Reader, it's been just over two weeks since I last did a show. Two of the longest weeks in my life. It feels like it's been months and months since I last did some acting, even though in those two weeks I've had a voice job. So technically it's been a week and a half since I did an acting job.
The thing is Reader, I have an awful itch. For the past four months I've been acting every single week (or at the very least anticipating acting) and now I'm not, the weeks seem to stretch into aeons. And everything is terribly grim and depressing. My bank balance is woefully low. The English summer has yet to show signs of actually existing. I am overweight (for me anyway) from too much eating out on tour and too much comfort baking the week I got back. I am working at the call centre every single day of the week. The agencies I applied for have been more silent than the grave. I've spent loads of cash on fillings, travel cards and phone bills. I've finished reading The Hunger Games. I'm developing fine lines and wrinkles. My hair is really really boring...
Maybe that's it Reader. Maybe I need a drastic new haircut. Something like....a fringe. That's it. I need a fringe to make me feel all youthful and exuberant again! Where are my scissors...No....must refrain from cutting hair at 2.30 in morning whilst doleful and tired and (let's face it) a bit podgy round the face. I would definitely have forgotten about it by the morning and then be too tired to deal with the complex emotions that come with waking up to a wonky fringe. Still, couldn't be worse than last time. I asked my friend Claire to do it for me. In my defence she said she'd cut people's hair before...she gave me what can only be described as half a bowl-cut. The fringe was cut so far round my head I looked like a Beatle attempting to look like Yoko Ono from behind. Next time I'll trust my own hand more. Or possibly go to the hair salon. My best ever fringe was done by a girl called Vicky I lived with for a year in Canterbury. We'd just watched The Devil Wears Prada and I was young and excitable and made her do an Anne Hathaway fringe. She was remarkably good at it. She probably wouldn't appreciate a call at nearly three am saying 'Hey Vicky! Yeah, I know I haven't seen you in nearly four years, and you live in Essex now, but fancy coming to North London and cutting me a fringe in again?' Shame that.
Of course, there's also a whisper in my ear that says 'you'll be offered a period audition for something the second you cut it in' but then, by the time filming/the actual play came about, I'd have been able to grow it out surely? My hair grows really stupidly fast after all...or I could wear a wig. And besides, I'm getting old fast! I won't be able to do crap like this in a few years time! I'm already getting a bit too old for my playsuits!
So essentially, either I get cast in something sharpish (here or in america, really not fussy...or somewhere hot hot hot!) or I cut an Anne Hathaway fringe in. Or both. Reader, I think I need a spiritual advisor to make these decisions for me....
On that hairy note (my puns are getting worse...)
Ash
x
By Aislinn De'Ath
Click on my face to link to my vlog!
Showing posts with label neurotic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neurotic. Show all posts
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Monday, 28 May 2012
It's all happened rather quickly...
Reader, in two weeks time, my tour will be over. OVER. DONE. FINITO. I am, quite frankly, terrified. Ok, so it had to come to an end eventually. But given that I've spent more time with this group of people over the last four months than I have with my family, it's going to be a serious adjustment not hanging out with them at every given opportunity. It's been a bit like working with the famous five, only with vodka instead of ginger beer, a minibus instead of bicycles and Little Chef lunches instead of Aunt Fanny's picnics. And there's also the point that I have nothing lined up for after the tour, apart from a film I did last year being shown at the East End Film Festival in London and a few possible auditions. Being self employed is bloody scary sometimes. Being on tour is great, because when you tell people you're an actress and they ask if you're up to anything, you've always got an answer. In mid June, I will only be able to reply with 'Erm, well, I'm working at a call centre, but hopefully something will come up soon...' Time to get back to letter writing and appealing to casting directors I think.
At least when the tour's done I'll have more free time. I've been a social hermit since it started, and I'm despo to see my old uni friends again! And catch up with my drama school mates, who are all doing mad and interesting things! And bake more often...
Maybe I'll take up knitting. Or I'll start working 6 days a week. More money would defo come in useful since I am currently outrageously skint and in need of a holiday (which I haven't had in three years). Or I'll get an acting project in a hot climate with another group of really fun people? Yes please...
To be fair, it's probably about time the tour ended, my poor liver is as shrivelled as pot pourri with all the booze I've been chucking back, and nightly cheese sarnies have made my scales screech in horror. Salad and tofu with a side order of jogging for the month after I finish I reckon. And maybe the odd solero. Because it's summer, and a life without ice cream at summer is no life at all. And maybe the odd glass of pimms...or pitcher....oh dear....
Enjoy your fab lollies Reader!
Ash
x
At least when the tour's done I'll have more free time. I've been a social hermit since it started, and I'm despo to see my old uni friends again! And catch up with my drama school mates, who are all doing mad and interesting things! And bake more often...
Maybe I'll take up knitting. Or I'll start working 6 days a week. More money would defo come in useful since I am currently outrageously skint and in need of a holiday (which I haven't had in three years). Or I'll get an acting project in a hot climate with another group of really fun people? Yes please...
To be fair, it's probably about time the tour ended, my poor liver is as shrivelled as pot pourri with all the booze I've been chucking back, and nightly cheese sarnies have made my scales screech in horror. Salad and tofu with a side order of jogging for the month after I finish I reckon. And maybe the odd solero. Because it's summer, and a life without ice cream at summer is no life at all. And maybe the odd glass of pimms...or pitcher....oh dear....
Enjoy your fab lollies Reader!
Ash
x
Sunday, 27 May 2012
How do you fund a thing like theatre?
Reader, a lovely chap who I went to uni with asked me to write a little bit about theatre funding recently. Mainly because he's doing a show and is trying to get people to give him money on a site called wefund so he can get it off it's feet (if you want to help out a very worthy cause and donate a couple of quid to this up and coming company, I'll put all the info you need at the bottom of the page, please do, they are jolly nice). Once I'd gotten over my epic smugness at being asked to write about something rather intellectual and 'proper' (which surely marks me out as the sort of writer who should get paid for what they do...no? Not yet? Blast.) I was hit by a sudden and abject fear.
Reader, the truth of it is that I know NOTHING about funding the arts. Bugger all in fact. I am supposed to be making a short film at the end of the year/beginning of the next, and although I know that we'll need money, it's a very vague concept that I assume I'll just magically understand when I need to. Like getting a mortgage. Or having a baby.
The thing is, increasingly for actors in today's industry, if you want to play the big/small but interesting parts, you have to create the stage on which you present yourself. Producers and directors go for named actors from the larger agencies rather than taking a risk on an unknown actor and when the opportunity to do that part that you've been dreaming of finally does come up, what's the likelihood that you'll be able to play with it and make it truly yours? Actors and crossing the line into writing, producing and directing, meaning a wider skill base (and higher levels of sanity) is needed. And as well as accepting more creative control, you also take on the not such fun bits. Like finding locations, paying for things like lighting, cameras and theatres and being the person that's supposed to be a) responsible for everything and everyone and b) the fall guy. Hmmm, a less attractive prospect perhaps. Luckily there are ways of getting help from the public. Increasingly, fewer creatives are relying on producers or commercial partners to fund their projects, but are instead putting it in the hands of the public on websites like wefund. As far as I can tell, you basically create a page for your project, you set a target and people pledge money. So if you make your Target, the money automatically goes to you, if not, no one pays anyone anything. Which seems fair. I may even use it myself one day soon!
Of course, if anyone would just like to donate a couple of grand to me to get it made, that would also be marvellous...
Hope you're enjoying the sun Reader!
Ash
x
Some Stuff on Volpone (The play being sponsered on WeFund.com
With thanks to Matthew Badham
http://www.wefund.com/project/fire-under-horizon-present-volpone
1) why did you decide to use wefund?
This is my first time funding a show with we fund, a few companies I know have used it in the past to take shows to Brighton Fringe or Edinbrough etc, So after seeing the success they had using the site I decided we should try it out.
One of the great things about We Fund is that it gives you a chance to spread the word of a show before it even happens. Usually getting together the money for a show is quite a solitary affair, a lot of sitting at a desk and letter writing; with we fund you set up your own page for all to see, get a bit of hype going (hopefully) before the show is even in rehearsal and even the chance to forge relationships with supporters of the theatre who will continue to follow your company’ future productions.
2) What sources of funding have you used in the past?
In the past I have funded shows thoroughly through corporate sponsorship. It’s a lot of hard work though, consisting on letter writing and phone calls to follow up. It’s a bit of a pestering game.
Of course there is the option of applying for ACE funding, In the future I would like to apply for some form of Arts Council England funding for company development; our plan is to start to run workshops for actors, but the task at hand is to get this show funded and up on its feet.
3) And what do you hope to achieve from the show? – Kris to answer
The shadow of Shakespeare hangs long over British Theatre. In this year where the UK plays host to the Cultural Olympia to play side by side with the Olympic games you cant help but encounter more and more of his productions; the Globe to Globe project, RSC residencies at the Noel Coward and Roundhouse, Timon of Athens in the Olivier, the Histories on the BBC. Shakespeare is our national poet and it is fantastic that he is being celebrated in the year where Britain is being showcased on a global scale. However our reverence does seem to lead to other playwrights of his era being left in the shade. The case for Ben Jonson is that he is too good to be ignored.
In his time Jonson was the master, Shakespeare his heavyweight challenger. Jonson, a man with links to high society, resident playwright to King James, tackles in his the man on the street; the rogues, brawlers and hookers, Shakespeare more often then not wrote about Kings and those who aspired to be. Ying and yang in style and thought, the audiences at the Globe spoke and Jonson eked out a points victory to stand as the Jacobean’s most important writers. Now looking at his legacy he has left us with three comedies that more than match up to any written by the quill of his rival; The Alchemist, Bartholomew Fair and in my view his ultimate masterpiece- Volpone. The chance to tackle one of the great, underperformed plays in world theatre was an opportunity we couldn’t turn down.
The themes of greed and avarice chime particularly loudly in our present society; desperation to gain more then what we own compels people to acts of desperation and folly. Jonson writes about human foibles and the darkness of human psyche but keeps us on side with a great sense of mischief and rollicking set pieces. The audience is charmed whilst in the company of the louche playboy Volpone and his ever-resourceful parasite Mosca. These are two of the greatest parts in the classical repertory, a joy for the actors to embody and a joy for the audience in encountering them.
