Day 7
Barkingside - Barons Court
Ok - here's a question for all you Londoners (or at least those of you who, like me, live in one of the 32 boroughs that make up 'Greater London')...
How old is 'Greater London'?
No, don't Google it! Take a guess... Given that many of the names of the boroughs can be traced back to settlements of over 1000 years ago, when do you think they first came together officially as 'Greater London'?
Well, if you're younger than 50 years old, you'll probably have assumed, like me, that Greater London has been around for, ooh, I don't know, a couple of centuries or so.
In fact, the administrative area and ceremonial county of Greater London was first created in 1965.
1965!
That's only a few years before I was born. It's the year after John F. Kennedy has told us he's a doughnut, and been assassinated. Martin Luther King has had a dream, the first two Bond films have been shown in cinemas, and we've sent men up into space - all before Greater London even existed. For heaven's sake - Johnny Depp is older than Greater London!
Alright, so the phrase 'Greater London' had been in use for a while before 1965, but only unofficially. It wasn't until April 1st 1965 that the London Government Act made it official.
All of which is relevant because it was as a result of this administrative rejigging that Barkingside ceased to be part of Essex and became instead part of Greater London. It's a district of Ilford, in the borough of Redbridge, and it's also my first destination of the day.
***
***
Today, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for your delight and delectation, I am pleased to announce my inaugural attempt at the extraordinary feat of centri-linear navigation known as (drumroll please...) The Fairlop Loop.
Actually, these days the section of the Central Line that branches off at Woodford and doubles back on itself to Leytonstone is more properly known as the Hainault Loop, since Hainault is the main terminus on this branch, and very few trains actually complete the whole loop anyway. The Fairlop Loop was the name of the original Great Eastern Railway branch line that preceded the Central Line, and followed almost exactly the same route. Personally, however, I think "Fairlop Loop" has more panache, so that's what I'm going with.
It's a bit of an epic journey - one of the longest I've taken so far - and I'm quite surprised to be making it at all this week. On Monday morning I woke up at 6am with some very ominous gurglings going on in my digestive system. I'll pass over the next 24 hours as delicately as I can, but if I ask you to imagine Niagara Falls at one end and Victoria Falls at the other, you can perhaps imagine the scene in my bathroom.
As is often the way, it was violent but short-lived, and by yesterday evening I was pretty much back to normal. Thankfully so, as I received an email from my agent informing me that I had been asked back for a recall audition for the TV Commercial I mentioned a while ago. This would be at 4.40pm today, and would give me an opportunity in the morning and early afternoon to visit another station or two.
And so this morning I sit on the Central Line and travel quite a large proportion of it's length. On the way - the journey is going to take over an hour - I read a book and occasionally glance at my fellow passengers.
There's nearly always an unusual, eccentric or in some way eye-catching outfit to be seen on the tube, and this morning it's being worn by the man opposite me, although at first glance you might not think there's much to comment on. He's a man who I'd guess was in his 70s and who is in almost all other respects dressed in the epitome of "O.A.P. Casual". (Since this blog may be being read by non-UK residents, I should explain the abbreviation - it stands for Old Age Pensioner and is loosely applied to anyone over the age of 60.) He has light grey trousers, a faded fawn overcoat, a flat cap and spectacles. I can't tell, but I would lay money on there also being a proper shirt and tie beneath the overcoat.
On his feet are comfortable slip-on brown shoes.
But no socks.
He doesn't look particularly frail or confused, so I don't think he's wandered out of a care home somewhere - I can only assume he likes his feet to breathe a bit. Mind you, it's not the warmest of days, so I hope he's not got a long walk when he gets off the tube...
There are two thoughts that occupy me having seen this picture of contented old age. The first is, why do so many men, no matter which era they were born in, seem to end up wearing the same outfit as soon as they hit their 70s? Of course, there was a time when men of all walks of life habitually wore a shirt and tie, both at work and in the home. Many of them regularly wore hats, flat-cap or otherwise, too. Older Gentlemen were described as "nattily" dressed, or "well turned-out". In the memories of my childhood, every pensioner in the Seventies and Eighties (and in their 70s and 80s) is wearing a variation on this theme.
