Epilogue

What up? So. I am back. Whether this remains an epilogue or becomes the start of a return remains to be seen. I felt like I had some things to say so wanted to come back and say them. This may end up being something of a mammoth post as a result. I also feel more than a little rusty and this may not be my best-written post ever. However, please forgive my always idiosyncratically clunky use of the English language and rest assured that my need to be slightly too honest has not gone away. Pity my mother who always has to listen to this stuff in person. I do make her laugh more often than not so I hope I do the same for you.

First off: I have finished my course. You are probably slightly resentful that I did not bring you along as I said I might. However, I did write in excess of 80,000 words for assessment purposes and a large amount of this was a chronicle of our day-to-day activities. This number does not include the notebooks that I have filled with my scrawls. By the time I'd made a note of everything that we did in a day and then re-written it to hand it in later there was nothing I wanted to do less than talk about it more. Here is a selection of highlights, however, for your perusal:

• There was no Naked Day. Praise Jeebus. However, we did do these things called Object Exercises and, as a result, I have seen all of my classmates in their underwear at least once and have stripped down myself. One guy even got his kit off completely but I had been pre-warned and sat somewhere where I knew my view would be obscured. Taking my clothes off was far less of a biggie than I thought it would be and my abiding memory of the exercises is boredom. We watched each other doing the blessed things for HOURS. Putting make-up on, curling hair, endlessly. I thought Bla was going to win "Most Tedious" for her exercise where she got ready for a plane to New York and we watched her do her hair and make-up for 40 minutes, bleeding the session into our lunch break. Eventually, Ingy took first place with her Sleeping Partner exercise. I have a page of notes dedicated to a frustrated conversation between three of us sitting next to each other fuming because it was taking over an hour. She took four minutes to open a single sweet packet. I know because I kept glancing at the clock in disbelief. The finale of the exercise was her changing and, given that she is a particularly pneumatic young woman, it felt like our tutor was making sure that definitely happened. She has never lived that down.
•  
• The most unbelievable person on the planet teaches at GSA. His name is Ian Ricketts. There is no real way to explain him. I never felt more special or beautiful at GSA than in his classes. In our first movement class with him he exhorted us to walk tall, saying, "be magnificent. Anything less would be untruthful." The highlight of my year was his woodland walk.
• 
  
• I learned that I have a lot more to learn. Particularly in terms of how to use my voice. Several of the things I worried about when I started have been an issue that I've had to work on. I started crying in one class because I didn't understand how to use my tongue to make a proper 's' sound. I am still working on it. I've had to work hard to improve my posture and my neck tension is something that I have to force myself to stretch out every day. I often forget.
•  
• I already miss the structure like you wouldn't believe. I loved the first two terms where I knew where I had to be and I could eat whatever I wanted as any weight I gained would be melted off because I was working so hard. I was on two or three extracurricular dance classes plus full days of moving, stretching, working. I was also trying to keep my running up in between. In term two I was an actual machine; I've never been so fit in my life. I have slacked off since...
•  
• My housemates were not great. Two of them were also performing arts students and so I got on with them quite well as people. As housemates, however, they were all pretty dreadful. Crap at recycling, terrible at clearing up after themselves, reluctant to clean. If you are not already aware, at one point in the year there were faeces on the bathroom carpet. However, I am still glad I didn't live in halls. My room was a quiet haven that had many of my things in and my evening ritual was one of the things that kept me sane.
•  
• My coursemates were delightful. There were some that I got on better than with others, which is always the way. The fact that the majority of them were significantly younger was sometimes an issue, mainly because of my energy levels. Many of them were shocked that I am my age but given that many of them were straight from Uni, I felt it was more that they didn't know very many people of my age socially. They have an idea of what a woman in their thirties is like and I didn't fit in to that. The main thing I noticed was how bad so many of them are at just having a normal conversation. They have the attention span of gnats and forget to ask questions. I got told off a lot towards the end of the year for not offering up information about myself because they thought I was being modest or whatever. I refrained from telling them that they either didn't listen or hadn't asked.
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• I got to see what it's like to be onstage at the National. I got to play Hedda Gabler for an assessment, just one scene but still one of the most satisfying things I've ever been able to do. I got a distinction overall and for my written work stayed pretty damn consistent with one piece of work getting a mark of 90%. My best mark for acting was 87%, which was for my public production; I think part of the reason I did so well is because I am an amusing onstage drunk.

 God, I am probably missing loads but that seems like a fairly comprehensive skimming list. Maybe I'll think of some more things and top it up as I go along.

I was dumped in the Easter holidays. I had spent weeks collecting notes and scribblings for my Hedda Gabler essay and had just started writing when he did it. It took me several days to get back on track. That still irritates me more than it perhaps should. The whole thing irritates me perhaps more than it should. I don't know whether irritates is the right word. I think because there is so much that feels unresolved for me, I am struggling to get over it. I got cross with him for being thoughtless and he ended it. So was it my fault for bringing attention to his failings?

When I was the dumper I wanted to leave it all behind, partly out of guilt and partly because I was already one foot out of it. As the dumpee, I was still wholeheartedly in it and have not coped well with it being over. To be honest, it was the nicest relationship I've had. The most content and the one where I could look to the future and think, "yes. I will happily continue to do this for some time." I wanted to jump headfirst into a future with Thomas. One that involved camping and long walks and The West Wing and pancakes for breakfast and long discussions about things I didn't really understand. I am really, really sad about it still. I wish we could be friends now but I am starting to, slowly, get the hint that this isn't do-able. I can no longer expect him to text me back quickly if ever. I can't expect him to care that I am sad or hurt. It's been a while now and I should be over it.