By cutting the sub-plot of the Politic Would Be and entourage, the plot of Volpone ricochets along, akin to the great mechanisms of farce, as the leading protagonists juggle the scheming legacy hunters and take disguise to keep their ‘plot’ going right through to its definitive conclusion. By updating the action to a modern day anachronistic world we aim to bring out the bawdy, dark, sexy and hilarious world that Jonson created
Memorable characters, thrilling, funny and dark, Volpone was the obvious choice to complement the Shakespeare heavy summer we are about to witness. We hope audiences will come and witness a play that stands up to the very best work of his friend and rival William Shakespeare.
Reader, the truth of it is that I know NOTHING about funding the arts. Bugger all in fact. I am supposed to be making a short film at the end of the year/beginning of the next, and although I know that we'll need money, it's a very vague concept that I assume I'll just magically understand when I need to. Like getting a mortgage. Or having a baby.
The thing is, increasingly for actors in today's industry, if you want to play the big/small but interesting parts, you have to create the stage on which you present yourself. Producers and directors go for named actors from the larger agencies rather than taking a risk on an unknown actor and when the opportunity to do that part that you've been dreaming of finally does come up, what's the likelihood that you'll be able to play with it and make it truly yours? Actors and crossing the line into writing, producing and directing, meaning a wider skill base (and higher levels of sanity) is needed. And as well as accepting more creative control, you also take on the not such fun bits. Like finding locations, paying for things like lighting, cameras and theatres and being the person that's supposed to be a) responsible for everything and everyone and b) the fall guy. Hmmm, a less attractive prospect perhaps. Luckily there are ways of getting help from the public. Increasingly, fewer creatives are relying on producers or commercial partners to fund their projects, but are instead putting it in the hands of the public on websites like wefund. As far as I can tell, you basically create a page for your project, you set a target and people pledge money. So if you make your Target, the money automatically goes to you, if not, no one pays anyone anything. Which seems fair. I may even use it myself one day soon!
Of course, if anyone would just like to donate a couple of grand to me to get it made, that would also be marvellous...
Hope you're enjoying the sun Reader!
Ash
x
Some Stuff on Volpone (The play being sponsered on WeFund.com
With thanks to Matthew Badham
http://www.wefund.com/project/fire-under-horizon-present-volpone
1) why did you decide to use wefund?
This is my first time funding a show with we fund, a few companies I know have used it in the past to take shows to Brighton Fringe or Edinbrough etc, So after seeing the success they had using the site I decided we should try it out.
One of the great things about We Fund is that it gives you a chance to spread the word of a show before it even happens. Usually getting together the money for a show is quite a solitary affair, a lot of sitting at a desk and letter writing; with we fund you set up your own page for all to see, get a bit of hype going (hopefully) before the show is even in rehearsal and even the chance to forge relationships with supporters of the theatre who will continue to follow your company’ future productions.
2) What sources of funding have you used in the past?
In the past I have funded shows thoroughly through corporate sponsorship. It’s a lot of hard work though, consisting on letter writing and phone calls to follow up. It’s a bit of a pestering game.
Of course there is the option of applying for ACE funding, In the future I would like to apply for some form of Arts Council England funding for company development; our plan is to start to run workshops for actors, but the task at hand is to get this show funded and up on its feet.
3) And what do you hope to achieve from the show? – Kris to answer
The shadow of Shakespeare hangs long over British Theatre. In this year where the UK plays host to the Cultural Olympia to play side by side with the Olympic games you cant help but encounter more and more of his productions; the Globe to Globe project, RSC residencies at the Noel Coward and Roundhouse, Timon of Athens in the Olivier, the Histories on the BBC. Shakespeare is our national poet and it is fantastic that he is being celebrated in the year where Britain is being showcased on a global scale. However our reverence does seem to lead to other playwrights of his era being left in the shade. The case for Ben Jonson is that he is too good to be ignored.
In his time Jonson was the master, Shakespeare his heavyweight challenger. Jonson, a man with links to high society, resident playwright to King James, tackles in his the man on the street; the rogues, brawlers and hookers, Shakespeare more often then not wrote about Kings and those who aspired to be. Ying and yang in style and thought, the audiences at the Globe spoke and Jonson eked out a points victory to stand as the Jacobean’s most important writers. Now looking at his legacy he has left us with three comedies that more than match up to any written by the quill of his rival; The Alchemist, Bartholomew Fair and in my view his ultimate masterpiece- Volpone. The chance to tackle one of the great, underperformed plays in world theatre was an opportunity we couldn’t turn down.
The themes of greed and avarice chime particularly loudly in our present society; desperation to gain more then what we own compels people to acts of desperation and folly. Jonson writes about human foibles and the darkness of human psyche but keeps us on side with a great sense of mischief and rollicking set pieces. The audience is charmed whilst in the company of the louche playboy Volpone and his ever-resourceful parasite Mosca. These are two of the greatest parts in the classical repertory, a joy for the actors to embody and a joy for the audience in encountering them.
By cutting the sub-plot of the Politic Would Be and entourage, the plot of Volpone ricochets along, akin to the great mechanisms of farce, as the leading protagonists juggle the scheming legacy hunters and take disguise to keep their ‘plot’ going right through to its definitive conclusion. By updating the action to a modern day anachronistic world we aim to bring out the bawdy, dark, sexy and hilarious world that Jonson created
Memorable characters, thrilling, funny and dark, Volpone was the obvious choice to complement the Shakespeare heavy summer we are about to witness. We hope audiences will come and witness a play that stands up to the very best work of his friend and rival William Shakespeare.
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Insert exercise pun here...
Reader, exercise and I do not mix. I did a zumba class yesterday and now my abs are in AGONIES. So much so that I can't go from a laying down position to a sitting position using just my tummy muscles. I have to pull myself up with my arms, all the while going 'ooohhhhhhh ow ow ow ow' and looking like I'm chewing on a lemon. It probably didn't help that I then did a run this morning, but I felt like I had to take advantage of the new treadmill Mum's invested in whilst I'm in London, before the next segment of the tour on Tuesday, which will (as ever) involve eating out. And whilst I love eating out, I've put on just under half a stone since rehearsals for the tour began and I want to get back to my 'I'm so skinny I can wear a bikini' weight. Because it's smug-making. And I can wear the section of my wardrobe that gets ignored most of the time due to it being slim fitting.
But now I'm suffering after ages of not exercising followed by two big old bouts one day after another. My body was made for baking and pillocking around on a stage, not running in trainers or shaking my booty to r&b 'choons'! The Lad currently has severe manflu but I am the one who can't sit up without assistance, so I am getting all of the attention. And pillows. Mwa ha ha. My aim is to do another run early Tuesday morning, before I have to catch my train, so hopefully my body will have repaired itself before then. I'm sure chocolate must be a cure for this sort of thing. Right? If not, I may have to eschew the running for some nice gentle yoga. And hot baths.
In other news, I am off to see SJ tomorrow, and we're returning to Bea's of Bloomsbury, which has now got a diner! We're hopefully going to be doing a mini review (much like our cake reviews, only this one will probably be back in the old format of being blogged rather than vlogged), so keep your eyes peeled. After that am planning to go visit my lovely Irish grandparents, who are then going back to Ireland till the end of May, when they'll be coming to see my show! Huzzah! It's so nice having family in the audience, because you know there'll be friendly faces to come out to at the end. And drinks bought for you after of course!
Alight chaps, The Lad is coughing something dreadful, so I'm going to force some fisherman's friends down his gullet. If I can get myself in a sitting position that is. Ouch.
Ash
x
But now I'm suffering after ages of not exercising followed by two big old bouts one day after another. My body was made for baking and pillocking around on a stage, not running in trainers or shaking my booty to r&b 'choons'! The Lad currently has severe manflu but I am the one who can't sit up without assistance, so I am getting all of the attention. And pillows. Mwa ha ha. My aim is to do another run early Tuesday morning, before I have to catch my train, so hopefully my body will have repaired itself before then. I'm sure chocolate must be a cure for this sort of thing. Right? If not, I may have to eschew the running for some nice gentle yoga. And hot baths.
In other news, I am off to see SJ tomorrow, and we're returning to Bea's of Bloomsbury, which has now got a diner! We're hopefully going to be doing a mini review (much like our cake reviews, only this one will probably be back in the old format of being blogged rather than vlogged), so keep your eyes peeled. After that am planning to go visit my lovely Irish grandparents, who are then going back to Ireland till the end of May, when they'll be coming to see my show! Huzzah! It's so nice having family in the audience, because you know there'll be friendly faces to come out to at the end. And drinks bought for you after of course!
Alight chaps, The Lad is coughing something dreadful, so I'm going to force some fisherman's friends down his gullet. If I can get myself in a sitting position that is. Ouch.
Ash
x
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
My coconutty confession...
Reader, I am a terrible person. Why? When I got back from tour the other day, there was a full Tupperware container full of my favourite Irish biscuits, sort of a soft base with coconut covered pink marshmallow layered on top with a strip of neon red jam in the middle (it looks vaguely naughty from certain angles, but I've only just worked that out from trying to describe it without it sounding like a lady's secretive parts). Now the Tupperware is empty. For a while, I tried to convince myself that other people had been eating them too, but I must face the truth. It was me. I ate at least 15 biscuits in two days without really realising. I have a wheaty food baby and am on a strange sugar high and I'm pretty sure I've smeared marshmallow somewhere on my hair that will only be discovered when at the newsagent's tomorrow. This is also not the first time this has happened. By a long shot.
There was also the time I accidentally ate all the Christmas chocolate coins. All four bags. My reasoning was that it was officially after Christmas so I should really be congratulating myself. And before I knew it, all of the coins were buried treasure. And the time I melted down all my Eggs to make into fridge cake, so I could share it round and save myself from the calories. Silly idea, without the foil in the way there was nothing stopping me. The poor, innocent little fridge cake lasted less than a day. The Lad insists he only had three chunks, but surely he must be fibbing...
