Sam and the seal

Adrift on a small boat on a lake in Namibia twenty nine tourists absorbed the sights and sounds of the magnificent country from the sea.  Oysters and champagne were in abundance as the captain explained the ways and wares of this water. 

A man of few words he described how the many seals surrounding the boat were prone to climbing on board…as a sort of performance piece you understand.  As if on cue a junior seal appeared, to the sounds of ‘Ooohs’, ‘Ahs’ and ‘It’s like a dog but with flippers!’.  Standing, if indeed a seal can stand, he peered in, the captain fed him a small fish and satisfied, the seal slipped off into the depths once more.

Pondering life in a daze of contentment, a shadow broke the mid-morning sun.  Looking up, a silence descended amid all twenty nine bodies…a seal the size of a ship was suspended mid-air as he somersaulted out of the water flying straight above us and landing with a crash on the seating island in the middle of the boat.  The middle seating where I had been sitting with my friend Sammy for most of the trip.

Having landed with brute force I observed this huge beast from the edge, surely the mother of all seals and stopped.  There were human legs dangling from its side.  Legs belonging to my friend Sammy.  Squashed beneath this mound of blubber I grabbed her hand, yanked and pulled her free from the seal to discover she had a broken rib.

This is all true, Sammy is now much recovered, her rib is all fixed, and the seal, well I just have no idea where he is now.  There is photographic evidence of this event somewhere…images of people peering at the beast from behind oyster shells and champagne bottles.

About five years later I went swimming with seals in New Zealand.  It was cheaper to swim with seals than dolphins…poor seals! 

Seals, according to my guide and snorkelling teacher, are your best friends when in the water.  The minute you stand on land with them you are competing to be top seal (if I could speak seal I’d tell them this is not an ambition of mine, but alas I do not.)  So I was instructed not to get up on the rocks surrounding the open seas I was swimming in.  Yes easy for you to say Mr Instructor; tell that to the waves.  Fighting the sea with my arms and legs I tried to spend as much time looking at these seals whilst learning how not to drown with my snorkel.  It was hard work, not quite the paradise I'd been promised on land!

Things learnt:

Never underestimate nature.

Don’t snorkel in open seas with seals.

Read up about seals beforehand as my instructor may have been pulling my leg.  He said that on land seals were faster than cheetahs!

Photographic evidence: so close I could not capture the whole seal and note my quivering friend in the background.

excuses excuses excuses

At the moment I spend 3 days a week working as a Sales Manager for a green travel company.  For this job I have a life time of 28 years of experience…but not in Sales.  Thankfully though the team are great and I mostly speak on the phone…both the speaking and the phoning prove no problem so it’s grand.

My job is to call people…sometimes the dreaded cold call, sometimes the ‘Is that you Rachel?’ said with both love and contempt, sometimes at the same time.  Sometimes the long wait whilst listening to a noise considered by robots as music.  Twice in my 200 working days with this company have I received the curt ‘We’re not interested thank you!’  And more than twice I’ve called back some old friends who own a yurt or a shepherds hut to have a chat with them. 

Some of these faceless voices I’ve come to know very well, and some reveal much more than you would expect or even desire to hear.  So here are a few of the gems so far collected…every one of them genuine.

“Oh…they’ve hatched” she says interrupting the flow of my sales reel.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The baby ospreys, they’re hatching, oh god Rachel, can I call you back?”

The times when people answer and you wonder how and why they did:

“Hi Rachel, great to hear from you, we’re really interested but …ow….um…I’m knee deep in screws and springs as I’m, you'll like this, just constructing a trampoline for children!”

“I'm just in the middle of baking a cake and it's at the crucial stage!”

If it’s crucial let it go to answer phone, seriously woman!

“Ah yes, Rachel, Look...Can you call back,” he says getting quite annoyed, “I've got my hand up a cows rear end”

How was I to know that man, I’m on the phone, and you, you are meant to be running a B&B…

Then there are the sad stories.  These are the sad times when you call and there has been a death in the family and the awkwardness in being a faceless friendless sales voice is horrible.  They’re the worst because I do care that they are hurting and in the midst of hurting the last thing you need is some idiot calling about advertising.

“Hi there, it’s Rachel from that green travelling company, just checking in regarding your interest in a listing”

Silence.  A quiet deflated voice starts, “Well it’s a rather difficult time…”

Sensing what’s looming I make my apologies. 

Gently I try to leave, “No worries, not a problem, I’ll call back later in the year.”

“You see Rachel…my wife…well…she has just run off with another man.”

I can’t remember how I finished that conversation, there is no nice way to end it because I am not his friend and I cannot be there for him.

And then to be honest you get the downright gross too much information situations.

“Well Rachel yes, we’re really glad you’ve called us.  We’re very interested, it’s just we’ve been with websites before and sometimes they send us awfully strange people.  Honestly we’ve just had some people and they have been oozing and squeezing all over the place, I’ve had to put their pillows in the

bin.  They were sarcastic and she was picking her legs all over the place…”

There are no helpful responses to a statement like that on the phone.