I have tried. I signed back into internet dating while drunk and was immediately popular because drunk me is apparently better at writing profiles than sober me. Only one guy was of interest and we eventually went on a date (I did go on a date with one other guy and chatted to others but I could barely muster enthusiasm for any of them). He talked for hours about cycling. By an amusing twist of fate, it was on Thomas's birthday and I decided that they would get on far better with each other. The chap I was on a date with didn't even bother to ascertain my feelings on cycling or he might have found out that I can't even ride a bike. It seems unbelievable to me that you can have a conversation with someone on a date and not realise that you're the only one talking. I left feeling extremely down and deleted my profile.

How long I last off the websites is dependent on how lonely I feel. I am in a strange place at the moment where I haven't met anyone I fancy for ages. But now I am out in the world as an actor (more on this later, fingers crossed), I am more likely to meet people than in an office. It's just that the real world involves a lot more to-ing and fro-ing. You have to establish if people are single, straight, interested in a relationship, interested in you. The comforting thing about the websites is that you are all there for the same thing, in theory.

I wish my epilogue had more of a happy ending. Maybe I am just not going to ever be in a long-lasting relationship. Or maybe this is the sequel and I should just keep you posted. 

I'm Not Dead Yet.

I was told by Kathryn (who else?) that if I was thinking of letting this blog quietly end, I should notify my loyal readers. However, I am not sure that I want to do that quite yet. I’m quite fond of my little corner of the internet and am not convinced that I want to leave it behind forever.

The reason I was even considering it is because I find it increasingly hard to know what to write. I feel like all of the things that I used to worry about are all things that I’ve sort of dealt with. It’s weird; I’m kind of older and wiser and, as a result, less convinced of my own inherent interestingness (totally a word) to others. Romantic comedies always end when the heroine achieves some sort of resolution. They are rarely just about her finding romantic resolution; she often has to get out of her crappy job and solve all the other relationships in her life. That’s why they’re often derided because it is implied that the woman is unable to sort herself out without the help of a man. Which is unfortunate really. My opinion is that these things just happen together sometimes. I know that when I was feeling fairly flyaway and uncontrolled, I found those books reassuring and hoped it would happen to me. Funnily enough, it has. Not in a way that would have provided the same sort of catharsis as a book or a film plot, and I certainly got up to fewer hijinks and barely fell over at all. My boyfriend is not the reason it all happened or the reason why I’ve made the big changes but if I hadn’t made changes, I doubt I would have asked him out.

So if I feel that, to a certain extent, I have reached the end of the story, should I end the blog? I am certainly feeling all resolutiony. I’m packing up things at work and getting rid of my worldly possessions to charity shops, eBay and my Mum’s loft. I’ve finally moved out of the overweight bit of the BMI scale and into “healthy.” I appreciate that the BMI is flawed but I am still happy about it. I have quit all Coca Cola products and now work out almost every day. I am finally going off to do the thing that I’ve always wanted to do.

I am terrified but really happy/excited/anxious/practical/prepared/flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants depending on which moment of the day it happens to be. In some ways: Totally prepared. In other ways: Really not sure what I’m preparing for. Is “Naked Day” merely a terrifying rumour? Will I like anyone I’m living with? Will I ever finish any of the books on my reading list given that I have not even finished the one that I’ve started? To what extent will they rip into my breathing (very likely, I’m a mouth breather), my voice (I have a soft “s”, which is a corrected lisp from when I was a child), my posture (my head juts forward and as a result means I have a tense neck, which may strangle vocal cords) and movement (very, very poor flexibility and balance)? All of those things that I’ve tried to work on but really struggled with will suddenly be held under a microscope.  Maybe they’ll teach me how to work on them properly, which is what I hope will happen, or maybe they’ll shake their heads sadly and tell me I will never make it.

Happily, I have received a number of bits of information to help me prepare for the first week. I am almost registered, I have an IT account, a student number and somewhere to live. It is not in halls. I thought that living in halls would be the absolute worst idea in the world. They would all drive me mad and think I was weird and just no. On so many levels. I can’t really plan for anything else and will just have to take it as it comes. As a control freak who pretends very hard to be cool, I am struggling with this but it really is all I can do. It is an adventure and a new chapter, and I hope that I have time (my schedule will be punishing) to update my blog and, in essence, bring you chaps along with me.

Living Like A Monk

We've just had an austerity chat in the office. I'm still very much a learner in the austerity stakes. While the money pressures of living alone have curbed my ability to spend money on things I don't need, I do still have a tendency to splash out. I still shop in Waitrose, for example. I know I should stop but I can't quite bring myself to. I bloody love Waitrose. I also had to buy some clothes at the beginning of March in order to wear something colourful for my dazzling television debut. Apart from that, though, I've done alright. I've definitely turned the volume down on the bit of my brain that expects Things as a matter of course. I struggle a bit with social spending but life is about to change significantly...

From my previous hints, you may be aware that I have been gearing up for Significant Changes to take place in life and that. As of now, I know they're actually going to happen so I don't mind letting you in on my news. About a year ago, my Mum surprised me in the middle of a phone conversation by offering to send me to drama school. I stopped talking coherently for about ten minutes and just made noises to reassure her that I was still on the other end of the phone. It took me about three months to decide whether I was going to do it and a further six months to actually fill in and send five forms off for MA Acting courses. It should have been six but one of them got lost in the post and I was feeling the pinch and delayed sending off the £35 audition fee until the point where it was no longer an issue. Anyway, I've had four auditions so far, I've received one reserve offer from Glasgow, two full offers from Birmingham and Guildford, I'm waiting to receive a response to my audition a week ago back from Central and trying to decide whether I need to go to East 15 at all. Whatever I choose to do, I am set for next year.

Now, this is both terrifying and exhilarating. I expected that it would take me a couple of attempts to actually get a place. I was not expecting anywhere near this level of success and I am fair giddy about the Guildford offer as I loved it when I went there. What it tells me is that I offer something that people are interested in working with and that is so exciting. The main reason I want to go is to get some more training, work with people who love it all as much as I do and not have to spend every day staring, pointlessly, at a computer screen. But...