The thing is, I'm very good at sort of inhaling food. If it was a contest, I'd be an Olympic gold medalist. In fact, if they made it part of the games, I'm pretty sure I'd be able to give Britain a chance of winning this year. It's why I tend not to have nice treat food in the house. Because I don't realise I'm eating it until it's gone. And then I mourn it's absence. When there's only healthy food in the house, I eat very healthily. The other night at The Lad's new flat I had low fat aubergine bake. With no dessert. And no carbs. Ok, so I may have slightly grumbled about it, but I survived and was probably all the better for it. When I have my own place, there are certain foods that will just have to be outlawed. They are the following:
1) Bread-because if drunk enough or hormonal enough, I could eat a whole loaf.
2) Chocolate-obviously
3) Crisps-because I always think-oh, I'll just have half the bag, and then I eat the whole thing and sit in a smug salty pile of chubbiness.
4) Supernoodles-too easy to eat for a lazy lump like me (as in 'Hmmm....I could make a healthy tofu stir fry with all these veg....or I could have supernoodles on toast.....')
5) Chocolate or Honey nut based cerial-because I will treat it as a non-real-food product. In other words, consume it like air.
6) Biscuits-I think as the first paragraph mentions, I can't be trusted not to eat all of them by accident in one sitting
7) Salted nuts-See crisps
8) Dried Pineapple-even if massively healthy version. Have a strange addiction to it and WILL work my way through a family sized bag if left to my own devices.
9) Nutella-we had some in the house once, and then I discovered how good it was on a spoon and it vanished very very quickly
10) Processed cheese and onion pastries-don't judge me!
The fact is, if I have healthy food in the house, I am a very clever cook. I make a mean spicy ratatouille. And my garlic leeks in low fat cream cheese are sensational on top of a jacket potato or just with a bowl of greens. I do things to aubergine that make them taste like something that should be very very bad for you and I know how to make pancakes low fat. But I am a sucker for nasty, sugar filled, salt drenched, abjectly fake food. I think I may have to accept that my addiction to fatty fabulousness is just part of who I am and be proud of it. After all, everything in moderation, right?
Now I just have to work out how to shift the blame about those biscuits...
Ash
x
There was also the time I accidentally ate all the Christmas chocolate coins. All four bags. My reasoning was that it was officially after Christmas so I should really be congratulating myself. And before I knew it, all of the coins were buried treasure. And the time I melted down all my Eggs to make into fridge cake, so I could share it round and save myself from the calories. Silly idea, without the foil in the way there was nothing stopping me. The poor, innocent little fridge cake lasted less than a day. The Lad insists he only had three chunks, but surely he must be fibbing...
The thing is, I'm very good at sort of inhaling food. If it was a contest, I'd be an Olympic gold medalist. In fact, if they made it part of the games, I'm pretty sure I'd be able to give Britain a chance of winning this year. It's why I tend not to have nice treat food in the house. Because I don't realise I'm eating it until it's gone. And then I mourn it's absence. When there's only healthy food in the house, I eat very healthily. The other night at The Lad's new flat I had low fat aubergine bake. With no dessert. And no carbs. Ok, so I may have slightly grumbled about it, but I survived and was probably all the better for it. When I have my own place, there are certain foods that will just have to be outlawed. They are the following:
1) Bread-because if drunk enough or hormonal enough, I could eat a whole loaf.
2) Chocolate-obviously
3) Crisps-because I always think-oh, I'll just have half the bag, and then I eat the whole thing and sit in a smug salty pile of chubbiness.
4) Supernoodles-too easy to eat for a lazy lump like me (as in 'Hmmm....I could make a healthy tofu stir fry with all these veg....or I could have supernoodles on toast.....')
5) Chocolate or Honey nut based cerial-because I will treat it as a non-real-food product. In other words, consume it like air.
6) Biscuits-I think as the first paragraph mentions, I can't be trusted not to eat all of them by accident in one sitting
7) Salted nuts-See crisps
8) Dried Pineapple-even if massively healthy version. Have a strange addiction to it and WILL work my way through a family sized bag if left to my own devices.
9) Nutella-we had some in the house once, and then I discovered how good it was on a spoon and it vanished very very quickly
10) Processed cheese and onion pastries-don't judge me!
The fact is, if I have healthy food in the house, I am a very clever cook. I make a mean spicy ratatouille. And my garlic leeks in low fat cream cheese are sensational on top of a jacket potato or just with a bowl of greens. I do things to aubergine that make them taste like something that should be very very bad for you and I know how to make pancakes low fat. But I am a sucker for nasty, sugar filled, salt drenched, abjectly fake food. I think I may have to accept that my addiction to fatty fabulousness is just part of who I am and be proud of it. After all, everything in moderation, right?
Now I just have to work out how to shift the blame about those biscuits...
Ash
x
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Your sex is on fiiiiirrreeeeee (you should probably get that checked out)...
Reader, if you are prudish you should probably close this window down now and wait for my next entry. Why? Because this blog is about SEXING! Specifically sexing in films and things. Not me sexing. Because that's a private thing between me, Christopher Walken and an awful lot of bacon supernoodles. Best not to ask.
Why is this (vaguely sordid) subject on my mind? Well, today a few of my cast members (HAH...members...I made a funny...ahem) and I went to see A Dangerous Method. In case you've missed all the posters, (SPOILER ALERT) it's the one where Jung and Freud fall out because Jung getting jiggy (shut up, I grew up in the early nineties) with Keira Knightly (who plays a bit of a mental). There is more to the story than that, but it's pretty much the main idea behind it. Now, as you can imagine, there's quite a bit of talk about sex in the film. You can't have a film with Freud (and Vincent Cassel...swoon...) without lots and lots of sexing talk. And some of it is really interesting stuff. About mental freedom being linked to sexual freedom, sexual liberation being a reliever of numerous disorders, the id and the ego, the subconscious masking the truthful wants of the individual. But there are also a number of bits that made me giggle rather a lot. And get confused. And think 'well, if I was the cinematographer...' . Firstly, there's a bit where Miss. Knightly is getting her rocks off and you can see her boobs. I don't want to give it away completely, but as well as getting rather...erm....jolly....she's also in quite a bit of pain. But her nipples are...well....bored by what's going on. Anyone who knows anything about female anatomy would know that in pain, cold or arousal (or sometimes confusion), nips stand to attention. They are chestical erections. Sort of. And there's NO WAY hers would have stayed all disinterested looking if she was actually....erm...involved. Also, there's a bit where she's sitting, looking perfectly lovely apart from one nip popping out over her corset to say hello (oh, so NOW you're listening mr. nip? No. Now is NOT THE TIME FOR INTRODUCTIONS.). Now, I've done a bit of research on this one. Not one girl I know could happily sit with one boob unnaturally hoisted above a bra/corset. It's a weird situation. It's not comfortable. It's not about modesty so much as symmetry. It was like the director went 'ah yeah, this will be really sexy and carefree and bohemian' but I bet all she could think about in that scene was 'why even bother hiding the other one?' Or maybe it was a costume issue and she wasn't aware. Poor girl. Then there was another bit where Mr. Cassel was having it orf with a lady in a rather vigorous way and her facial expression didn't change, just stayed vaguely bored. Throughout the whole thing. It was amazing to watch. I mean, even if it's not good, you'd make some kind of expression right? Slight surprise? Annoyance? ANYTHING?! Poor Cassel. And he'd been painted as a right old womaniser in the film, so it was a bit of an affront to his manhood really.
I have to say, I do find sex in films slightly ridiculous. Like the orgasms. When Harry Met Sally is one of my favourite films, don't get me wrong, but has anyone actually ever really been that loud? What about the neighbours? And even if everyone on both sides of the street was out, if I were the bloke, I'd just stop and stare in utter astonishment. 'Are you all right love? Because that's just a bit....erm...loud. And painful sounding.' The police would probably think someone was being murdered! Maybe it's just Americans. Maybe America is full of loudly orgasming women. Because men don't make a noise in films. Ever. Well, not like that anyway. Nope, just the women having the time of their lives. They must all have really thick, soundproof walls. And deaf partners.
And they all get it on fully dressed! In Sex and The City, Carrie always keeps her bra on. Which always make s me feel a bit sorry for her boyfriends, because men like boobs quite a lot, don't they? And isn't that a bit uncomfortable anyway? Most girls I know are skilled at the whipping the bra off through the sleeve trick, not for sexing purposes, but because bras are torture devices. They're made of wire and bone and netting and elastic. They're not made for comfort, they're made to give our chins something to rest on, or a handy place to hide your phone if you're out of pockets (for a short while at uni, I stored change in mine. A very short while, no one needs pound coin imprints on their bosom, nor pennies inexplicably falling from your top in a club as you try and do that wicked dance you learnt to Pink's 'Keep your drink and give me the money' or whatever that song's called) We actually hate hate hate wearing them. No sane woman would keep them on during sex, unless it was completely spur of the moment, possibly in a laundromat or a field. Which brings me to my next point;
Why don't people seem to like having sex in beds in films? Ok, we get it, the front room table is an exciting prospect for a place to get your rocks off. But surely a bed would be a lot comfier? And have less half drunk cans of beer, and copies of Hello on it? And fields and woodlands have wriggly bugs. And sharp sticks and stones. And poo from cows. And dog walkers peering over hedges. I once even saw a film where they had sex against a fridge. A fridge! I mean that CAN'T be fun. Freezing metal, the handle getting stuck in your back, risk of breaking it and having to spend hundreds of pounds, not to mention explaining how it broke to the repair man?
And no one ever seems to use protection! I mean, surely it's a bit presumptuous to assume the girl's on the pill, or has an implant or injections or something? What if she's a baby stealer? And girls, what if he has a series of terrible, smelly diseases? This is no way to teach youngsters! At least have a close up of a pill packet or something. Or an empty durex wrapper. Or have the chap say 'actually, you know what, even though I'm well up for this, it would be silly to risk diseases and pregnancy when you're married/a princess/my teacher/a spy/an ogre/dying of some kind of wasting illness'. Or have the girl say 'No. I'm not that sort of girl to just jump on in there without looking after my own interests. After all, we've just met, and you're a tinker/tailor/soldier/spy/athlete with a drug problem/rock star/dragon, you might have secret willy warts!'