But a 70 year-old today would have been a teenager in the Sixties! Surely they were all wearing tie-dye t-shirts and kaftans! Can such rebellious free-expression be so easily forgotten? Will the rebels of the Seventies and Eighties - the punks or the mods - succumb to the same fate? Will I? I've never owned a flat-cap in my life! Will one suddenly appear through the letter-box on my 70th Birthday as a sort of pre-cursor to the telegram from the Queen on my 100th? I shudder at the very thought.
The second thought that occupies my mind, and does at least give me a modicum of hope, is that at least there's an inherent rebellion in the sockless man opposite me. Maybe it's not so inevitable after all...
***
Arriving at Barkingside, my first thought is that it looks much more like one of the older Main Line Railway stations than a tube station, and of course, this is because that's what it once was.
It opened in 1903 as part of the Great Eastern Railway and didn't move over to the tube network until the 1940s.
It's quite an attractive little station, but after taking my photo there's nothing else to see but a car-park, so I head off into 'town'.
***
After a few minutes I pass the old and rather forbidding concrete mausoleum that was until recently the Head Office of Barnardo's - the charity set up by Dr Thomas Barnardo in the late 1800s to protect vulnerable children.
While I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment of protecting children, I wonder about the unwelcoming nature of this old building. Nothing could be further from the wonder, innocence and playfulness of childhood, than this grey fortress - and while the children who need the charity's help may not have had much wonder and playfulness in their lives, this building would hardly bring them much comfort.
The newer building, only recently completed, next door is a much lighter and more welcoming affair, full of gleaming tall windows and airy rooms, but there's still nothing specifically "child-like" about it - it could be the offices of an insurance company.
Of course, I realise (as an actor more than anyone else) that this is the "behind the scenes" part of the organisation, and that I wouldn't expect for example, the offices of Help The Aged to be littered with Stannah Stair Lifts, or the British Heart Foundation to have on-site defibrillators and ECGs. Nevertheless, the looming greyness of the old building, and the bland corporateness of the new, seem disturbing and depressing.
In the five minutes it takes me to continue on from Barnardo's and up the length of the High Street I count no less than half a dozen Hair And Beauty establishments and at least another four Nail Parlours (one of which is called "Tartz", which should tell you all you need to know). Does this make Barkingside the home to some of the most glamorous and beautiful people on Earth?
Sadly, no. I fear the industry - if it can be called that - is for export only, as none of the locals I see on my walk seem to have access to it.
I'm also not a little puzzled by a hitherto undreamed of combination of procedures I see on the "menu" board of one of the Beauty Parlours - namely a "Brazilian Blow Dry".
Now, I'm a man of the world - I know what a "Brazilian" is. The ritual depilation beloved of the glamour industry is well documented. And a "Blow Dry"? Yes, fairly straight forward. No problem there... So what on God's Green Earth is a Brazilian Blow Dry? How...? I mean... what?... It sounds too hideous for words.
(Ok, so I've just looked it up at home, and despite still being fairly repellent, it's not as bad as the combination of words led me, initially, to believe...)
***
At the end of the High Street is Fullwell Cross Roundabout, at which point I stop walking as I'm only a few minutes away from the next station on this branch of the Central Line (though sadly, not the next on my list, or even close to it!). Fairlop station is so close that, when I do get round to visiting it, I could easily find myself walking this route in reverse. However, there's also a huge park between the two stations, so I'll save that for later and concentrate today on what I find at the roundabout.
The major landmark is the Fullwell Cross Library. These days you're lucky to see a library at all, but to find one of such dramatic architecture is a happy surprise.
I have no idea why it's circular, whether this is a remnant of some previous incarnation of the building, or if the circular structure is perhaps more conducive to the lending of literature than other shapes. All I know is I like it.
I do a quick circuit, snapping away contentendly...
