Dramatics...

Reader, last night I did a show (which sold out thankyouverymuch), had one drink with the lovely friends that had come to see it, waved farewell to my wonderful, talented cast and crew, kissed the man I'm seeing goodbye and tottered home to bed in advance of today's 9am voice job. Although I still only got 5 hours sleep, I'm feeling pretty self-impressed. I'd also been up and out of the house by 8am that very day to do some Bikram Yoga, so now I also have aches and pains which give me a smugness boost every time they twinge (whilst simultaneously making it totally acceptable to be eating left over chocolate cake with a spoon right now). The voice job went well, and I headed straight home for an afternoon of work (both acting and resting-job related) which I did (along with a short nap and a bowl of quinoa with feta). Now I'm still working and mulling over putting on a load of laundry. I can't quite decide if I'm atrociously dull or commendably grown up.

The thing is, I didn't used to be like this. As I did online admin and planned my family weekend earlier, I remembered what the night after a show used to mean for me. When I was younger (specifically at university), it meant shots of various flavours and colours, dancing like a lunatic, smoking 40 fags in the garden with my girlfriends as we sent death rays at the boys who were pissing us off at the time (there were always a few, generally because they couldn't/wouldn't get their acts together and snog us), playing ill advised drinking games (always seeming to require a jug filled with mystery booze combinations that would end up with a rugby player's sock in it), yelling at the moon, being sick on someone's shoes and finally tottering home at 5am with someone else's jumper and cheesy chips from the local kebab shop. At that age, I was convinced that life was like a film and pithy one liners (inevitably said with a drink in one hand and a Richmond Superking Menthol in the other) would mean that I'd end up getting the guy, being remembered as a hero and building memories and...well...that was just the way one did things, wasn't it?

I remember giving someone a particularly elegant one liner about wishing him well (or something equally obnoxious), looking at him with a slight side smile, taking the drink out of his hand and sauntering off into the crowd-which would have been TOTALLY COOL had he not come over and started drunk-dancing with me (I loved it back then but I'm pretty certain we looked ridiculous). I remember sitting on stairs with friends, gazing moodily into the night as I puffed away and said things that I thought sounded Very Grown Up but now I think about it, were completely ridiculous (and mostly ripped off from old David Lynch films and episodes of Sex and The City). I remember sitting in a puddle of mud and refusing to move until I'd finished singing my song. I remember doing shots of tequilla at 5am and then falling over on the hill home, then sending a number of ill advised texts at 6am. I remember one deeply awfully sober night where I stormed out of a club in tears (never go to a club after the funeral of someone you care deeply for, no matter how much you're pleaded with. It NEVER goes well.) and then sat crying in my living room with packs of fags surrounding me (like fishes talking to Ariel or something) and all the lights off. Yes. I genuinely was TOO SAD to turn the lights on. How melodramatic is that? To be fair, it had been a sad day and I was very tired and thought I was heartbroken (I wasn't, turns out real heartbreak isn't melodramatic, it's just dreadful and sore and mind numbingly dull).

I won't say that those nights stopped at university, because they didn't. While I was at drama school they petered out (you just don't have the time or energy to get drunk when you're doing that many hours a day on top of a commute) but they came back with a bang once I did my first national tour. I even had one rather dramatic night at the beginning of this year. But since then, even when I get super drunk, I don't want to get dramatic. It's just too much. You say things you don't mean, you do things that haunt you for months afterwards and you inevitably have a cracking hangover. I've never been the type to be the crying girl at the party, but even so, I think there comes a point when you'd just rather let things lay and NOT confess undying lust to the guy who's oh so totally wrong for you, or vomit in a bush, or throw a jug of Snakebite over someone's head. It's just exhausting.

But would I change all of those dramatic, cringeworthy, messy nights of my past? Not a chance in hell. They gave me some of the best stories I have.

So Reader, may your nights of drama not be too painful in the present, but bloody hilarious in a few months time and your mornings hangover free!

Ash
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Asking for it...

Reader, writing that last entry was like inviting fate to laugh at me. 'No nights out!' I wrote, thinking of my sofa and the tv shows I've been watching lately. 'My life is so dull and not like a dramatic 20 something life at all!'

Reader, last night was insane.

Fate decided to chuck me one of those nights that features in Girls, I met Lady Luxe and her amazing 7 ft male model friend, then we went for dinner (but since I'd been picking at things all day I just sat with them while they ate) and we drank out of jam jars (so Shoreditch darling). Then it was on to a private members club in Soho, where we had a ridiculous number of cocktails-and every time I finished one, someone would order another to replace it. Every time I went to the loo, I'd get offered a line of coke (which I never know how to politely refuse. I always sound like I'm turning down an offer of tea 'Oh, no thank you, I'm grand! But cheers anyway!') and in classic Ash form, I ended up acting like a total prat. After a large amount of alchohol, I got chatting to a really pretty lady in the bathroom and was sure we'd met. I kept saying 'Were you at this audition or that?' and even asked if she went to my old uni. In the mean time, her and her friend kept laughing. It was only this morning that I realised it was Angela Griffin, hugely famous Brit actor and presenter. I slightly wanted to cut my own tongue out for telling her she must 'just have one of those faces'.

Eejit.