I mean, it's not really very realistic at all is it?
Well, having ruined the romance of sex on screen for you, I'll leave you with this thought-in sex scenes, some poor make up artist will probably have to trim someone's pubes. And maybe even apply a merkin.
On that delightful note Reader, tarrah!
Ash
x
Why is this (vaguely sordid) subject on my mind? Well, today a few of my cast members (HAH...members...I made a funny...ahem) and I went to see A Dangerous Method. In case you've missed all the posters, (SPOILER ALERT) it's the one where Jung and Freud fall out because Jung getting jiggy (shut up, I grew up in the early nineties) with Keira Knightly (who plays a bit of a mental). There is more to the story than that, but it's pretty much the main idea behind it. Now, as you can imagine, there's quite a bit of talk about sex in the film. You can't have a film with Freud (and Vincent Cassel...swoon...) without lots and lots of sexing talk. And some of it is really interesting stuff. About mental freedom being linked to sexual freedom, sexual liberation being a reliever of numerous disorders, the id and the ego, the subconscious masking the truthful wants of the individual. But there are also a number of bits that made me giggle rather a lot. And get confused. And think 'well, if I was the cinematographer...' . Firstly, there's a bit where Miss. Knightly is getting her rocks off and you can see her boobs. I don't want to give it away completely, but as well as getting rather...erm....jolly....she's also in quite a bit of pain. But her nipples are...well....bored by what's going on. Anyone who knows anything about female anatomy would know that in pain, cold or arousal (or sometimes confusion), nips stand to attention. They are chestical erections. Sort of. And there's NO WAY hers would have stayed all disinterested looking if she was actually....erm...involved. Also, there's a bit where she's sitting, looking perfectly lovely apart from one nip popping out over her corset to say hello (oh, so NOW you're listening mr. nip? No. Now is NOT THE TIME FOR INTRODUCTIONS.). Now, I've done a bit of research on this one. Not one girl I know could happily sit with one boob unnaturally hoisted above a bra/corset. It's a weird situation. It's not comfortable. It's not about modesty so much as symmetry. It was like the director went 'ah yeah, this will be really sexy and carefree and bohemian' but I bet all she could think about in that scene was 'why even bother hiding the other one?' Or maybe it was a costume issue and she wasn't aware. Poor girl. Then there was another bit where Mr. Cassel was having it orf with a lady in a rather vigorous way and her facial expression didn't change, just stayed vaguely bored. Throughout the whole thing. It was amazing to watch. I mean, even if it's not good, you'd make some kind of expression right? Slight surprise? Annoyance? ANYTHING?! Poor Cassel. And he'd been painted as a right old womaniser in the film, so it was a bit of an affront to his manhood really.
I have to say, I do find sex in films slightly ridiculous. Like the orgasms. When Harry Met Sally is one of my favourite films, don't get me wrong, but has anyone actually ever really been that loud? What about the neighbours? And even if everyone on both sides of the street was out, if I were the bloke, I'd just stop and stare in utter astonishment. 'Are you all right love? Because that's just a bit....erm...loud. And painful sounding.' The police would probably think someone was being murdered! Maybe it's just Americans. Maybe America is full of loudly orgasming women. Because men don't make a noise in films. Ever. Well, not like that anyway. Nope, just the women having the time of their lives. They must all have really thick, soundproof walls. And deaf partners.
And they all get it on fully dressed! In Sex and The City, Carrie always keeps her bra on. Which always make s me feel a bit sorry for her boyfriends, because men like boobs quite a lot, don't they? And isn't that a bit uncomfortable anyway? Most girls I know are skilled at the whipping the bra off through the sleeve trick, not for sexing purposes, but because bras are torture devices. They're made of wire and bone and netting and elastic. They're not made for comfort, they're made to give our chins something to rest on, or a handy place to hide your phone if you're out of pockets (for a short while at uni, I stored change in mine. A very short while, no one needs pound coin imprints on their bosom, nor pennies inexplicably falling from your top in a club as you try and do that wicked dance you learnt to Pink's 'Keep your drink and give me the money' or whatever that song's called) We actually hate hate hate wearing them. No sane woman would keep them on during sex, unless it was completely spur of the moment, possibly in a laundromat or a field. Which brings me to my next point;
Why don't people seem to like having sex in beds in films? Ok, we get it, the front room table is an exciting prospect for a place to get your rocks off. But surely a bed would be a lot comfier? And have less half drunk cans of beer, and copies of Hello on it? And fields and woodlands have wriggly bugs. And sharp sticks and stones. And poo from cows. And dog walkers peering over hedges. I once even saw a film where they had sex against a fridge. A fridge! I mean that CAN'T be fun. Freezing metal, the handle getting stuck in your back, risk of breaking it and having to spend hundreds of pounds, not to mention explaining how it broke to the repair man?
And no one ever seems to use protection! I mean, surely it's a bit presumptuous to assume the girl's on the pill, or has an implant or injections or something? What if she's a baby stealer? And girls, what if he has a series of terrible, smelly diseases? This is no way to teach youngsters! At least have a close up of a pill packet or something. Or an empty durex wrapper. Or have the chap say 'actually, you know what, even though I'm well up for this, it would be silly to risk diseases and pregnancy when you're married/a princess/my teacher/a spy/an ogre/dying of some kind of wasting illness'. Or have the girl say 'No. I'm not that sort of girl to just jump on in there without looking after my own interests. After all, we've just met, and you're a tinker/tailor/soldier/spy/athlete with a drug problem/rock star/dragon, you might have secret willy warts!'
I mean, it's not really very realistic at all is it?
Well, having ruined the romance of sex on screen for you, I'll leave you with this thought-in sex scenes, some poor make up artist will probably have to trim someone's pubes. And maybe even apply a merkin.
On that delightful note Reader, tarrah!
Ash
x
Friday, 10 February 2012
In another life...
Reader, have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you made (or didn't make) certain decisions that have brought you to where you are today? I constantly do. Not in an oh-I-wish-I-wasn't-living-my-life sort of way, because I love my life and wouldn't change it for the world (apart from maybe to win the lottery so I could have my own house to conduct said life out of), but in an oh-gosh-that-would-have-been-a-bit-bloody-weird sort of way. I mean, everyone has those moments in life where you have to make a decision and the outcome will affect where you are in five years right? And where would I be now if I'd gone straight to drama school? Or followed through with my plan to be a nun? Or ran away from home further than my front garden when I was 5?
Alternate realities if I had....
...successfully run away from home
I would like to think that I would have lived an Oliver Twistesque life, stealing loaves of bread, befriending and old criminal mastermind, getting adopted by a wealthy chap and generally living the life of riley. Please do bear in mind Reader, that I was hardly running away from abusive parents and a life of squalor, I just decided that my baby brother was getting too much attention and it was time to grow up and find my own path in life. Now, unfortunately, I don't think this reality would have turned out too well for me. Either I'd be dead by now, be one of those strippers who stand in the doorways in Soho in their shiny white knicker and bra sets even when it's really bloody cold. Or maybe I'd have turned it abound, written a book about my experiences as a guttersnipe and made millions. I can see it now. Carey Mulligan would have to don a wig to play teenage me, child me would be played by an unknown brat, my pimp/drug dealer would be beautifully done by Andy Serkis and I'd complain that they'd made it all too pretty. I'd go into decline the next year when I saw my book next to Kerry Katona's 5th autobiography in the 99p bin at Morrisons. I'd be found, partially eaten by my pet chinchilla in my squalid flat in Wood Green, above Chikken Deelite.
...Married the first boy I had a crush on
His name was Jack, and he looked like a corpse child. Having been raised on a diet of Tim Burton and Grimm fairy tales, I liked that in a man. We both went to the worst primary school in the area, an institution where even the reception kids brought knives in and I was once sent home with a reading book that had no words (that one's not even a joke, actually happened). Unfortunately Jack the corpse kid was just a bit scared of my attentions. I'm hardly surprised, I used to think that maybe I could shock him into liking me (I was 5, this seemed like quality reasoning at the time), so I used to just grab his hand in the playground. I always wonder what happened to him, I left the school for a better one the next year and never saw him again. But can you imagine if he'd decided that he found my weird, assault-ey attempts at affection endearing? It would have been cute at first. We'd have tramped round the playground holding hands, shared our tray lunches in the dinner hall, gone to each others houses for play dates and then 'gone out' in high school. Of course, he was probably a serial killer. He really looked like one. He had the darkest hair I've ever seen, skin that was paler than mine (which is almost impossible Reader, I look pretty corpse like myself most of the time) and a slight hunch. He also had this habit of never talking, just staring without blinking at the other children (I clearly had great taste as a kid). So I assume that we'd have got married very young, have a couple of very pale children and be trotting along nicely (I'd be a stay at home mum who occasionally helped out at the play group, having given up any career aspirations, almost as if I'd been....hypnotised...) when I'd start finding strange things. Blood round the cuff of the shirt I was washing for him. A very thin wire in his jacket pocket. Jewellery made out of nipples in the style of Ed Gein. Being a bit dim, I'd confront him about it instead of going to the police and end up under the floorboards with all his other victims. The kids would be brainwashed into his murder cult and we'd become an urban legend. Cheery.