As I'm taking a final photograph or two, I'm approached by a man who begins asking me about my camera, and photography in general. I won't risk offence by trying to guess at his ethnic background, except to say he had a south-east Asian demeanour.
He seemed, on the face of it, to be a very pleasant chap, and genuinely interested in photography, but years of living in London have given me a natural scepticism, so I was initially wary. Knowing that my camera was safely triple-looped round my wrist, and that my phone was in my jeans pocket out of his reach, I relaxed more into the conversation, and even took his picture to demonstrate a point I was making. Here he is...
If he was a would-be pickpocket - and I hope I'm doing him an enormous disservice by even suggesting that - he was disappointed. In any case, I don't seem to have lost anything, and I have his picture for the "Wanted" poster if the need arises...
We were joined towards the end of our chat by a sweet little old lady of 80-odd, who (I think) initially thought it was some sort of magazine photo-shoot and that I was taking photos of a celebrity.
Perhaps because he recognised her, or at least recognised the signs of a talkative old lady about to launch into her favourite pastime, my photographic subject soon moved on, and I was left chatting to my new companion. She was a dear old thing, old-school Londoner through and through, and she kept me entertained for a good twenty minutes with her family history and frequent rueful pining for the way things used to be round here. "It was all green fields" is a phrase that's pretty much become a cliché over the years, but she used it quite unselfconsciously as a simple statement of fact.
Where the Library stands now was once, apparently, a pasture for donkeys, and across the road, rabbits gambolled freely in the surrounding fields (at least they did, until they were shot and taken home for the locals' evening meals).
Another feature of the roundabout is the oak tree that stands in the middle of it, and which also gives its name to the nearby pub; "The New Fairlop Oak". The old Fairlop Oak (a tree which, legend has it, gave Fairlop its name, although you'll have to wait until the 'F's to hear that particular story) stood somewhere in the nearby park and was blown down in 1820, with the new one being planted in 1951 to celebrate the Festival of Britain.
***
The spots of rain I've been trying, for the last half hour or so, to ignore falling from the ever darkening clouds, finally erupt into a great blobbing downpour as I hurry back to the station and catch the Central Line westwards towards my next destination.
***
It's still bucketing down as the Piccadilly Line train pulls into Barons Court station 45 minutes later, and I'm almost tempted to take a photo of the platform sign from the comfort of the train and not bother getting out at all.
The temptation is all the greater because this is one part of London I already know reasonably well, having spent two years commuting here regularly. Just round the corner from the station is where I trained to become a professional actor - the London Academy of Music & Dramatic Art, or LAMDA as it's more commonly known.
I do get out of the train, and even venture as far as the exit to the station, but there's very little cover from the rain, and I hop from one shop-awning to the next trying to get a decent vantage point to take a photo of the station. The area immediately outside the station is exactly as I remember it (I finished my training in 2006 and have been back sporadically since then) with the same shops and cafés, and the same busy flow of people and traffic to and from the nearby Talgarth Road. Nearby is Queen's Tennis Club, where the annual pre-Wimbledon championships (formerly the Stella Artois, and currently the Aegon Championships) are held in June. Further afield is a pub called the Curtains Up, home of the tiny Barons Court Theatre, where I once appeared in a musical with Sally Knyvette, of Blake's 7 fame.
The station itself was constructed in 1905 and has a distinctly Art Nouveau feel to it. I mentioned earlier the temptation to take a photo of the platform sign from the inside of the train - the sign (or signs, for there are several of them) are enamel panels mounted on the wooden benches along the platform length, a feature which is apparently unique on the whole network.
At first glance it appears that those responsible for naming London's various suburbs have once again been playing fast and loose with the rules of English grammar and been disregarding apostrophes with a reckless abandon.
In this case however, it is a sin of addition (by inserting a space) rather than of omission, as the area is widely believed to have been named after an estate in Ireland called Baronscourt - with which the developer of this part of London, Sir William Palliser, is thought to have had connections.