I don't know if it is going to work out. I don't know if I can cope with being an actor. That's the smaller voice in my head. The big clamouring, shouting voice is saying "you're never going to save up enough money to live on, you know". I've got a year now that will probably cost me £6000/£7000 just on living costs. And that will be on a strict budget. I spend more than that in half the time now. And then the smaller voice pipes up again saying that I'm going to be as poor as a church mouse, possibly for the rest of my working life if I choose to go down this road. The next few months will see the start of austerity times as I am moving back in with my Mum, hopefully will get a second job and will spend all the rest of my time flogging things on eBay and exercising. It's going to require a lot of discipline and frugality.

The thing is, what's the use of all the stuff? It is nice being able to buy things, it really is. But I don't have any dependants and I don't have to lead an extravagant lifestyle to spend time with lovely people. The truth is that I have started to realise that there is more to life than security. It is the fear that plagued me throughout my twenties and stopped me from doing anything more exciting with my life. If it gets too much, that'd be the point at which I say "well, I've tried it, I've proved something to myself and I've got some enviable educational administration skills to fall back on". But right now, in full possession of my own life and a determination to actually do something worthwhile with it, I will be jetting off into the sunset.

I'm not the person I was even a year ago. I wrote a post ages ago about my need to hide aspects of my personality away as though I was ensuring some sort of air of mystique in order to keep up the pretence that I am more interesting than I actually am. You know what, maybe I am interesting; no need to pretend. I have awards and trophies and I get offers from drama schools. And, in a moment of glorious closure, we revisited the short play for which I had received the "four... after a pint" comment from an audience member regarding my looks. This time we were performing as part of the All England Theatre Festival for which we receive adjudication. The adjudicator started discussing my performance and said "I don't know, she said she was a nine..." Imagine my heart plummeting as I waited for the end of the sentence "to me she was more like a ten". I nearly cried.

Introducing...

Hey world, it's been some time. I am slack. The reasons for this are twofold:

1) I have less to complain about
2) I am waiting for something which I am scared to talk about on the basis that if I do, it will not happen.

However, I would still like to touch base and say hello. Therefore, you will get an update based on the fact that I am actually happy, although I am fairly sure that I am far more entertaining when soul-gazing in a complain-y sort of way. And a fudge of not-quite news and abstract hints. Sound good? Excellent.

So, the happiness thing. What's that about, eh? Well, I'm going out with someone I really like. Really, really like. It didn't start off particularly hopefully: When he'd first come to live down South because of his sister, my friend Robin, I had found him somewhat odd. He seemed extremely serious and sensible, as well as bizarrely competitive. Then time passed and I got to know him a little better and he started to relax and stopped being quite so serious and uptight and I realised that messing with him was fun. I found that it was possible to distract him from being quite so sensible by sending him into a mild paddy. I didn't really think for a moment that I was flirting. I mean, he’s younger than me and I've done the younger man thing and, really, it would never work and even though I might find him a little bit attractive with his face and his height and his lovely old-fashioned nature and WHO IS THAT GIRL? Oh, it's fine, it's not his girlfriend, not that I would care anyway because obviously I didn't fancy him at all because it would never work and what was I even thinking, well, not about anything like that, don't be daft, that never even entered my mind… I was in denial, I freely admit it. It was never really that serious and even if I did entertain the notion, I had crushes on several people during that time. I mean; see a great number of my previous posts.

The next thing that happened was that I tried to sort my brain out. I was tired of obsessing about people I couldn't have and doing the same thing over and over, living the same mistakes which just led to me still being alone. And the brain-sorting exercise helped, despite me thinking that my brain was possibly beyond help. I tried to be more open to life and tried to stop obsessing. This new mindset coincided with a play that I was in with an extremely nice, tall, young man and Kathryn, friend and mentalist. During the run up to the play, I had mentioned to Kathryn that I found said young man somewhat attractive. She then proceeded to make sure that we talked to each other and used an upcoming event to ensure that I had a reason to email and get his number. Despite all this, it wasn't until the morning after the last night party when he, and his delightful brother, made bacon sandwiches for two hungover women at his mansion after a night of chatting, crying and glass-breaking that I realised how sad I'd be at not seeing him every evening. I finally admitted it to myself; I really liked him.

Quick note: He doesn't actually own a mansion. This is a private joke that I just re-read and realised it sounded like I was won over by his riches and large house. I'm not that shallow, honest. Although with my track record, the fact that he has a job is a big win.

Then I asked him out. I make it sound like this was an easy thing to do. To be honest, it wasn't as difficult as I thought it might be. It took a while and there were a couple of occasions when I nearly gave up before I’d even begun, wailing "He couldn't be less interested if he tried" at Kathryn when she asked for updates. But eventually I got up the nerve to ask him for a coffee (I don't drink coffee but it’s the only beverage that doesn’t sound ridiculous when you ask someone out) and he said yes. We didn't stop talking for three hours at which point the previously mentioned delightful brother phoned to find out where on earth he was and he had to go. There was then a hilarious interlude where I realised I’d lost my purse the night before but that’s unrelated. When I’m drunk I am both idiotic and incredibly lucky.

 It is always a bit risky writing something (especially several paragraphs' worth) about anything like this as there is no guarantee that it will last. My relationship history is a pretty good indication of the impermanence of romantic entanglements.

And yet. Given that I write endlessly about the bad and sad stuff on here, it seemed only fair that I report on some of the good stuff too. It may be silly of me but I felt like you might like to hear it.

Since that first beverage, we have spent a lot of time together. A fair amount of that was due to the panto that we were both in at the end of the year. Let me tell you that being a lady in the early stages of getting together with someone and trying to be attractive while simultaneously having to be a male panto villian With A Beard is very, very confusing. It isn't something that I can imagine popping up very often in life but, rest assured: Confusing.