Then great excitement occurred when Tom Hiddleston was spotted! My new friend Ruby and I decided to go on a Loki hunt (to no avail), but an hour later, I passed him deep in conversation. Realising that I was too tipsy to actually make a good impression by speaking up, I stroked his arm and ran away. I am ridiculous. I stroked and ran. Please someone kill me.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but there was a kiss in a rooftop garden, dancing with my ex boss like we were old men at a wedding to tunes of the early 2000's, chats with celebs about my hair (a bloke from Eastenders called it 'A firey dream'), someone telling me they wanted to write a book about me and a taxi home at 4am.

I'm still not entirely sure what happened, it all feels like a mad haze. Occasionally, my hangover clears and I remember saying some really stupid, far too brutally honest things and have to hide under a pillow again (apparently drunk Ash has no grasp of social etiquette). Two nights of drinking have destroyed me, so from tomorrow onwards it's all about running, Bikram yoga and veggie soup.

For a while at least...

Ash
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Hanging...

Reader, today I have not been very well. I have, in fact, had a hangover from hell. I went out last night and took full advantage of a happy hour deal and had six cocktails on a very empty stomach and when I woke up this morning, I had a mouth drier than a sand dune and a stomach that turned every time I reached for my glass of water. My head was vibrating like the inside of a bell and words weren't coming out as words, more like slurring yelps that made little sense. I sounded like a character from Lord Of The Rings. A midget Orc.

I wasn't even that dramatically drunk, but my mid-twenties ability to handle my booze has clearly diminished. I spent the majority of my day squinting at my screen trying to get work done, then having naps, then watching Glee while I worked and wept. Eventually I half crawled to Asda and got mashed potato and sausages and ate them in a giant Yorkshire pudding covered in gravy. I was quite proud given that I only got lost on the way to the shops once. Although I did discover that my purse got nicked last night, which was less encouraging on the ability to handle my drink front. When my friends left this morning, I was unable to get up and give them a hug, I just waved at them from bed encouragingly and then carried on groaning into my pillow.

The night was great though. My lovely actor friends banded together for a night of cocktails, positive attitudes and stories from the scary (and at times hilarious) world of dating in London. We laughed, we posed for silly pictures, we took the unholy mick out of each other and we behaved like the pretentious luvvies we claim to despise (which is always great fun).

I did however, get chatted up. Which is a bonus. Apart from the fact that he was a 20 year old telecoms project manager with an S shaved into his head and his chat up line was 'So what drink are you getting me?'. I laughed so hard that I nearly fell off my extremely tall shoes. 'No dear, I'm an actor. I can barely buy my own alcohol'. Then he asked how he could get in touch with me. 'Ahhh' I said, mysteriously, 'Look me up online!' Luckily no one can spell my name. Little does he know! Oh dear Reader. My life has been reduced to enigmatically turning down pre-pubescent telecoms staff whilst trying to stay upright on exceptionally high heels. Hardly Sex and The City.

It's the first time in a while I've had such an intense hangover. I used to have one at least once a week at uni (although I think the emotional scars from the awful, cringey things I did whilst pissed lasted longer than the hangovers.) Being a social secretary always comes with a side of painful morning afters. The difference of course, is that now when I'm hungover I'm invariably guilty over not giving work my 100%. So no more getting drunk for me. Till November anyway. And then the Christmas parties will begin and my home made mulled wine will be making one hell of an appearance!

Hurrah!
Ash
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Move those hips!

Reader, I am a complete ding-bat and managed to do something atrocious to my back in an aerobics class full of old ladies. I've been trying to get healthy for Christmas so that I can eat like a pig and drink like a fish and not feel too guilty about it, so I've taken up doing a really long exercise class every saturday, carrying on jogging three times a week and am going to pilates tonight. God help me.

I was always that child who pretended to be ill to get out of exercising at school, pressing my head against a radiator to make me feel feverish and limping to fake a sprained ankle 'I think it might be broken Miss!' so as you might guess, exercise does not come naturally to me. But because I've worked out that it gives me the chance to be unbearably smug, I now throw myself into it whole heartedly. Sometimes too wholeheartedly, as my crooked back would tell you if it could talk. Actually it probably wouldn't say that, it would probably just groan and ask for a hot water bottle.

Apart from the back issue, it's been a great weekend. I went out for drinks with the work lot on friday, dressed in a shockingly bad wig to be Uma Therman in Pulp Fiction, got far too drunk on Tesco gin and tonic in a can, gave strangers on a train cupcakes and got lost walking back from the station at about 1.30 in the morning. Saturday I went to a friend's Halloween party dressed as a bright green demon magician and got face paint EVERYWHERE (thank god she put dust sheets all over her gorgeous designer furniture!), Then finally yesterday we hosted an afternoon halloween tea for the kids in my family (and some big kids too). My gorgeous godson AG was particularly enthralled by mine and the lad's costumes and showed off his new skills at walking and chewing place mats. He's at that brilliant stage where 'peek-a-boo' is still the funniest thing in the world, and he's just learnt that crawling away really fast is a fun way to escape family occasions. Brilliant child.

On that note Reader, I'm off to go and sort out my costume tonight, must NOT let the trick or treater's down!
Ash
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