The rain is so heavy, and the area so unchanged, that I feel that the inevitable soaking I would get by venturing further is not worth it, and in any case I have an audition to get to, back in town, so I dash back to the cover of the platform and catch a train back into central London.
***
And that's it for today, as far as the A-Z challenge goes, but if you're interested, I'll continue with more insights into the acting world and describe the audition I had that afternoon.
As I mentioned earlier, this was a "recall" - a second audition for the TV Commercial I first auditioned for back on Day 4.
My audition is scheduled for 16.40, and I arrive very early having only spent a short time at Barons Court. I head for the nearest coffee shop - a Costa - and get myself a drink. You can tell it's a central London coffee shop, as not a single table has more than one person sitting at it. Instead, in almost regimented precision, there's row upon row of tables, each occupied by a lone customer, all facing the same direction, all tapping away at their identical Macbooks, and all oblivious to the plight of the desperate coffee drinkers like myself, searching in vain for a free table.
If they're going to sit there and work in silence, the least they could do is group together and take up fewer tables! Or, better still (crazy idea though it may seem) - GET A BLOODY OFFICE!
***
After eventually joining a young lady at her table (with her permission - I didn't just annexe half of it by force or anything) and enjoying a cup of tea for a change, I wander back to the Casting Studios to be informed that the auditions are running "about half an hour" late.
This is nothing new - if your slot is after midday, you know damn well you'll be waiting well beyond your allocated time, as things have gradually slipped more and more behind schedule as the day has progressed. Normally you're counting yourself lucky you've got an audition at all, so if you're unlucky enough to be given a slot toward the end of the day, you just grin and bear it.
I'm sent to wait downstairs in the overflow waiting room (or broom cupboard as I'd probably have called it), which is cramped and stuffy and already full of a dozen or so auditionees, waiting in silence to be called back upstairs.
Well, I say silence; in fact it's more like living inside a child's Fisher Price Activity Centre (do they still exist?) as the various beeps, whistles, horns, bells, chirrups and boings of the Mobile Phone Symphony punctuate the silence every 3 minutes or so.
To make matters worse, this commercial is also going to feature kids, so the 10 foot square waiting room is full of Zachs, Amelies, Callums and Daisies squabbling over who's had the iPad longest.
Almost two hours late (because this is "Commercial Casting" Time, which follows a different set of laws to ordinary time - the amount of delay being inversely proportional to the artistic merit of the job on offer) I'm finally shown in for my audition.
Confidentiality agreements mean I can't say too much about it, but suffice to say I spent five minutes jumping up and down with my shirt off. And the chances are I'll never hear from them again.
"Hi-diddle-dee-dee, an actor's life for me..."
So that's the end of Day 7. A week's worth of travelling, and I've covered twenty stations. At the current rate of progress, were I to go out every day of the week visiting stations, it would take me about four and a half months to complete the whole network. With days off in between, I think I'm looking at more like a year - possibly longer. But that's fine, I'm happy to take my time - just as long as they don't decide to open any new stations beginning with letters I've already covered...
Oh, damn.
Now why did I have to go and think that.......
Actually, these days the section of the Central Line that branches off at Woodford and doubles back on itself to Leytonstone is more properly known as the Hainault Loop, since Hainault is the main terminus on this branch, and very few trains actually complete the whole loop anyway. The Fairlop Loop was the name of the original Great Eastern Railway branch line that preceded the Central Line, and followed almost exactly the same route. Personally, however, I think "Fairlop Loop" has more panache, so that's what I'm going with.
It's a bit of an epic journey - one of the longest I've taken so far - and I'm quite surprised to be making it at all this week. On Monday morning I woke up at 6am with some very ominous gurglings going on in my digestive system. I'll pass over the next 24 hours as delicately as I can, but if I ask you to imagine Niagara Falls at one end and Victoria Falls at the other, you can perhaps imagine the scene in my bathroom.