I feel like all the things I found odd about him before are all things that I admire about him now. He stops to help people when there's an accident (I didn't find this odd. This is amazing. Although there was one story from a social evening at Kathryn's when there'd been a car fire on the green outside her house and he just happened to have a fluorescent jacket and went and cordoned it off. Now, I don't know about you but there are very few people that I've ever met who carry a fluorescent jacket). He is fearless about talking to people. He loves science and maths and tries to explain these things to me. Sometimes he tells wonderful and beautiful stories and sometimes, through no fault of his, I glaze over. He calls it my TCP:IP face from when he tried to explain the internet. He is so clever and so good and sensible about things I'm daft about. It feels like a good thing and, even though it's early days, asking Thomas out for a coffee feels like one of my better decisions.

As to the other thing, the fudgey, not-quite-news thing. It is cracking on a-pace. Life is starting to happen to me and although I fear change (I'm uniformly waking at two or three in the morning in a mild panic), I am welcoming it in. I don't feel even slightly in control of my own life at the moment but I am making things happen. And as my extremely long blog post will attest to, that can occasionally be an extremely good thing.

Alice and the Universe: Part 2

Dear Universe


It is possible that you have redeemed yourself entirely. We'll see how it goes but, for the minute, we appear to be quits.

Good work.

Love
Alice

A Certain Sort of Contentment

I write this feeling particularly bleary-eyed and slightly sorry for myself. I've been suffering under an annoying cold this week. Not ill enough to stay at home, not well enough to really enjoy anything. I've spent far too much time on the sofa trying to learn new chords. For anyone who's interested, my favourite new chord on the ukulele is C6:

And yet I have not managed to learn any lines. I'll get on that at some point.

In some ways, I am feeling content yet conflicted. I had some amazing advice from a friend and actually acted upon it. Which is so unlike me; I prefer to complain about stuff than do anything constructive. I'd got to the point, though, where I was bringing a certain issue up more and more frequently and had realised how bad it was for me that I was clinging onto it so tightly. I couldn't work out whether it was just an excuse or an actual problem so I took steps to find out. Things have worked out exactly as I would have hoped, which has been an ideal combination of timing and good fortune and I finally feel like there's some sort of (apologies now for the horrible yet appropriate word usage on the other side of this bracket) closure.

So, yeah, closure. It is, completely genuinely, great. However, the downside for me is when do I know whether I'm fixed? Am I okay now? Has the closure fairy worked her magic (totally a thing)? In the last few years, I have run away from anything where I'd be expected to actually have a grown-up, real relationship. I went to the wedding of a friend last year and saw not just how happy they were but how well they knew each other and how much they were each other's partner. I left there knowing exactly what I wanted, ended the mildly dysfunctional relationship I was in, and have been single now for a year and a half.

I am at a point where I feel like less of a hopeless prospect. I don't feel quite so much like that sign is there above my head saying "she's an absolute nightmare of a girlfriend, run away!" The downside, though, is that I am at the point where I have gone far too long without regular sex. Therefore, even though I am emotionally in a position to make decent choices, it is entirely possible that the idea of actual physical contact might make my mind up for me. If I find someone attractive and they seem fairly keen on me, then I might just go for it and realise, several months down the line, that I've jumped in far too quick and basically had an extremely long fling, further delaying the possibility of an actual functional relationship.

At the same time, though, I could end up turning down something great because I am so worried about making a mistake. Seriously, how do I know? If I like someone, does that necessarily mean that I'm wrong?Sometimes I think it'd be nice to believe in something, like a god or fate or whatever, because then you also tend to believe that things will just happen in a convenient pre-ordained type way. But, yeah, that really isn't me. 

I don't know what the future holds but that's okay. I don't know what being sorted is like or whether I am fixed but that's okay too. I just know that, cold aside, I feel better. I feel hopeful.

"Right"

My Mum has this thing that she does. She's never been particularly good at just sitting down and doing nothing. I have probably mentioned before (I could verify this by checking through all my blogs but man, for someone who doesn't blog very much, there are an awful lot to look through when you just want to find mention of a single anecdote) about the reason why I don't do ironing except on very special occasions, primarily like when I don't want to look like a complete bag lady. More often than not I am content with bag lady-ness and will forego the ironing because it is like death. Anyway, the main reason for feeling like this is that the only way I could justify watching the entire programming on Channel 4 on Sundays when I was a teenager (to whit: Dawson's Creek, Hollyoaks Omnibus and As If) was by doing the ironing for the entire family. I was aware that for the majority of my friends they were able to just sit and watch this essential viewing, none of which I can tolerate for more than five minutes now, but for me, I had to justify it. It's like when I wanted to listen to the Radio 1 chart in the afternoons; I had to make the roast dinner at the same time. It was never really a big deal and everyone was similarly busy: Mum and Dad would be doing schoolwork (as teachers. In case there was any confusion. I just read that and it looked weird) and Zoe would generally be doing something productive somewhere. I assume she was. Wait, what was Zoe doing? Thinking about it, this may well have been a routine that started after she'd left for Uni in which case she would have been in her pyjamas and legitimately being lazy but it would have been in a different city, in which case, fair play to her. She was always better at playing the system than me. I still tease her for the fact that she managed to avoid washing up after the roasts on a Sunday by having suspiciously long toilet trips. She is a stealth rebeller, that girl.

Where was I? Oh yes, ironing. No. That was merely an example. Wait, yes; my mother's inability to be lazy. She's got far more relaxed since retiring but she's still not particularly good at just sitting. If there's something on her mind, we'll sit down and have a chat or a cup of tea and once that's done, she will say the word "right". There is no way of conveying this successfully on the page but she says it with such resolution that, despite how cosy you may be, how much you are enjoying the current chat, you will find yourself on your feet. There is a power to the way my mother says "right". To be honest, it should always have a capital "R". It looks wrong otherwise.

