Peacock. Are you still with me? Also I was feeling a bit rushed (what with my yoga class with George not ending till 12:30 and having to meet our friends by 2 o'clock for the 2:30 matinee performance). Don't know why but rushing always seems to addle my brain: I can go from super brainy Hermione Grainger to Wizard of Oz scarecrow in a split second - only it doesn't show until it's too late.

Anyway, after yoga, we had a quick bite to eat, I tried to style my hair (still waiting to get a haircut) and then we walked up to Islington (about 25 minutes) to the theatre. We got there with plenty of time to spare (it was 1:45). He went to relieve himself (and I think maybe get away from my slightly passive aggressive vibe which had to do with the fact that we had got caught in the drizzle on the way because he didn't have the umbrella even though I'd suggested we should take it. The feline in me cannot abide getting wet when I have clothes on. And just in case you think I could have taken it myself as any self-respecting independent female would, let me just tell you that it's a huge golf umbrella and that whenever I try to carry it it tends to drag on the ground.)

As I stood around waiting for him to re-emerge, and for our friends to arrive (as I said, we were early), I noticed that the programme sellers were selling programmes for an entirely different show. I can't remember now what it was but it certainly wasn't Shoes, the Musical. After a few seconds in my alternative universe (the theatre must have a second studio) it came to me in a flash: I was standing in Sadler's Wells and the Peacock Theatre was not at Sadler's Wells... it was - I checked the posters... in Holborn. About 45 minutes on foot, or a 10 minute cab ride. I felt the panic rise from my ankles upwards.

Just then he came back up the stairs. Me: "We're at the wrong theatre!" He gave me that pained look which he saves for those times when I do something so incredibly stupid that it makes him want to cry and shout "Why? Why? WHY?"

Still me: "But it's ok, we just need to go to (pause as I darted over to double check the poster)... Portugal Street."

He looked relieved. "I know where that is." (So did I, after all, we'd both been to see shows there before).

Me: "We've got plenty of time." Him: "Let's get a cab."

He launched out of the theatre, and still shaken by my monumental lapse in anything resembling intelligence and common sense, he stepped onto the bicycle path to hail a cab that was just pulling away. The first cyclist swerved to avoid him. "T...." ( I know it's confusing, his name also begins with a T) I shouted out his name in a panic as the crowd on the pavement looked on with horror at the impending mangle of body parts. But he was too busy running after the taxi to hear me. There is definitely something terrifying about shouting a warning to the person you love only for them not to register it. I shouted his name out two more times, rather shrilly. The second cyclist also managed to swerve to avoid him. I jumped onto the road, grabbed him by the arm (the love of my life not the cyclist) and threw him back onto the curb. I then crossed the road and climbed into the waiting cab (who'd done a u-turn and was patiently waiting for us to finish our dance with death).

I looked out the cab window and saw that he had come to his senses: he looked both ways before crossing the road to join me.

Me: "You almost got run over twice back there. What were you thinking?"
Him: "What do you mean?."
Me: "What do I mean? Why do you think I was hollering your name out like some sort of demented screaming banshee?"
Him: "I didn't hear anything."

Oh, honestly.

Me: "How am I supposed to ever save you from danger if you don't register me yelling out your name in sheer terror?"
Him: "I just didn't hear you..."

Words failed me.

We got to the right theatre with 5 minutes to spare before we were due to meet our friends (and 35 minutes before the start of the show). Howzat for planning?

What about the show? The show was great! Fluffy and silly as advertised, and also rather subversive and full of rude language. We were a bit appalled by the presence of half a dozen little girls in the front row. Not least because they were gorging themselves with sweets. Luckily great unsuitable parts of the show went way over their heads both literally and figuratively speaking. Especially the song about the Mary Janes.

He liked the leggy and rather sexy girl of Afro-Caribbean descent who I have to admit was the prettiest but I preferred the taut and hard blonde girl who'd previously played Roxie Hart in Chicago. She wasn't classically pretty , but she had at-ti-tude, she was a better dancer and she had the kind of muscular definition that make you think that maybe food is over-rated.

It was great fun (especially the nuns' song) - and some of the performers were truly outstanding so I hope that they'll remain in the cast when the show transfers to Broadway as it's bound to do. If it ever comes to your neck of the woods and you want to indulge in a bit of fluffy nonsense, do go and check it out.Isabelle Gregsonhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com