As is often the way, it was violent but short-lived, and by yesterday evening I was pretty much back to normal. Thankfully so, as I received an email from my agent informing me that I had been asked back for a recall audition for the TV Commercial I mentioned a while ago. This would be at 4.40pm today, and would give me an opportunity in the morning and early afternoon to visit another station or two.
And so this morning I sit on the Central Line and travel quite a large proportion of it's length. On the way - the journey is going to take over an hour - I read a book and occasionally glance at my fellow passengers.
There's nearly always an unusual, eccentric or in some way eye-catching outfit to be seen on the tube, and this morning it's being worn by the man opposite me, although at first glance you might not think there's much to comment on. He's a man who I'd guess was in his 70s and who is in almost all other respects dressed in the epitome of "O.A.P. Casual". (Since this blog may be being read by non-UK residents, I should explain the abbreviation - it stands for Old Age Pensioner and is loosely applied to anyone over the age of 60.) He has light grey trousers, a faded fawn overcoat, a flat cap and spectacles. I can't tell, but I would lay money on there also being a proper shirt and tie beneath the overcoat.
On his feet are comfortable slip-on brown shoes.
But no socks.
He doesn't look particularly frail or confused, so I don't think he's wandered out of a care home somewhere - I can only assume he likes his feet to breathe a bit. Mind you, it's not the warmest of days, so I hope he's not got a long walk when he gets off the tube...
There are two thoughts that occupy me having seen this picture of contented old age. The first is, why do so many men, no matter which era they were born in, seem to end up wearing the same outfit as soon as they hit their 70s? Of course, there was a time when men of all walks of life habitually wore a shirt and tie, both at work and in the home. Many of them regularly wore hats, flat-cap or otherwise, too. Older Gentlemen were described as "nattily" dressed, or "well turned-out". In the memories of my childhood, every pensioner in the Seventies and Eighties (and in their 70s and 80s) is wearing a variation on this theme.
But a 70 year-old today would have been a teenager in the Sixties! Surely they were all wearing tie-dye t-shirts and kaftans! Can such rebellious free-expression be so easily forgotten? Will the rebels of the Seventies and Eighties - the punks or the mods - succumb to the same fate? Will I? I've never owned a flat-cap in my life! Will one suddenly appear through the letter-box on my 70th Birthday as a sort of pre-cursor to the telegram from the Queen on my 100th? I shudder at the very thought.
The second thought that occupies my mind, and does at least give me a modicum of hope, is that at least there's an inherent rebellion in the sockless man opposite me. Maybe it's not so inevitable after all...
***
Arriving at Barkingside, my first thought is that it looks much more like one of the older Main Line Railway stations than a tube station, and of course, this is because that's what it once was.
 |
| Barkingside - Ex-Essex, now Greater London, Ex-Great Eastern Railway now Tube |
It's quite an attractive little station, but after taking my photo there's nothing else to see but a car-park, so I head off into 'town'.
***
After a few minutes I pass the old and rather forbidding concrete mausoleum that was until recently the Head Office of Barnardo's - the charity set up by Dr Thomas Barnardo in the late 1800s to protect vulnerable children.
While I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment of protecting children, I wonder about the unwelcoming nature of this old building. Nothing could be further from the wonder, innocence and playfulness of childhood, than this grey fortress - and while the children who need the charity's help may not have had much wonder and playfulness in their lives, this building would hardly bring them much comfort.
The newer building, only recently completed, next door is a much lighter and more welcoming affair, full of gleaming tall windows and airy rooms, but there's still nothing specifically "child-like" about it - it could be the offices of an insurance company.
Of course, I realise (as an actor more than anyone else) that this is the "behind the scenes" part of the organisation, and that I wouldn't expect for example, the offices of Help The Aged to be littered with Stannah Stair Lifts, or the British Heart Foundation to have on-site defibrillators and ECGs. Nevertheless, the looming greyness of the old building, and the bland corporateness of the new, seem disturbing and depressing.
 |
| Barnardo's - Believe In Children (but keep them off the grass) |
Sadly, no. I fear the industry - if it can be called that - is for export only, as none of the locals I see on my walk seem to have access to it.