Recently, I have had a definite sense of that particular "Right" popping up in my own head. There are certain things that I've been clinging on to that just aren't very good for me. There are plans that I am actually forging ahead with (more on these when there's something definite to tell you. I mean, the number of times I've talked about namby-pamby not-quite plans that haven't happened. It's annoying for me to read back on them and you must all despair of me) and things that I have been encouraged to do in an attempt to let go of certain things that have been holding me back.

Number one at the moment is to try and think less about Mr P. I've been completely obsessed and it's just pointless. He's happy with his life and I need to accept that and not be sitting around waiting for something to change in that respect. Until I'm cool with just being his friend, I need to stop talking to him because every conversation makes me feel sad and wistful, which is old ground for me and I need to stop doing it to myself.

Not Mr P is also not going to happen. We've got a mutual friend who I think is going to drive me mad as she is more desperate for it to work than either of us. He's being foisted on me, although I'm sure it's even worse the other way 'round, and all I'm doing is noticing how much I do not fancy him. He's alright as a person but, wow, am I not interested. Not that she hears me. We had a conversation recently about a job opening and she was telling me for about an hour how brilliant she thought I'd be at that job and how I should go for it, despite me trying to communicate how much I didn't want to do it and how it would actually be a pay downgrade for me. Listening is not one of her skills, is my point.

The most worrying thing is that I'm actually finding it quite difficult to sit and do nothing. For this reason I am actually getting to a level of, I don't want to call it competence, that would most certainly be overstating it, um, imagine the barest modicum of musical ability and that's me on the ukulele. Contextually, though, I would like to remind you that I played the violin for six years as a child without reaching Grade 1. The fact that I have managed to master a few chords and sing along with them WITHOUT LESSONS is, for me, an enormous achievement. I do have to rename the instrument itself though. It was originally my Blue-kulele but I have recently reached the conclusion that it's black. I'm sure it was blue...

I did spend last weekend almost entirely in my lounge in front of the TV but, being short of money, had decided to make a couple of birthday presents so spent Saturday stitching felt triangles to a cord for bunting and spent Sunday trying to work out how to make a costume for a small child without measuring anything or using patterns (this is quite tricky). I was knackered by Sunday night and have spent the small amount of time I've had to myself this week really unable to relax. I just keep feeling like there's something I should be doing.

I might be turning into my Mum a little bit.

Teenage Skin

The funny thing is that when I was a teenager, the skin on my face was pretty flawless. I never even thought about it. The only time I remember thinking "oh hey, I don't have spots" was when they gave out some sort of Clearasil freebies at school and a classmate told me that I didn't need it in an irritable way that implied that the Clearasil freebie I was holding should be his (other skin products are available). Throughout my twenties, I'd get the occasional spot around my period and, like everyone else, think that it was actually taking up the entire circumference of my face so that I became the Lady With The Spot. "Oh God!" The townspeople would cry, "don't look at her, it's too horrible!" I may not be talking to you, you may have a completely rational reaction to having tiny facial imperfections. I don't know your life.

But still, I'm not sure I realised how good I had it. Because acne, the bullet I dodged throughout my teen years, has finally struck. At 32 years of age. What.The.Hell? Even looking back at photos from last year, I start to get nostalgic about how nice my skin was. Now it's getting to the point where I am starting to consider wearing make-up on a daily basis. For reals.

I keep trying different things. So far the most effective has been doing the Festival, which may be due to spending more time outside. I'm hoping that it isn't actually the awful school dinners I had there because I don't want to have to recreate those at home. My skin might have cleared up over the three weeks but my digestion was horrendous. Some people were constantly farting. Not me, I hasten to add. I never fart. And if I were to, it would smell marvellous. Anyway, I'm trying to get outside more, is my point.

I've cut out Diet Coke entirely. I'm eleven days clean. It is driving me a bit potty but I haven't touched it. Given that I've put on weight again (not much but it was hard losing it in the first place and I've still not reached any goals or whatever) and am now trying to lose it again alongside exercising, I am constantly distracted. I keep bouncing around all of these things that I want but can't have. Diet Coke? No. Biscuits? No. Diet Coke? No. Ice cream? No. Diet Coke? Diet Coke?! DIET COKE?!!! No. At least the cravings are keeping me awake because without the caffeine I have a tendency to snooze at my desk. Man, I really want some Diet Coke.

I've sorted a skincare regime now, which is nice. I'm like a real-life grown-up lady. I've always tried to do it but forgot after a few days. Apparently, I really need an impetus to get responsible about my life choices. At the moment I'm washing it every morning and night and going to sleep with stuff on my face. I look a picture. Hey, single men of the world, check me out.

Oh well, it's not like I'm interested in any single men anyway. Stupid Mr P.

Awkward, as in: I am.

I've spent the last couple of weeks taking part in a drama festival at a boarding school in Petersfield. Although not staying, I've been there so much that Mum's been looking after the cats for me and I've just been going home to sleep. The first week we rehearsed Much Ado About Nothing, the second we rehearsed Twelfth Night in the day then performed Much Ado in the evenings and in the third week, which is where I am now, we are free in the day and performing Twelfth Night. Except for me, back at work.

Anyways, it's been a very valuable experience for me for several reasons, none of which I was really expecting. Namely, I have 1) found it really, really hard, 2) had a mahussive ego dent, 3) have had an unexpected kick up the bum. The only thing that has really been as I expected is that I have enjoyed myself but even that has not been for reasons that I thought I would.