...become a nun
So, when I was 12 or so, I spent about half a year thinking it would be really great to be a nun. Stop laughing Reader, it's not that funny. I'd read a lot of stories about young, gorgeous nuns who somehow discover windows to other worlds. And then I really got into Almodovar films, which nearly always have really fun nuns in them. So I decided that it would be a great life plan. I mean, I didn't know any boys anyway, so nothing lost there. Plus, I was a bit of a God-bod anyway at that age and used to like the idea of being very holier-than-thou and having loads of people saying 'I don't know how you do it Sister, I really don't'. I even picked out my nun name. Because you have to choose a new one when you have your marriage to God (yeah, I did my research!) Sister Pelagia (Pelagia is a female saint who represents actors, whores and women in general. Awesome). So if that had come to work out (rather than me getting disillusioned with organised religion and nuns specifically), I would have had to battle against my parents wishes to end up in a convent. I would be about 18, because my parents would have made me go to 6th form first. I reckon I'd be quite good at being a nun too! I'd do the veg garden, get involved with all the charity work, help with the cooking and cleaning-basically be a bit of a star. The problem would come of course, with men. I didn't really meet any truly eligible, attractive men till I went to uni. All girls schools will do that. So I bet that (just as I got carried away by the romance of becoming a nun) I'd get carried away with the romance of being 'rescued' from the convent by a good looking fella, and end up running away with the gardener, Larry. I'd probably then go a bit mental going completely the other way and get into death metal and dye my hair green (but still sneak to church on special occasions). The Mother Superior would refuse to talk to me, because she had me penned to be her second hand nun, but my parents would be overjoyed. My grandmother might disown me though, what with her being a full on catholic, but I'd reason that Larry was worth it.
Years later, I'd leave him for a banker called John and train to be a teacher or a pilot.
...actually enjoyed doing politics at A-level
I was 16, and my mum was really really pushing for me to do something academic at A-level alongside English, Drama and Media. I was really into arguing and welfare, so I decided to do Politics. Mum was delighted, told all her friends and felt very very smug until, three months into term, I confessed that I'd been bunking Politics to sit in Starbucks gossiping with my friends and dropped it to take up film studies. The thing is, I'd been really into politics when we started. I got an A* on my research into the election process and my argument as to why the Tory party should be forced to sit down with some of their old constituents and be very much told off. But then it got really technical. We stopped debating in class and started talking about Black Rod (hehe) and the traditions in the House of Commons. We were given long lists of legal blabber to de-mystify, and the teacher seemed to stop caring. Switching to film was a great decision, because I loved every single class and learnt vast amounts from my very cool director teachers. I do wonder what would have happened if I had really applied myself to the subject though and I can only assume one thing.
I'd be the Prime Minister.
Stop Laughing.
I would! I'd be one of the youngest, coolest Prime Ministers ever and would have come into power around the same time as Obama (who the press would constantly speculate I was having an affair with). I'd increase the arts budget, decrease the Olympics budget and eventually be kicked out of England because I'd have spent all of the money on setting up government run bakeries. I'd end up chilling with Carla Bruni at her townhouse in Paris, smoking too much and doing interviews with Style magazine about my nervous breakdown.
...moved to America
Ok, so this is something that still might happen, but when I was 18 or so, I seriously considered going to university in America. I think I'd probably have one of those really annoying British/American accents by now, the kind that sound like you're from Kent until you go hard on your Rs and lilt at the end of a sentence, like it's a question? I'd probably also be very fat now. I've been to America. They have great great food. I am a big foodie. Nom. I would probably also have indulged my secret life dream to become a surfer chick and put loads of bleach in my hair and wear those little beaded anklets while I'm walking round the beach going 'Rad' and 'Did you see me catch that curve dude? Killer'. Sigh. Happy times indeed.
Have to say though, I'm quite chuffed with the decisions I've made so far. I'm not dead at least, which is always a relief. I have a job that (mostly) involves me keeping my clothes on, and that I wouldn't change for the world. And I don't have to wax a stupid surf board all the time. Always a plus.
The moral of the story Reader, is to enjoy your life and be happy with your decisions. Because you could be a serial killer's wife. Or spend a lot of time in a doorway in Soho, with only your leg hair to keep you warm.
On that note, I'm off to make more life decisions about what to have for breakfast!
Ash
x
Monday, 30 January 2012
Legs 11
Reader, I do not have good legs. Ok, so, in tights or jeans they're not half bad. Maybe a 7.5 on a good day. Bare however, they have been known to provoke laughter, fear and at times worry for my health/welfare. You see, I am a pale sort of a girl (thanks to an exotic combo of irish and kentish blood no doubt) and as such, my limbs are normally a vampiric blue tinged white. This is probably a far too nice way to describe it, so don't think of Twilight vampires with their bloody perfect skin, nor Brad looking all pale and sexy in Interview with a Vampire. Instead think of some half rotted corpse, with skin like a fish's underbelly. Yeah, that's probably more like it. And you know what? Pale limbs do not look good in hot pants. Ok, I hear it, you're thinking 'bloody big whinier, being pale isn't that bad'. But I haven't finished yet. After the pale skin comes the bruises. 'The odd bruise?' you say 'everyone has the odd bruise'. Not like this. At last count I had sixteen largish bruises. On my right leg alone. It's a combination of being veggie, anaemic and very very clumsy. Therefore wearing anything bare legged makes people assume I am a victim of a) domestic abuse or b) some kind of terrible illness. The other problem with my legs are that I have terrible knees. Not cute little dome knees like most A-listers have, but weird knobbles that look like mini mountain ranges (seriously, is there a trick to getting good knees? Some kind of exercise I haven't worked out?).
Over the summer, my legs seem to toughen up a bit, and get less bruisey. I still refuse to put fake tan on (mainly after seeing a girl in high school with a handprint on the back of her calf that made her look like she'd been sexually harassed by a shedding oompah loompah....shudder). I do sometimes dream of denim hotpants without tights underneath but a) I think I may be too old for that look now and b) no. Just no.
My dear friends at school even came up with a song about my legs (mainly because I loved knee high socks but could never seem to get the right sort, so ended up with ones that ended just below the knee. And always lost my tights so had to wear said socks even in winter. The song went to the tune of smelly cat (please bear in mind I also had a terrible hair cut when I was 13 or so..)
Mushroom head, mushroom head
I see your skanky legs
all through the winter
all through the snow
mushroom head, mushroom head (repeat as wished)
A talented bunch indeed. It's a wonder we still speak. Saying that, I'm pretty sure I'm guilty of taking the mick of them a fair number of times (ahem....skintightwhitestraptopwithlipsalloverit.....ahem.....dinosaurs......ahem) so fair enough really.
Right, I'm going to hide my poor old legs in my pj bottoms (after they've been exfoliated and moisturised of course....well, one can hope!)
Much love Reader
Ash
x
Over the summer, my legs seem to toughen up a bit, and get less bruisey. I still refuse to put fake tan on (mainly after seeing a girl in high school with a handprint on the back of her calf that made her look like she'd been sexually harassed by a shedding oompah loompah....shudder). I do sometimes dream of denim hotpants without tights underneath but a) I think I may be too old for that look now and b) no. Just no.
My dear friends at school even came up with a song about my legs (mainly because I loved knee high socks but could never seem to get the right sort, so ended up with ones that ended just below the knee. And always lost my tights so had to wear said socks even in winter. The song went to the tune of smelly cat (please bear in mind I also had a terrible hair cut when I was 13 or so..)
Mushroom head, mushroom head
I see your skanky legs
all through the winter
all through the snow
mushroom head, mushroom head (repeat as wished)
A talented bunch indeed. It's a wonder we still speak. Saying that, I'm pretty sure I'm guilty of taking the mick of them a fair number of times (ahem....skintightwhitestraptopwithlipsalloverit.....ahem.....dinosaurs......ahem) so fair enough really.
Right, I'm going to hide my poor old legs in my pj bottoms (after they've been exfoliated and moisturised of course....well, one can hope!)
Much love Reader
Ash
x
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Waitin' and wishin' and hopin' and dreamin'
Reader, one of the worst bits about being an actor is waiting to hear back from auditions you really, really want. It's an entirely aggravating process, through which you constantly think you hear your phone going off (it didn't), you get nervous if you're five minutes away from your emails and whenever anyone calls you that isn't an unknown number, you're instantly 'busy'. Then, when an unknown number does call and it's not the casting people, you get unaccountably pissed off with the poor sod on the other end of the phone. How DARE they not be people telling you that you're hired!
You may have guessed, Reader, that I am currently in that situation. I know I'm down to the last two for a part that I really really want, and I know that they're auditioning the other girl again today. So after about 3pm I shall most likely be a nervous wreck. I'm already keeping my phone in my bra (in case the girl doesn't show or has chopped off all her hair so they decide to just give me the part) and am already showing signs of a nervous breakdown. The thing is, if I hadn't known it was just between me and one girl, I think I'd be less worried. If there were a sea of nameless actors I was up against, I'd think 'well, it's like playing the lottery, no point getting nervous' but now it's more like a gameshow or something. I'm having to distract myself by doing lots of other things. Here is my list of things to do whilst trying to get the audition off my mind:
You may have guessed, Reader, that I am currently in that situation. I know I'm down to the last two for a part that I really really want, and I know that they're auditioning the other girl again today. So after about 3pm I shall most likely be a nervous wreck. I'm already keeping my phone in my bra (in case the girl doesn't show or has chopped off all her hair so they decide to just give me the part) and am already showing signs of a nervous breakdown. The thing is, if I hadn't known it was just between me and one girl, I think I'd be less worried. If there were a sea of nameless actors I was up against, I'd think 'well, it's like playing the lottery, no point getting nervous' but now it's more like a gameshow or something. I'm having to distract myself by doing lots of other things. Here is my list of things to do whilst trying to get the audition off my mind:
- Bake cookies (have made three trays so far)
- Go to a Rosemary Connelly class (ignoring cookies on side)
- Aerobics class with much older women who are much fitter than me
- Tea at Grandparents (hide phone, they might think I'm being rude)
- Take cat to vet to get his lump prodded (the scratches might distract me)
- Remove make up, then re-apply
- Eat The Lad's birthday chocolate, turn the Rosemary Connelly booklet upside down because it's making me feel guilty
- Paint nails
- Realise nail varnish is gone all gloopy and hurry to take it off, spilling it on white duvet
- Read Tolstoy
- Stop reading Tolstoy and pick up copy of Cosmopolitan instead
- Stop reading Cosmo and pick up copy of Heat instead
- Stop reading Heat and pick up copy of Thomas the Tank engine instead
- Stroke cat
- Tend to scratches
- Check online to see if the casting director's been really obvious and has written any hints on her facebook
- Wonder if adding casting director as a friend on facebook is too bum-lickey
- Make a chart of x-factor predictions
- Book a train ticket to see friend on other side of England
- Consider quitting acting to become a teacher
- Consider cutting hair
- Decide not to cut hair
- Decide to cut hair if I don't get the part
- Go slowly but surely mad
The end!
