Being an Extra (special person)

Well reader, I begin this post in an office in Holborn (or as my voice teacher would say, hobun). Why you ask? Well, because I am currently extra-ing on the very last of the films my year will do. Technically I didn't have to, but the catholic guilt won out yet again. Plus, the allure of the catering table was too much to resist. Being an extra is actually a lot of fun because there's none of the pressure the main actors have to make an impact. You just have to create a strange little world in the background, pretending to type and having lengthy conversations without actually speaking. Mouthing 'rhubarb rhubarb' at each other and all that, although, us being 'proper method-typeee actors' we don't do that but instead come up with rich and complex bollocks to make us into actual people. As opposed to playing pretend. Or something. So my name is Gwyn from Woking, I'm a massive ho-bag with huge glasses (am nearly blind). I'm having an affair with my 50 year old boss, Reg. and I am generally pretty ridiculous. This makes the whole process of exra-ing a great deal more fun, as being Gwyn from Woking is a lot more interesting than being Ash-the-extra.

Of course, there are still long, dull periods where me and my extra-type-peers want to poke our eyes out with office equiptment. In which we have wheely-chair fights, massacre the catering table and gossip about the trade, i.e, really bad scripts, poncy films and that girl in the year above we think is up the duff. Given that most people here are mature students, this is hardly a scandal but given all the movement classes we have to do would prove more difficult than doing a yoga class in a sauna wearing a fat suit. Poor girl, she's probably not preggers, maybe she just had too much pasta for lunch or something...

I have to keep stopping typing, because it interferes with the sound. Is most annoying.

Also, I really need to wee (I always need to wee), and I have a group of hench Italian film crew blocking my path. Not their fault, obviously, it being a film set and all. If anything, my fault for drinking too much stolen pepperminty tea (from the offices kitchen, some poor PA called Susan will be very sad come monday when her fave tea is all gone).
I got really bored earlier, so I started writing a short story. It went like this:

Once upon a time there was a tiny little cow that lived under a blade of grass. His name was Frederick and he was severely allergic to pollen, which caused some issues given that he lived next to a field of flowers.  Added to this was the slight problem that him best friend was a bee and so Freddie’s home was constantly being sprayed with a fine sheet of yellow pollen. Poor Freddie was too polite to tell Bernard the Bee he was the cause of the constant sneezing and mucus laden nose, so he suffered in silence, letting out naught but a tiny moan of sadness whenever Bernard called to say he was coming for tea.

A melancholy little beginning I think. Am sure this post is littered with errors. No spell check. Utter hell.

Anyway, I'm off for a super quick wee as the hench Italians have shifted.

BYE!

Ash