I'm also not a little puzzled by a hitherto undreamed of combination of procedures I see on the "menu" board of one of the Beauty Parlours - namely a "Brazilian Blow Dry".
Now, I'm a man of the world - I know what a "Brazilian" is. The ritual depilation beloved of the glamour industry is well documented. And a "Blow Dry"? Yes, fairly straight forward. No problem there... So what on God's Green Earth is a Brazilian Blow Dry? How...? I mean... what?... It sounds too hideous for words.
(Ok, so I've just looked it up at home, and despite still being fairly repellent, it's not as bad as the combination of words led me, initially, to believe...)
***
At the end of the High Street is Fullwell Cross Roundabout, at which point I stop walking as I'm only a few minutes away from the next station on this branch of the Central Line (though sadly, not the next on my list, or even close to it!). Fairlop station is so close that, when I do get round to visiting it, I could easily find myself walking this route in reverse. However, there's also a huge park between the two stations, so I'll save that for later and concentrate today on what I find at the roundabout.
The major landmark is the Fullwell Cross Library. These days you're lucky to see a library at all, but to find one of such dramatic architecture is a happy surprise.
I have no idea why it's circular, whether this is a remnant of some previous incarnation of the building, or if the circular structure is perhaps more conducive to the lending of literature than other shapes. All I know is I like it.
 |
| Fullwell Cross Library - Handy to know, on a shape with no sides, where the front is. |
 |
| 'A house without books is like a room without windows' (Horace Mann) |
 |
| The tree seems to be straining at its roots and trying to escape - does it perhaps know how books are made? |
He seemed, on the face of it, to be a very pleasant chap, and genuinely interested in photography, but years of living in London have given me a natural scepticism, so I was initially wary. Knowing that my camera was safely triple-looped round my wrist, and that my phone was in my jeans pocket out of his reach, I relaxed more into the conversation, and even took his picture to demonstrate a point I was making. Here he is...
 |
| A very pleasant chap - or a would-be pickpocket? |
We were joined towards the end of our chat by a sweet little old lady of 80-odd, who (I think) initially thought it was some sort of magazine photo-shoot and that I was taking photos of a celebrity.
Perhaps because he recognised her, or at least recognised the signs of a talkative old lady about to launch into her favourite pastime, my photographic subject soon moved on, and I was left chatting to my new companion. She was a dear old thing, old-school Londoner through and through, and she kept me entertained for a good twenty minutes with her family history and frequent rueful pining for the way things used to be round here. "It was all green fields" is a phrase that's pretty much become a cliché over the years, but she used it quite unselfconsciously as a simple statement of fact.
Where the Library stands now was once, apparently, a pasture for donkeys, and across the road, rabbits gambolled freely in the surrounding fields (at least they did, until they were shot and taken home for the locals' evening meals).
Another feature of the roundabout is the oak tree that stands in the middle of it, and which also gives its name to the nearby pub; "The New Fairlop Oak". The old Fairlop Oak (a tree which, legend has it, gave Fairlop its name, although you'll have to wait until the 'F's to hear that particular story) stood somewhere in the nearby park and was blown down in 1820, with the new one being planted in 1951 to celebrate the Festival of Britain.
 |
| The new Fairlop oak (tree) and The New Fairlop Oak (pub) |
The spots of rain I've been trying, for the last half hour or so, to ignore falling from the ever darkening clouds, finally erupt into a great blobbing downpour as I hurry back to the station and catch the Central Line westwards towards my next destination.
***
It's still bucketing down as the Piccadilly Line train pulls into Barons Court station 45 minutes later, and I'm almost tempted to take a photo of the platform sign from the comfort of the train and not bother getting out at all.
The temptation is all the greater because this is one part of London I already know reasonably well, having spent two years commuting here regularly. Just round the corner from the station is where I trained to become a professional actor - the London Academy of Music & Dramatic Art, or LAMDA as it's more commonly known.