Ash
x
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Solitary traveller...
Reader, travelling alone is not my idea of a great time. I like sharing experiences, having someone to natter with and share bags of boiled sweets with on the train journey. Also, I get vaguely nervous when I travel solo, largely because I'm so dappy things are certain to go abysmally astray. To be honest, I spend roughly 87.5% of my life convinced that a big man in an ugly tie will come and tell me off at any minute and travelling alone seems to aggravate that fear.
I think everyone has that to an extent, that feeling that if they check your ticket, they'll realise that you've done something terribly wrong and you actually owe them three kazillion pounds. Well, if that had happened to me on the trip I took yesterday, I would certainly not be able to pay as I'd spent the last of my pennies on trashy books for the trip (mainly, I regret to say, about vampires. No, not twilight. Some weird rip off, which is sort of worse really isn't it?) and a family sized bag of peanut M&M's (I am a traveller who firmly believes that without chocolate, no trip is truly complete..).
The thing is, when you travel with someone else, it's a bit of an adventure getting things wrong, something you can laugh about later in that smug 'we had a shared life experience' sort of way. Whereas when you're alone, you just want to go 'look, I'm a kid, I think it's really unfair that you're being so mean to me' before you realise that obviously you're not a child, you're 23, which is plenty old enough to take responsibility for your actions. Bugger.
And even if the whole travelling malarkey doesn't end up with you in jail having uncomfortable conversations about your return ticket to Little-Bums-On-Sea, it's still all so expensive! £30 return? For three hours on a smelly train filled with impeccably boring men in suits? For that I'd at least like a gin and tonic in a proper glass. And a guaranteed seat. I had to practically knock out a woman with a pram to get mine!
Then of course there's the staying in a strange place bit. If I'd have been there with someone else, we'd have gone for dinner, played some kind of 'murder in the dark' game, cuddled up against the freezing country air and generally had a few larks. Whereas, as a solitary traveller, I was painfully aware that a) I was a young girl all alone b) In the middle of nowhere, opposite a big scary hay barn and c) wasn't that what happened in Psycho? The strangeness of the B&B I was in added to the nerves. Within ten minutes of getting there I'd found a conker in a small china pot with an elastic band and a tiny key, a book on prince William, the most old school tv I'd come across in years and lamp that seemed to have screaming faces growing out of it's china base. It probably didn't help that it's quite near Halloween and I just watched Paranormal Activity 3 this week. Or that Mum showed me all this stuff about a local poltergeist haunting that happened just down the road from where we live. I have a seriously overactive imagination, so hearing so much about ghosties and then going off to stay in a creaky old farmhouse was probably not the best idea. Especially since my room didn't appear to have a lock.
I'd sort of decided that I was going to make the best of things and try and make it a mini-holiday, but that didn't really work out. All the sugar I ate gave me funny hyperactive palpitations, I forgot my conditioner and I over moisturised, so I kept sliding off surfaces.Then I couldn't get to sleep, but my eyes felt so tired I couldn't read the small print of my crap book, so I spent most of the night tweeting and checking how my stuff on Ebay was doing (when I could get signal, which had to involve standing on the bed with my arm above my head, or crouched in one specific corner)Three hours sleep I had Reader. And worst of all, when I finally got up at 5am (!!!) the only cerials they had were ones designed to do things to old people's bowels. Hideous. The taxi's are different in the countryside as well. I got charged for the taxi's journey to come get me! I mean, how unfair is that? I defo couldn't do living in the sticks. I'd miss easy, cheap travel too much! I suppose I'd have to learn to drive. And take up gardening. And learn how to make my own clothes. Food is almost always tastier in the countryside too, so I'd almost certainly get fat and start wearing overalls.
Speaking of getting fat, there'll be another cake blog entry next week, so keep your eyes peeled! Am actually making cakes today (between jobs, reading to small children and selling wine to adults, must try to not get the two confused) as a sort of bonus for my workmates if they agree to coming in dressed up in halloween costumes tomorrow. I'm not sure it'll work, I may actually be the only one who comes in fully attired in costume. That would be a bit cringe. Let's hope they dress up!
Off to read to chiddlers I go!
Ash
x
I think everyone has that to an extent, that feeling that if they check your ticket, they'll realise that you've done something terribly wrong and you actually owe them three kazillion pounds. Well, if that had happened to me on the trip I took yesterday, I would certainly not be able to pay as I'd spent the last of my pennies on trashy books for the trip (mainly, I regret to say, about vampires. No, not twilight. Some weird rip off, which is sort of worse really isn't it?) and a family sized bag of peanut M&M's (I am a traveller who firmly believes that without chocolate, no trip is truly complete..).
The thing is, when you travel with someone else, it's a bit of an adventure getting things wrong, something you can laugh about later in that smug 'we had a shared life experience' sort of way. Whereas when you're alone, you just want to go 'look, I'm a kid, I think it's really unfair that you're being so mean to me' before you realise that obviously you're not a child, you're 23, which is plenty old enough to take responsibility for your actions. Bugger.
And even if the whole travelling malarkey doesn't end up with you in jail having uncomfortable conversations about your return ticket to Little-Bums-On-Sea, it's still all so expensive! £30 return? For three hours on a smelly train filled with impeccably boring men in suits? For that I'd at least like a gin and tonic in a proper glass. And a guaranteed seat. I had to practically knock out a woman with a pram to get mine!
Then of course there's the staying in a strange place bit. If I'd have been there with someone else, we'd have gone for dinner, played some kind of 'murder in the dark' game, cuddled up against the freezing country air and generally had a few larks. Whereas, as a solitary traveller, I was painfully aware that a) I was a young girl all alone b) In the middle of nowhere, opposite a big scary hay barn and c) wasn't that what happened in Psycho? The strangeness of the B&B I was in added to the nerves. Within ten minutes of getting there I'd found a conker in a small china pot with an elastic band and a tiny key, a book on prince William, the most old school tv I'd come across in years and lamp that seemed to have screaming faces growing out of it's china base. It probably didn't help that it's quite near Halloween and I just watched Paranormal Activity 3 this week. Or that Mum showed me all this stuff about a local poltergeist haunting that happened just down the road from where we live. I have a seriously overactive imagination, so hearing so much about ghosties and then going off to stay in a creaky old farmhouse was probably not the best idea. Especially since my room didn't appear to have a lock.
I'd sort of decided that I was going to make the best of things and try and make it a mini-holiday, but that didn't really work out. All the sugar I ate gave me funny hyperactive palpitations, I forgot my conditioner and I over moisturised, so I kept sliding off surfaces.Then I couldn't get to sleep, but my eyes felt so tired I couldn't read the small print of my crap book, so I spent most of the night tweeting and checking how my stuff on Ebay was doing (when I could get signal, which had to involve standing on the bed with my arm above my head, or crouched in one specific corner)Three hours sleep I had Reader. And worst of all, when I finally got up at 5am (!!!) the only cerials they had were ones designed to do things to old people's bowels. Hideous. The taxi's are different in the countryside as well. I got charged for the taxi's journey to come get me! I mean, how unfair is that? I defo couldn't do living in the sticks. I'd miss easy, cheap travel too much! I suppose I'd have to learn to drive. And take up gardening. And learn how to make my own clothes. Food is almost always tastier in the countryside too, so I'd almost certainly get fat and start wearing overalls.
Speaking of getting fat, there'll be another cake blog entry next week, so keep your eyes peeled! Am actually making cakes today (between jobs, reading to small children and selling wine to adults, must try to not get the two confused) as a sort of bonus for my workmates if they agree to coming in dressed up in halloween costumes tomorrow. I'm not sure it'll work, I may actually be the only one who comes in fully attired in costume. That would be a bit cringe. Let's hope they dress up!
Off to read to chiddlers I go!
Ash
x
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
A full bodied little number with enormous legs...
In case you were wondering Reader, the title is an amusing pun on the fact that I am currently quite shapely and the fact that I now sell wine for a living. Ha. Ha. I am so very hysterical.
Well, I'm uncomfortable, you're uncomfortable, it's all very British. Moving swiftly on to making sense.
So as you may have guessed, I got through to probation for the telesales job. Only I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to say that I'm a Wine Merchant. Who just so happens to do their work over the phone. It's at this call centre that's pretty much run by actors, with only actors working for them and is pretty much the perfect job an actor could have between acting work. It's flexible, it pays well, the people are lovely and the office has a lovely view. *le sigh*. The only issue is I've been put on an account selling wine. There are two issues with this Reader. Number one is that I don't like wine. However, as I learned today, this isn't really a problem. One of their top sellers doesn't drink booze and has actually never even tried the stuff! Also, I have discovered that although I'm not very good at drinking wine, I am rather skilled at tasting it. And picking out key flavours (like 'under ripe apple' and 'dog food'. I kid you not, that is what I detected in one). And they taught me how to do that grotesque slurping thing that wine tasters do which is VAST amounts of fun and makes me feel terribly well educated. So that's the first problem dealt with. The second problem is that it's selling. Now Reader, when it comes to actually working in a shop, I am like the queen of sales. I'm really smiley, I develop awesome rapport with the customer, I get them to buy add on items ('oohhh, you know, we have the PERFECT pendant to go with that dress, now, it wouldn't work for most people, but you have the décolletage to carry it off') etc. However, over the phone, I am a nervous wreck. Now obviously I only know this from my experience at the charity fundraising call centre, so maybe selling wine will be easier. Reader, I hope so. I really really like this company and it's a great one to keep the money coming in. I hope that even if I'm truly crap at selling, they'll put me on customer service instead! Fingers crossed for me eh? Day two of training tomorrow, I might even be put on the phones!
In other news...no, actually, I'm knackered, I smell and I need to brush my teeth because all that wine has turned them vaguely purple. So you'll just have to wait till next time Reader!
Adiós!
Ash
x
Well, I'm uncomfortable, you're uncomfortable, it's all very British. Moving swiftly on to making sense.