There are the rare occasions when I make a sale because of my accent, not only have I brought money to the company but I’ve nearly ended up on a date or two.  

And chatting to yoga centres is like chatting to honey.  It’s essential to have coffee before calling them because their yoga calmed voices can lull me into a coma of relaxation.  They live a good life!

So there you have it, to keep my creative brain engaged I keep my ear to the ground for all of life’s nuances and the people it holds.

Things learnt:

Don’t pick your legs in B&B’s.

Call people you don’t know on the phone.

Travel green.

What's in a name?

My name is Rachel Wilcock.  There is nothing unknown about this.  My name isn’t that hard to hear or spell or write and yet there are problems…

More often than not if I introduce myself as Rachel I have to repeat myself, not in Northern Ireland though, no, in Northern Ireland I am understood right away.  My people, they understand. 

Rita? Rage…what? Rebecca?  In Kenya I spent some time correcting being called Rita but to no avail…so it stuck.  Rita Wilcock.  Solves the problem.

Then there’s the surname…

Wilcock is not too common a name but it has been heard before…Wilcox, Wilco, Wilcoco ( my personal favourite) have all been used and yet recently I encountered one of the more embarrassing ways to highlight your name.

I went to visit a new church and was welcomed by the most charming older couple who instantly adopted me.  I think they took my accent to mean I had only just stepped off the boat…from the famine…but nonetheless they were charming. 

Trying to get to grips with who I was and where I was from they asked for my name…

“Rachel Wilcock” I replied.

The service had not started but there was a general sense of reflective thinking in the air.

Silence as they absorb this information.

He queries, “Right, I see…Rachel Wilcox” he is really sounding it out, trying to place it, “…is that cox with an x or a ck?”

Before I can speak she responds, “No it’s Rachel Wilcock darling”.

“Cox?” he asks.

I have forgotten to mention that he is hard of hearing so she increases in volume.

“No, cock darling”, she corrects.

I stand mute, aware that the word they are debating may prove quite controversial in such a quiet place.

She continues, “C-O-C-K…cock darling, Rachel WilCOCK!”

“Oh Wilcock…oh!” he grins. “Oh my!”

He is now aware, as I am, that they have both been screaming 'cock' for about 3 minutes in a rather subdued church scene.  Although part of me is sure he is just laughing at my name!

Shut that door...

I have lived in London for 7 years and in that time one can expect to be victim to some sort of crime.  In light of recent events it led me to think of such times.

Mine was merely a theft.  Of my flat.  A wee flat in Finsbury Park that was housed by three lovely girls, yes, I speak of myself and two others.  It was a place that had seen us laugh many a time, and cry but a few times…we were girls!  A place that had housed many a dinner party and some guests, including my crutches.  Yes friends, I was once victim to a broken foot.  Fifth metatarsal, same as David Beckham.  Mine however was not the result of a game of football.  No.  Something far more severe…a three legged race.

Anyway, our flat was burgled, it happens.  They stole from us all three, removed the entire lock from our flat door, trundled through the flat, picked up what they wanted and left.  We came back in dribs and drabs and then the obligatory tears and police investigation. 

The following morning I had to pop to the doctors down the road to get my foot checked…remember it had broken!  So some friends came round to await the arrival of the door man…we were getting a Banham lock, the lock of all locks - unbreakable, unbeatable.  No one can beat a Banham door.

Delighted to be getting such a door I skipped with one foot back from the doctors.  I entered the house, hopped up the steps…we were on the first floor.  Banham man was in the throws of saving another day.  I imagined theme tunes and a cape…I chatted with my friends, and then offered Banham man a cup of tea.  He refused.  Banham men don’t drink tea, they are heroes.  Unconvinced I had established quite enough of a relationship with this Banham man I decided to impress him with some of my wit…

“So…”

Dramatic pause…

“Do you laugh in the face of other doors…?”

Ready to encounter his rip roaring laugh, he turned to me slowly, and said without moving his face,

“No”

There was an awkward silence. 

The conversation was over. 

Then in the distance I heard laughter.  Thank God – someone, somewhere had heard this great witticism.

It came from the kitchen where two people had witnessed the worst comedy moment. 

But you see I had broken my foot.  This was a very tough time.  I was under house arrest and had committed no crime.  I found things hilarious that my able footed friends just didn’t laugh at.  Statements of “Has anyone seen my foot?” currently encased in a huge plastic foot, went unaccepted.  Telling my housemates I’d spent my day running when they returned from work didn’t raise much of a smile either.  It was a lonely laughing time.

Intent on catching the criminals who had entered our flat the police came round later that evening to take fingerprints.  They were a yet unwritten comedy duo.  Policeman 1 (PM1) was showing Policeman 2 (PM2) the ropes, giving him tips on how to get a fingerprint and how to charm three doorless women(!) They then took our fingerprints to check they got the culprit. 