I do get out of the train, and even venture as far as the exit to the station, but there's very little cover from the rain, and I hop from one shop-awning to the next trying to get a decent vantage point to take a photo of the station. The area immediately outside the station is exactly as I remember it (I finished my training in 2006 and have been back sporadically since then) with the same shops and cafés, and the same busy flow of people and traffic to and from the nearby Talgarth Road. Nearby is Queen's Tennis Club, where the annual pre-Wimbledon championships (formerly the Stella Artois, and currently the Aegon Championships) are held in June. Further afield is a pub called the Curtains Up, home of the tiny Barons Court Theatre, where I once appeared in a musical with Sally Knyvette, of Blake's 7 fame.
 |
| Barons Court - The rain it raineth every day |
At first glance it appears that those responsible for naming London's various suburbs have once again been playing fast and loose with the rules of English grammar and been disregarding apostrophes with a reckless abandon.
In this case however, it is a sin of addition (by inserting a space) rather than of omission, as the area is widely believed to have been named after an estate in Ireland called Baronscourt - with which the developer of this part of London, Sir William Palliser, is thought to have had connections.
 |
| Barons Court - apostrophe not required |
***
And that's it for today, as far as the A-Z challenge goes, but if you're interested, I'll continue with more insights into the acting world and describe the audition I had that afternoon.
As I mentioned earlier, this was a "recall" - a second audition for the TV Commercial I first auditioned for back on Day 4.
My audition is scheduled for 16.40, and I arrive very early having only spent a short time at Barons Court. I head for the nearest coffee shop - a Costa - and get myself a drink. You can tell it's a central London coffee shop, as not a single table has more than one person sitting at it. Instead, in almost regimented precision, there's row upon row of tables, each occupied by a lone customer, all facing the same direction, all tapping away at their identical Macbooks, and all oblivious to the plight of the desperate coffee drinkers like myself, searching in vain for a free table.
If they're going to sit there and work in silence, the least they could do is group together and take up fewer tables! Or, better still (crazy idea though it may seem) - GET A BLOODY OFFICE!
***
After eventually joining a young lady at her table (with her permission - I didn't just annexe half of it by force or anything) and enjoying a cup of tea for a change, I wander back to the Casting Studios to be informed that the auditions are running "about half an hour" late.
This is nothing new - if your slot is after midday, you know damn well you'll be waiting well beyond your allocated time, as things have gradually slipped more and more behind schedule as the day has progressed. Normally you're counting yourself lucky you've got an audition at all, so if you're unlucky enough to be given a slot toward the end of the day, you just grin and bear it.
I'm sent to wait downstairs in the overflow waiting room (or broom cupboard as I'd probably have called it), which is cramped and stuffy and already full of a dozen or so auditionees, waiting in silence to be called back upstairs.
Well, I say silence; in fact it's more like living inside a child's Fisher Price Activity Centre (do they still exist?) as the various beeps, whistles, horns, bells, chirrups and boings of the Mobile Phone Symphony punctuate the silence every 3 minutes or so.
To make matters worse, this commercial is also going to feature kids, so the 10 foot square waiting room is full of Zachs, Amelies, Callums and Daisies squabbling over who's had the iPad longest.
Almost two hours late (because this is "Commercial Casting" Time, which follows a different set of laws to ordinary time - the amount of delay being inversely proportional to the artistic merit of the job on offer) I'm finally shown in for my audition.
Confidentiality agreements mean I can't say too much about it, but suffice to say I spent five minutes jumping up and down with my shirt off. And the chances are I'll never hear from them again.
"Hi-diddle-dee-dee, an actor's life for me..."
So that's the end of Day 7. A week's worth of travelling, and I've covered twenty stations. At the current rate of progress, were I to go out every day of the week visiting stations, it would take me about four and a half months to complete the whole network. With days off in between, I think I'm looking at more like a year - possibly longer. But that's fine, I'm happy to take my time - just as long as they don't decide to open any new stations beginning with letters I've already covered...
Oh, damn.
Now why did I have to go and think that.......