So as you may have guessed, I got through to probation for the telesales job. Only I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to say that I'm a Wine Merchant. Who just so happens to do their work over the phone. It's at this call centre that's pretty much run by actors, with only actors working for them and is pretty much the perfect job an actor could have between acting work. It's flexible, it pays well, the people are lovely and the office has a lovely view. *le sigh*. The only issue is I've been put on an account selling wine. There are two issues with this Reader. Number one is that I don't like wine. However, as I learned today, this isn't really a problem. One of their top sellers doesn't drink booze and has actually never even tried the stuff! Also, I have discovered that although I'm not very good at drinking wine, I am rather skilled at tasting it. And picking out key flavours (like 'under ripe apple' and 'dog food'. I kid you not, that is what I detected in one). And they taught me how to do that grotesque slurping thing that wine tasters do which is VAST amounts of fun and makes me feel terribly well educated. So that's the first problem dealt with. The second problem is that it's selling. Now Reader, when it comes to actually working in a shop, I am like the queen of sales. I'm really smiley, I develop awesome rapport with the customer, I get them to buy add on items ('oohhh, you know, we have the PERFECT pendant to go with that dress, now, it wouldn't work for most people, but you have the décolletage to carry it off') etc. However, over the phone, I am a nervous wreck. Now obviously I only know this from my experience at the charity fundraising call centre, so maybe selling wine will be easier. Reader, I hope so. I really really like this company and it's a great one to keep the money coming in. I hope that even if I'm truly crap at selling, they'll put me on customer service instead! Fingers crossed for me eh? Day two of training tomorrow, I might even be put on the phones!
In other news...no, actually, I'm knackered, I smell and I need to brush my teeth because all that wine has turned them vaguely purple. So you'll just have to wait till next time Reader!
Adiós!
Ash
x
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
My unusually enormous head and I
Reader, the other night, my family and I measured our heads. Mine was the biggest. Well, technically, it was the joint biggest with BLB, but then he's 17 years old and a good foot taller than me so I feel slightly hard done by. Then, today, while I was having a head-cast made, the scullcap was too small for my enormous noggin. They had to use pins to secure it so it didn't ping off like an elastic band at a supply teacher. I feel like a reverse weebles wobble. I wonder if my enormous head:body ratio explains some of my clumsiness? I think it may do, putting my centre of gravity entirely off kilter in a very annoying way that causes me to walk into doorframes.
To explain my earlier point, I was having head cast made so the make up girls I know could make a bust of my head on which to model prosthetics for a photo shoot we're doing in a month or so. I am very excited about this, as I will then get to keep the bust and I may spray paint it fabulous colours and put a wig on it. Or use it to scare small children. I was so excited about this headcast reader, until that is, it was on and I started to have a serious panic. You see, the headcast is made of something akin to dentist putty, which covers your eyes, mouth and...well, everything except your nostrils really. Now, my lovely make up artist kept trying to talk everything through with me but I was utterly convinced I'd be fine and was really rather gung-ho about the whole thing. And then once it was on, I realised that all that stood between me and suffocation were two tiny little holes and I began to hyperventilate. Through my nose. Which, if you were wondering, isn't easy. I nearly tore the whole thing off my face (which would have been AWFUL because it took the poor artists so long to do!) but a very lovely lady took my hand and talked me through the whole process which calmed me down a great deal, and by the end I was fine again. Although very relieved to have the thing taken off my head. It's so strange how things like that can creep up on you, especially given the fact that I was so relaxed at the beginning and completely trusted the artists to whom I had entrusted my head! But I think not being able to breathe is defo one of my Big Fears. I once had to do buddy breathing underwater with an uncle who is a lot bigger and healthier than me, so he has a bigger lung capacity and thus takes longer to fill his lungs and he took so long I had to push myself to the surface from 14 feet down, so scared was I of fainting. On hearing how much I over reacted to such a tiny thing, my mum has told me she'd rather not be there when I gave birth, for fear the over reaction would be so ridiculous she'd get a migraine. I think she was joking.
And now I'm watching football. Or rather, sitting in a room on the internet while my Granddad and Dad watch it and groan as Spurs fail time and time again. It makes them so sad, I don't know why they do it to themselves. I gave them the last mint kit kats to cheer them up but it doesn't appear to have worked. Shame. I'm SO in the mood for a Pimms. But no-one is in my area. They're all out, or on date nights, or at uni or live on the other side of the city. That's what happens when you live in the dreaded burbs though, you have to travel for an hour for a brief catch up with your chums and a ridiculously expensive glass of booze. Instead I will sit in the garden with an amaretto and a Fay Weldon novel.
So on that alcoholic note, tarrah chaps!
Ash
x
To explain my earlier point, I was having head cast made so the make up girls I know could make a bust of my head on which to model prosthetics for a photo shoot we're doing in a month or so. I am very excited about this, as I will then get to keep the bust and I may spray paint it fabulous colours and put a wig on it. Or use it to scare small children. I was so excited about this headcast reader, until that is, it was on and I started to have a serious panic. You see, the headcast is made of something akin to dentist putty, which covers your eyes, mouth and...well, everything except your nostrils really. Now, my lovely make up artist kept trying to talk everything through with me but I was utterly convinced I'd be fine and was really rather gung-ho about the whole thing. And then once it was on, I realised that all that stood between me and suffocation were two tiny little holes and I began to hyperventilate. Through my nose. Which, if you were wondering, isn't easy. I nearly tore the whole thing off my face (which would have been AWFUL because it took the poor artists so long to do!) but a very lovely lady took my hand and talked me through the whole process which calmed me down a great deal, and by the end I was fine again. Although very relieved to have the thing taken off my head. It's so strange how things like that can creep up on you, especially given the fact that I was so relaxed at the beginning and completely trusted the artists to whom I had entrusted my head! But I think not being able to breathe is defo one of my Big Fears. I once had to do buddy breathing underwater with an uncle who is a lot bigger and healthier than me, so he has a bigger lung capacity and thus takes longer to fill his lungs and he took so long I had to push myself to the surface from 14 feet down, so scared was I of fainting. On hearing how much I over reacted to such a tiny thing, my mum has told me she'd rather not be there when I gave birth, for fear the over reaction would be so ridiculous she'd get a migraine. I think she was joking.
And now I'm watching football. Or rather, sitting in a room on the internet while my Granddad and Dad watch it and groan as Spurs fail time and time again. It makes them so sad, I don't know why they do it to themselves. I gave them the last mint kit kats to cheer them up but it doesn't appear to have worked. Shame. I'm SO in the mood for a Pimms. But no-one is in my area. They're all out, or on date nights, or at uni or live on the other side of the city. That's what happens when you live in the dreaded burbs though, you have to travel for an hour for a brief catch up with your chums and a ridiculously expensive glass of booze. Instead I will sit in the garden with an amaretto and a Fay Weldon novel.
So on that alcoholic note, tarrah chaps!
Ash
x
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Meet my neuroses...
Reader, I know I seem to be a shining beacon of glowing confidence and self-trust but I'm afraid it's all a lie. The fact of the matter is Reader, that were you to peel back my pale, pale skin, you'd find not organs, but fears, worries and niggles, all wrapped in a juicy coating of hysteria. Here are a few that keep me constantly on the edge of hyperventilation.
1) Being Late
Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-I'm-going-to-be-late-crap-crap-crap-why-isn't-the-train-here-yet-I'll-never-get-employed-ever-again-they'll-not-pay-me-then-a-big-scary-man-with-bad-breath-and-a-comb-over-will-shout-at-me-and-make-me-stand-in-the-corner. Yes, this is how my mind works. Even if I'm not late. Usually just when I'm not outrageously early and have to sit with a book (n.b. being early does not scare me, although I enjoy it less now that I don't smoke and it's not an excuse for chain smoking any more). This means that I now have a reputation for turning up to friends' houses when they're still in the bath, because to everyone else 7.30 means 8, but to me it means 6.45. I think it was further stressed when I went to Drama School, where they had a 'if you're even one minute late you get shut out for the rest of the day' rule, which terrified me, because I just knew if I ever missed classes because of lateness, it would be the ones that I would really learn things from. So I ended up being on great terms with the security guards, because I was always the one they unlocked the doors for first thing in the morning, even when I had later classes. This has led to me needing to go to sleep very early at night, so like a granny, at about 8.30 I start yawning at thinking of how jolly nice it would be in my bed. Employees however, love me, because I am NEVER late. Ever. And sometimes I'm actually too early (this has happened before at auditions, where I'll have arrived before the auditioners!)
2) All my hair falling out
This isn't actually that unfounded a fear. Last year, during a particularly stressful patch at school, my hair started to fall out. I am unfortunately not a natural beauty Reader, but my hair has always been rather a crowning glory. We have always had a great relationship, and even years of smoking and dyeing the stuff didn't make it lose its shine and thickness. Long days of lessons, peer pressures, stresses of work and very little sleep however, did. I'd wake up in the morning and there would be hair all over my pillow. I'd take a bath and when I got out, the surface would be covered by my hair. I felt like the mean girl in that film about witches (Can't remember what on earth it was called but am sure it started with C) only I'm not a bitchy racist cheerleader. Now, my hair is much repaired thanks to primrose oil tablets and a bit more free time, but I still have that fear on looking like a boiled egg my whole life. That would be AWFUL.
3) Spiders crawling into my mouth while I'm asleep
Urgh. I hate spiders. I watched Arachnophobia when I was a kid, and I've never really recovered. Even tiny wee money spiders provoke screams of horror and prisons made of water tumblers. They just look mean. Like evil. And they always sit on the ceiling, just out of reach, looking at me cruelly with their beady little disgusting eyes. I wouldn't even be that pissed off if they were made extinct due to some huge spider based flu.
4) My belly button unravelling and all my guts falling out
This one stems from someone telling me that belly buttons are made when the nurse ties your cord up when you're a baby. So it makes sense that it could just untie. Right? Right? Um...