To elaborate:

1) I was not expecting it to be so hard for me to have normal conversations with people. Seriously. I was so completely shy on the first couple of days that I barely spoke. When I did, I said things that probably made me seem ever so slightly simple. Since then, I have been impressed by how boring, inarticulate and quiet I am. I have been completely out of my comfort zone: I didn't know anyone when I started; no-one is the same age as me; and the residents all met before I even turned up on the first day. Then the residents have been able to stay up drinking, chatting and forming friendships and running gags while I've been soberly driving back to Southsea. It has been quite lonely at times and I've been so irritated at my inability to just connect with people. However, I'm starting to come through the other side of it now and actually chat and laugh, which is what I need to remember. It isn't so much that I am unable to talk to people but that it takes me longer than it should to chill out about it. I read somewhere that shyness is just another form of egotism, which is true. A lot of it comes from thinking that everyone else is constantly noticing and judging you, which is rarely the case. Actually applying this knowledge is a different matter, though.

2) I am not as good as I think I am. I do, as an actor, have both pride and ego. This is fairly necessary, I feel, in order to be able to get up in front of an audience and perform. If I didn't think I could, I wouldn't be able to. On the first day, I had a certain amount of rage. I had been given a tiny part in Much Ado and nothing at all in Twelfth Night and I'd been fine with that, thinking I was going to turn up and everyone would be so good that I'd be completely blown away. On the first day, I genuinely thought they were all a bit rubbish, including Beatrice, mainly because it's on the list of parts I really want to play. However, the whole festival has been something of a marathon exercise. I am exhausted at the end of the day and my body and voice are starting to get somewhat knackered. If I'd had that number of lines, especially alongside the amount to do that the same actress has had in Twelfth Night as Feste, I genuinely don't think I would have been able to do it. And do it well, which she has. Even though I am good for amateur theatre, there is still so much I need to improve on. I need to be more disciplined and I just don't have the training to fall back on. I probably wouldn't have cast me either.

3) I have surprised and impressed people, including myself. After doing a bit of singing in Much Ado, I went along to the first day of Twelfth Night rehearsals with the director's vague notion that there be a small onstage band, which he'd kind of just had the idea for. This turned into seven-hour daily rehearsals where we learned songs, used bits of these for the show at appropriate points, made up stuff, taught them to people, worked out harmonies and underscored movements. My main contribution was writing everything down, to the extent that I missed the company party on Friday because I spent it in the office next door writing up a cue sheet. That isn't as tragic as it sounds; there were a few of us with beer and cake and gossip, and the occasional drunken interruption from next door. There are 113 cues which is an impressive memory feat given that we only had one point five runthroughs prior to the first performance (the second runthrough got interrupted by a swarm of bees). It has been so satisfying spending every day singing, especially around a group of people who've never heard me before. I've had a lot of compliments. I won't lie; that's been amazing. But the compliments have been followed by "when are you playing next, can I come and see you?" At which point I wonder what the heckins I've been doing with my time. I've already emailed Kathryn; The Fake Aunts are getting mobilised.


What I expected was that I'd turn up and it would be easy. I expected, because I have become more confident in my day-to-day life, that I could transfer this to a new environment. This has not been the case. I expected to win them over just by being a good actor but you do kind of get lost in the crowd when you're surrounded by good actors. What has happened instead is that by working hard, being creative, reliable and supportive, I've managed to make an impression. When your name starts getting used as a positive description for something, that is surely a good thing.

It is entirely possible that by being so useful, I will end up in a similar role next year but I hope I can do more if they let me. Don't tell anyone but whisper it very quietly so that the gods might hear and take pity on me:
Titania. Number one on the list.

Beside The Sea

I have moved. Did you know this? I am now living alone apart from the cats and a disturbingly high number of moths. I have no problem with moths ordinarily but I disapprove of their clothes-eating tendencies so there we must part ways to the extent that I try and smack to death any that get too close to the wardrobe. Not that I've got the best relationship with my, or indeed any, clothes at the mo but I'd prefer to keep the garments I have free from gaping moth-holes. Weird thing about me and weight loss: I start noticing how much fashion does not help me out. I am a funny shape - broad and tall but curvy-ish without a real waist - and fashion and I rarely see eye-to-eye. At the moment, fashions make me look either mannish or matronly, and garments where this doesn't happen cling to the body I'm not happy with yet. It takes me an age to get dressed somedays.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, moving. I moved in April. Finchy got an offer he couldn't refuse, fortunately not from the Mafia, and I decided to try out something that I've been slightly nervous of: I no longer live with another human. So far it has been going okay. It is Expensive living alone but I don't appear to be going crazy, at least not to the point where I've noticed it. Although I wouldn't necessarily, would I? You'd tell me, wouldn't you? Ta.

There are some definite positives. I've created this tidy, quiet nest of a place and there's something about it where I feel like I shuck off concerns of the day when I enter it. Being accountable to myself means that I actually get things done. Rubbish gets cleared, floors get cleaned, ironing actually gets ironed. I've even started making meals from recipes with herbs and spices and such, which is a nice change. I've been a fairly decent cook in the past but have shied away from it in recent years. Apparently putting some effort into stuff like that even when it's just for you is actually worth it. Who knew?

The best thing, though, is the sea. I am so close. I walk out of my door and it is right there. At night, multicoloured lights swing between lamppost. By day, especially on the rare nice days, there's so much life out there. When I don't have anything to do at the weekend, I wander out with a book and just spend an hour or two outside. Sometimes I can feel a bit self-conscious about going out and doing things on my own but there's something about the seaside that negates this. It doesn't matter that I'm not doing anything specific; I'm beside the sea and for some reason I'm at home.



In other news: I phoned up for a hair appointment earlier and was given a slot at 3.45 but just as I was about to ring off was stopped: "Oh wait, there's a note saying you have a lot of hair, can you come in at 3.30 instead?" I like that the difference between my hair and other people's is quantifiable: I have 15 minutes more hair.

Also, I had a chat with Mr P earlier. He left and Charlotte, who has so far been ignorant of my crush, turned to me and said, "you know, it's a shame he has a girlfriend. You'd make a really great couple." After I admitted that, maybe, yes, I found him slightly attractive, she proceeded to point out an instance where there had been "a chink in the girlfriend armour" and encouraged me to wiggle my way in there. Good grief. Even my Mum said the other day that "it isn't as if he's married or anything." Of course, she may have just been trying to shut me up, in which case, job done.