5) Forgetting that I've given up smoking and accidentally having a puff
Because that would lead to a whole fag, and that would lead to a packet and then I'd be an addict again and I never ever ever want to be that reliant on a drug ever again. I used to spend about £55 a month on fags, money that now, I'm so confused I was even able to spend. I used to live off 8p noodles, so that I could afford baccy and filters. Utterly insane. And I always smelt like a granny. And my teeth went a shade of yellow that only a hygienist could remove. When I first gave up I had actual nightmares about smoking again, and then I'd wake up and be like 'argh, ohmygod, what have I DONE?!' But am quite proud that I've given up for over a year now. I should get a pressie.
6) My cellulite being worse than I think it is
It's there, it's bit, it could hold Armenian families, and it's the reason you'll never see me in a pair of hotpants without tights or leggings underneath. But what if it's even worse than that? What if, when I wear a swimsuit or a short dress, everyone does silent screams and vomits in pot plants. Hey. It could happen. Maybe everyone always carries tictacs just in case they see the backs of my thighs. Oh god.
7) Beetroot
It's smug and it makes you pee red. Just plain wrong.
8) Having a bogey hanging off my nose
Just awful. I've seen it happen to other people, and it's gross. In the same way, earwax on display (nothing is a bigger turn off than seeing a guy with a big yellow glob in his ear), that white gack you get in the corner of your mouth and my tights being tucked into my pants. I also have a fear of my boob escaping my bra and a nipple being on display, because the idea of going on the tube and not realising as my nipples wink at strangers is unbearable.
9) People thinking I fancy them when I don't
The problem is, I love flirting, and banter. And because I'm an actor, lots of eye contact is second nature. But people then think I have a thing for them. And if I get a sense that they think that, I get really unbearably embarrassed, blush whenever I see them, stumble over my words and act like a fool. So basically, act like I fancy them, which makes it all the worse. It's exactly the same when I get accused of something I haven't done. I blush, giggle, get shifty. Basically I am useless.
10) Loved ones being dead in a ditch
This dates back to my parents telling me that if I didn't let them know where I was going to be I could just wind up dead in a ditch and they wouldn't know. I used the phrase today when The Lad hadn't got in touch for a whole day (am I the only one that thinks that's ages, or is that just another neurotic thing about me?) and when I finally spoke to him I said 'Where were you? I thought you were dead in a ditch!' At which he was very confused and reminded me that there aren't actually any ditches in South Ealing, and had in fact been playing on Final Fantasy on his phone, hence the lack of contact. He is, of course, now more aware than ever that his girlfriend is completely bonkers. Especially since I then got annoyed because I said I missed him and he said he didn't miss me back. To be fair to him, he did say he loved me very much and would be very happy to see me every day, it's just that he doesn't feel he needs to see me every day. Which is where another of my neuroses comes into play...
11) He doesn't love you, he's just with you because you're really needy
The poor Lad is constantly fighting this particular neuroses. It's highly unlikely that he would have done a long distance relationship, meeting my mental rellies, be moving in with me etc if he just felt trapped but the fear is still there. Every so often it's like a little monster within takes over and goes 'You're completely mental! He can't possibly be attracted to an UTTER LOON like you! You keep asking him if he'd still love you if you were bald or obese or had a leg missing! Poor boy, turn your back and he'll run for the hills with that female friend of his who's much prettier than you and is really really funny and not just in a ha-ha-look-at-that-idiot-way'. I have been told this is actually quite normal. Most girls feel it at some point. In fact, lots of girls feel like that ALL THE TIME which is a shame for them really. Anyway, I try to ignore the voice, because I think I would probably turn into a needy, snivelling little freak if I didn't. And that is MOST unattractive.
I'll end it there Reader, before I rub off on you and you go away all neurotic and stuff! After all, I don't want loads of readers constantly asking if they're doing it right or getting scared of the typeface!
Ash
x
1) Being Late
Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-I'm-going-to-be-late-crap-crap-crap-why-isn't-the-train-here-yet-I'll-never-get-employed-ever-again-they'll-not-pay-me-then-a-big-scary-man-with-bad-breath-and-a-comb-over-will-shout-at-me-and-make-me-stand-in-the-corner. Yes, this is how my mind works. Even if I'm not late. Usually just when I'm not outrageously early and have to sit with a book (n.b. being early does not scare me, although I enjoy it less now that I don't smoke and it's not an excuse for chain smoking any more). This means that I now have a reputation for turning up to friends' houses when they're still in the bath, because to everyone else 7.30 means 8, but to me it means 6.45. I think it was further stressed when I went to Drama School, where they had a 'if you're even one minute late you get shut out for the rest of the day' rule, which terrified me, because I just knew if I ever missed classes because of lateness, it would be the ones that I would really learn things from. So I ended up being on great terms with the security guards, because I was always the one they unlocked the doors for first thing in the morning, even when I had later classes. This has led to me needing to go to sleep very early at night, so like a granny, at about 8.30 I start yawning at thinking of how jolly nice it would be in my bed. Employees however, love me, because I am NEVER late. Ever. And sometimes I'm actually too early (this has happened before at auditions, where I'll have arrived before the auditioners!)
2) All my hair falling out
This isn't actually that unfounded a fear. Last year, during a particularly stressful patch at school, my hair started to fall out. I am unfortunately not a natural beauty Reader, but my hair has always been rather a crowning glory. We have always had a great relationship, and even years of smoking and dyeing the stuff didn't make it lose its shine and thickness. Long days of lessons, peer pressures, stresses of work and very little sleep however, did. I'd wake up in the morning and there would be hair all over my pillow. I'd take a bath and when I got out, the surface would be covered by my hair. I felt like the mean girl in that film about witches (Can't remember what on earth it was called but am sure it started with C) only I'm not a bitchy racist cheerleader. Now, my hair is much repaired thanks to primrose oil tablets and a bit more free time, but I still have that fear on looking like a boiled egg my whole life. That would be AWFUL.
3) Spiders crawling into my mouth while I'm asleep
Urgh. I hate spiders. I watched Arachnophobia when I was a kid, and I've never really recovered. Even tiny wee money spiders provoke screams of horror and prisons made of water tumblers. They just look mean. Like evil. And they always sit on the ceiling, just out of reach, looking at me cruelly with their beady little disgusting eyes. I wouldn't even be that pissed off if they were made extinct due to some huge spider based flu.
4) My belly button unravelling and all my guts falling out
This one stems from someone telling me that belly buttons are made when the nurse ties your cord up when you're a baby. So it makes sense that it could just untie. Right? Right? Um...
5) Forgetting that I've given up smoking and accidentally having a puff
Because that would lead to a whole fag, and that would lead to a packet and then I'd be an addict again and I never ever ever want to be that reliant on a drug ever again. I used to spend about £55 a month on fags, money that now, I'm so confused I was even able to spend. I used to live off 8p noodles, so that I could afford baccy and filters. Utterly insane. And I always smelt like a granny. And my teeth went a shade of yellow that only a hygienist could remove. When I first gave up I had actual nightmares about smoking again, and then I'd wake up and be like 'argh, ohmygod, what have I DONE?!' But am quite proud that I've given up for over a year now. I should get a pressie.
6) My cellulite being worse than I think it is
It's there, it's bit, it could hold Armenian families, and it's the reason you'll never see me in a pair of hotpants without tights or leggings underneath. But what if it's even worse than that? What if, when I wear a swimsuit or a short dress, everyone does silent screams and vomits in pot plants. Hey. It could happen. Maybe everyone always carries tictacs just in case they see the backs of my thighs. Oh god.
7) Beetroot
It's smug and it makes you pee red. Just plain wrong.
8) Having a bogey hanging off my nose
Just awful. I've seen it happen to other people, and it's gross. In the same way, earwax on display (nothing is a bigger turn off than seeing a guy with a big yellow glob in his ear), that white gack you get in the corner of your mouth and my tights being tucked into my pants. I also have a fear of my boob escaping my bra and a nipple being on display, because the idea of going on the tube and not realising as my nipples wink at strangers is unbearable.
9) People thinking I fancy them when I don't
The problem is, I love flirting, and banter. And because I'm an actor, lots of eye contact is second nature. But people then think I have a thing for them. And if I get a sense that they think that, I get really unbearably embarrassed, blush whenever I see them, stumble over my words and act like a fool. So basically, act like I fancy them, which makes it all the worse. It's exactly the same when I get accused of something I haven't done. I blush, giggle, get shifty. Basically I am useless.
10) Loved ones being dead in a ditch
This dates back to my parents telling me that if I didn't let them know where I was going to be I could just wind up dead in a ditch and they wouldn't know. I used the phrase today when The Lad hadn't got in touch for a whole day (am I the only one that thinks that's ages, or is that just another neurotic thing about me?) and when I finally spoke to him I said 'Where were you? I thought you were dead in a ditch!' At which he was very confused and reminded me that there aren't actually any ditches in South Ealing, and had in fact been playing on Final Fantasy on his phone, hence the lack of contact. He is, of course, now more aware than ever that his girlfriend is completely bonkers. Especially since I then got annoyed because I said I missed him and he said he didn't miss me back. To be fair to him, he did say he loved me very much and would be very happy to see me every day, it's just that he doesn't feel he needs to see me every day. Which is where another of my neuroses comes into play...
11) He doesn't love you, he's just with you because you're really needy
The poor Lad is constantly fighting this particular neuroses. It's highly unlikely that he would have done a long distance relationship, meeting my mental rellies, be moving in with me etc if he just felt trapped but the fear is still there. Every so often it's like a little monster within takes over and goes 'You're completely mental! He can't possibly be attracted to an UTTER LOON like you! You keep asking him if he'd still love you if you were bald or obese or had a leg missing! Poor boy, turn your back and he'll run for the hills with that female friend of his who's much prettier than you and is really really funny and not just in a ha-ha-look-at-that-idiot-way'. I have been told this is actually quite normal. Most girls feel it at some point. In fact, lots of girls feel like that ALL THE TIME which is a shame for them really. Anyway, I try to ignore the voice, because I think I would probably turn into a needy, snivelling little freak if I didn't. And that is MOST unattractive.
I'll end it there Reader, before I rub off on you and you go away all neurotic and stuff! After all, I don't want loads of readers constantly asking if they're doing it right or getting scared of the typeface!
Ash
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