All I'm doing is chatting occasionally and liking him from my side with absolutely no expectations. There's nothing wrong in that, is there?

Alice and the Universe

I've been debating whether to write this for a few days. As the sort of person who, when speaking about someone, has to check that they are not behind me, it is quite terrifying to commit myself to writing about others, as it is a far more permanent method of discussion. I don't really write about other people very often, beyond my family, and have taken posts down in the past for fear of ructions. I don't like ructions. I can mention Kathryn though. Otherwise she may get bored and wander away. Hello sweetie, you've heard most of this and for that I apologise.

However, this post is coming about because the universe and me are somewhat at odds at the moment and unfortunately it does involve other people. Both of whom will hopefully never discover this blog. Unless me and the universe get back on speaking terms and everything works out for the best. This is unlikely to happen so, yeah. Get your hoping boots on.

I am so single. So, so single. So single am I that I am becoming a happy-ending deterrent. At a recent improv night we did a longform based around the structure of a romantic comedy. I was the heroine and the whole plot ended with her alone while the girl who stole both her men chatted up the doctor in the hospital room of the heroine's dead would-be boyfriend. Most tragic romcom ever. Who knew it was contagious? I'm going to have to start ringing a bell.

Part of the problem is that it is very difficult to meet people, not aided by the fact that I have stuck to my anti-dating website stance. Every so often I think about breaking that resolution, even going so far as putting in my search criteria, but then I start thinking through the last few attempts and wonder how worth it, it really is. Outside of that, in the real world, it is incredibly rare that I meet people who actually interest me.

This is where the universe hating me comes in.

I just tried to write the complete history of this which would take me forever. I will try to skip forward to somewhere a bit more pertinent. There's someone at work I like.

UPDATE:
I have long since got over Max. There's no interesting story there. He's still here, I never did anything embarrassing, it was just a crush that died.
END OF UPDATE.

I believed him to be boring so didn't talk to him. He's quiet to the point of nearly being unfriendly at work - I am much the same, I just didn't realise other people did this. I talked to him for the first time in March. We talked for hours and I discovered that he is one of the most interesting people I've ever met. He has a girlfriend though. They got together in January. He's been here since September 2010, which makes over a year of completely missed opportunity on my part. Screw you, universe. A couple of weeks ago I went out with work people, he was there. We danced, he walked me home. We talked about poetry on the way. I am now completely smitten. He has at no point indicated that he likes me, I'm fairly sure he is smitten with his actual girlfriend and probably never thinks about me at all unless I'm right there. There is no hope for me and Mr Perfect. There is just the unavoidable truth of his existence. Being all perfect and that.

On the same night, I chatted to several other people but was effervescent to the point of delirium from proximity to Mr P. Apparently this was infectious and I came in the next week to an invitation to dinner from someone else entirely. I am not really all that interested. For all that he's nice, he suffers in comparison. He is Not Mr P.

So what the universe has done is put me in a position where I meet someone who ticks all the boxes, including some I didn't even know I had, but have missed out on any opportunity with by a matter of months. Then, as a consolation prize, has offered someone else whose main problem is that they are not the other guy.

Of course, the more worrying way of looking at it (if you don't consider the notion that the universe has a weird vendetta against me as quite worrisome in itself) is whether I am doing this subconsciously. The last few times I have liked someone, they have been in some way unattainable. I haven't really liked anyone that I could have an opportunity of actually going out with.

The thing is, I don't know whether there is some part of me that is sabotaging myself. In all honesty, I am terrified of getting hurt and hurting someone else, which is a fairly inevitable part of it all. However, and I think I'm being as truthful as anyone ever can be to themselves or a very small band of loyal readers, what I really want is to be in a relationship that works. Therefore, I will give people a chance but if I do not feel it then I refuse to settle. That is the benefit of Mr Perfect, after all. He may be unattainable but he does remind me that looking for someone who is actually right for me is not a completely pointless endeavour. I won't settle and maybe, just maybe, I won't have to.

Remembering Dad

I'm having a day off work tomorrow. It feels like a very indulgent thing to do but last year I ended up rehearsing the entire day and then fell apart in the evening. One thing I've learned in the last couple of years is that any deferment of my grief tends to mean that I react far more violently later.

Missing my Dad is a daily occurrence. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it's a painless fleeting thought. But most of the time it does hurt. I have a distinct memory of being a child, fairly young, when the realisation of mortality hit me. And the thing that hit first, as it does when they are literally your entire world, was the terror that my parents would die. I remember my Mum comforting me that it hadn't yet happened, that everything was fine and the thing that strikes me is how much worse it actually is than I ever considered. All you can contemplate when you theorise about losing someone is that first howl of grief. The controlled sorrow of the funeral and the grim moment-to-moment slog of the first week of bereavement also factor in but it's impossible to predict what it will be like afterwards. I might have imagined myself in an artfully sad pose somewhere, looking distraught but brave, but what I hadn't ever thought of in the days before it was even a possibility was the mind-numbing stress of continued absence.

I don't think it is really possible to know how much of an impact someone has on your life until they've left it. Dad's death has leeched a great deal of colour from the world for me. I have really struggled to retain enthusiasm and joy in things because his enthusiasm and joy is missing. When I see a fantastically choreographed action sequence in an action film, I hear that "woo-woof" sound he used to make in complete childlike glee. Beautiful music makes me think of that face when he'd close his eyes, completely transported by the sound, before opening them, shining and keen to share the moment. When I act, there's no-one else to whom I can talk so exhaustively about my process or pick up tips without feeling that I was being boring or repetitive because I knew that he was as obsessive and pedantic as me. He was so expressive and passionate and full of life that those qualities bolstered my own feelings and without him, I feel like I've lost something far more than could be imagined from losing one single person. I feel like I've lost an awful lot of myself.

Of course I remember his more irritating qualities but, as with anyone, when you love someone that much, you love all of those aspects of them as well. I miss his temper and laziness as much as anything else. Because if they were here, he'd be here with them.

Two years on from his death, the size of the hole that Dad's going has left in my life is still somewhat immeasurable. I can locate it in specific things that I miss - his bulk, his humour, his exactness, his sayings, his stories, his voice - but a person is never just those things. It's the impact that they had on those around them, small or large, and I think anyone who knew Dad would agree that his impact was always large. He had a talent for making people feel special who had only just met him so imagine how it felt to be his daughter.

My father was an exceptional, infuriating, exciting, honest, incorrigible, sublime, ridiculous, awe-inspiring man. And I miss him every day.

Busy Little Bee

Lawks, is my attempt to blog every week already getting a little delayed? Crazy old February. As part of my whole having-a-new-phone thing (I totally have one! Go me!) I've actually been updating my calendar on my phone. I think it helps not having to write things down. I don't know about you but I find it takes A LOT of effort to write things properly nowadays. But it is, as my family will tell you, a big step forward. Anyway, when I look at February, I have no days free at all now. No weekend days, no evenings. There are little blue marks on every day until the 3rd of March, which is the point at which I fall down and refuse to get up.

I always feel a bit guilty talking about being busy. I mean, my work isn't particularly stressful, I don't have children and the cats don't count. It's like I don't have any right to my tiredness. Partly because it is an entirely selfish laziness. I am working out to be thinner, I am in plays because I love doing them. When I'm tired and need to stop, I am able to stop completely and not be responsible for anyone else, which I think is a luxury. But then part of the reason I keep myself so busy is because I am not responsible for anyone else. The idea of sitting around all the time on my own is quite horrendous. Not to mention; completely, mind-blowingly dull. So I have a guilt talking about tiredness to my friends and family with children because there is nothing quite so exhausting as chasing a small person around constantly.

But, do you know what? I am really tired. And I should take advantage of the fact that I can be selfish because one day that may not be the case. To be honest, one day I hope it isn't. But for now that's the way things are.

Which is rather full of princesses

I'm playing a princess in April. Probably one of the best princesses; Imogen in Shakespeare's Cymbeline. She is just amazing. There are some cracking speeches, she's completely lovely but still gets to be angry and heartbroken, she dresses like a boy and is even a bit brutal to an unwanted suitor: "I care not for you, I hate you;/ which I had rather you felt than make't my boast". All of this is an awful lot of fun to do onstage. However...




The word 'beautiful' gets bandied about quite a lot. Now, people who know me fairly well might hear the warning bells implicit in that word being spoken in any close proximity to me. We don't have a good relationship. Of course, I'm quite happy to use it. Many is the time that word has passed my lips in a breathy exclamation of delight about any number of things - humans, animals, objects, songs, buildings, landscapes, ideas. I am perfectly happy to label these things as beautiful and it generally is something that has a fair emotional whack along with it. I have a real love of beauty, which occasionally hits me like a ton of bricks (oof, beauty) and it encompasses many forms. Which is why I struggle with it being applied to me.




Now, this isn't modesty, false or otherwise. I don't say things like this in order to get compliments. I am not fishing. Full disclosure time: I am fairly vain. I love looking at my face. It genuinely fascinates me. Actually, I am obsessive about faces in general. The photography books I own are all portraits. Part of the reason I love films so much is because of the film books my parents had and I used to gaze at the stills because of the frozen extremes of expression. "I Walked With a Zombie" was responsible for several nightmares growing up. I mean, this:

It's the eyes. Nothing else about this photo is that creepy. The woman on the left even looks slightly bored: "Blah blah voodoo zombies. I want a manicure..."

So don't get me wrong, I love my face. It is expressive and interesting and an absolutely brilliant storytelling tool. The problem is more that I am not beautiful. I have high standards when it comes to beauty and I do not meet them. The emotional whack that is my appreciation of beauty in other things is, when it comes to me, something far more punishing. It hurts me that I am not beautiful. Every time during the readthrough that someone mentions Imogen's beauty, I squirm. And it is A LOT. Seriously. She is so pretty that even when dressed as a boy, when she meets her separated-at-birth brothers for the first time, one of them chats her up: "Were you a woman, youth/I should woo hard". Also, yes, I concede that the plot is completely mental.



Therefore, I am in paroxysms of horror about people watching the play and assuming that because I play the part, that is who I believe myself to be. Much like when I had a hilarious part in a short play where my character thinks she's a 9 out of 10. I enjoyed the part a lot but when I sat in the audience to watch the rest of the plays, a fellow audience member turned to me and said "I'd say you were a four. After a pint". For some reason, perhaps because he'd had a few more than a pint or because my character was kind of a bitch or because we'd been having a conversation in his head prior to that, he felt that was an entirely appropriate thing to say to a complete stranger (if you're interested, my cutting response was to look shocked, say nothing, obsess about it through the rest of the evening, cry in the car on the way back home and then fail to sleep for a few nights. I know, I know. I am the coolest woman who ever lived. The best bit is that my Mum, who had been sitting next to me but had missed the vital exchange, saw him a couple of days later and told him the heck off (she's very polite). Again, I am not in the least bit cool but my Mum is awesome).



However, the upside is the determination that all of this gives me. I may not be beautiful but I am going to try as hard as humanly possible to give the impression that I am. The last time I felt like this because of a play (Closer, 2009), I lost two stone. I hate feeling perpetually hungry. I hate aching constantly because of exercise. But I love the thought of being onstage and doing this part well. And the thought that sustains me when I'm running against the wind on Southsea seafront or when I'm passing up on a meal of Waitrose's Macaroni Cheese followed by their Tarte au Chocolat?



I am a motherfucking princess.