Delighted with themselves they exclaimed they’d found a fingerprint bang in the middle of the door.  Thrilled we thought our jewels would soon to be returned.  Until PM1 told us that it was in fact my thumb print bang in the centre of the door…I have since taken lessons in how to unlock a door.

So lessons in crime:

Don’t joke with door fixing men…they have no time for humour.
For house arrest read house rest...broken foot made me work from home.

When talking about crime how many times can you mention a broken foot?

how to pluck a duck

Another job saw me in Shropshire working as an assistant to a superb man in his 80s.  A friend’s father.  Six weeks work out in the countryside, a million miles from city life and acting. 

I’d retired from acting at this point…age 25.  I ran to my agent’s office with a new sense of mission, threw myself in front of her and exclaimed that the acting world was to lose me.  Yes, tis true, I shall never act again.  I had the most wonderful unexpected response…my agent said ‘No’. 

I tried to explain that I was not bringing her money, that she would never buy a yacht from my salary, and besides I was leaving (dramatic scarf sweep).  “I am”, I repeated, “never going to act again.”  She accepted and said she’d be there when I got back. 

So…I moved to Shropshire, my friend loaned me her car, and it wasn’t until I drove into the driveway four hours away from my London flat, that I contemplated what I had done.  Left everything I knew and landed at the house of my friend’s parents, Bob and Mary.

I had a great introduction to their house.  We had seafood chowder, I choked on a fish bone, and then couldn’t shift it, I coughed so much I went red, nearly threw up, had to excuse myself and pull out a two inch bone wedged in my actual throat. Ice most definitely shattered, I started my work.

Fact: chasing an 80 year old man is not easy. 

Independent, strong willed and male.  A man who has not only raised three children but has also owned and successfully managed his own business should not take kindly to a twenty something year old looking after him.  So for the first week I skirted around him, peering out at him from windows.  He had injured his shoulder, was in the process of recovering from surgery and was therefore not allowed to lift heavy things.  He’d lean down to pick up a piece of farm machinery and I’d spring out from behind an apple tree or jump from a tractor.  I’d make a great spy!

Bob and Mary were amazing to work with, a wonderful team, and so generous.  They had two dogs, Merry and Molly, 2 cats Mickie and Fritha, an orchard, vegetable patch and fruit garden. I never ate so well in my life.   Bob and I developed a great friendship that saw us laugh and shout at each other within the same five minutes.  He allowed me to drive us about in his car and we visited the best places.  Not only did I get the best driving lessons of my life, I learnt about a whole new realm of shopping…we went to see mechanics and wholesale garden companies with big machines and heavy things!  We ran lots of errands, chatted and laughed. 

The reason this great team needed someone like me in their life, well they were downsizing from a farmhouse they’d lived in for 40 years to a smaller home.  So I was on hand to help with whatever needed doing.  I remember one talk with Mary where I had to ruthlessly choose the five of her eight wicker baskets that would be sent to charity.

A lady called over one day to visit Bob, to say hello and check up on him after his surgery.  As she was leaving in her car she asked him if he wanted a duck.  I was overjoyed, a new pet to play with. Bob looked in the boot, then pulled out two ducks tied together at the neck - a male and female – dead.  Shot fresh that morning. 

Shocked we walked back in to the house to finish our tea, Bob swinging the ducks back and forth in his hand.  He then placed them over the chair so they hung either side, partners in life and death.  I had never seen a dead duck before and instant fears of having to pluck a duck consumed me.  But apparently ducks have to hang for a few days before you can eat them.

I am not a vegetarian but I’d quite like to be…you see I once ate a marshmallow that tasted of cow's hoof!

Yes, so the acting career…well when I finished that job, I went on tour with a theatre company…for two years. 

Lesson learnt: I should give up acting more often!

Vogue

Once upon a time when Ugly Betty was still on television and ‘The devil wears prada’ had just been released to the literary world, a Northern Irish actress embarked on another temp job…at a fashion house on Bond Street.  We’ll call it Louise Feet On. 

Inside this institute, a girl started a temp job at the Press Office.  A job at the bottom of the fashion ladder that must be climbed with stilettos and ever decreasing waist lines.  Unknowingly I was the envy of many fashionista wannabies, a step in the right direction, a step I could not have cared for less. 

My job: to work in the show room, leaving clothes and bags presentable for stylists and celebrity visits, sending out clothes for shoots and premieres, and gifting the latest item to approved celebs like Madonna, Judy Dench and Keira Knightley.  I did check, but my name was not on the gift list.

The boss was a devil.  Not in Prada.  She didn’t smile, she didn’t talk, she didn’t eat.  She walked around yelling for her assistant as if calling a dog.  She did not speak when spoken to, she looked down from her slight 6’1” frame on everything…she was a monster.  I was petrified…the desired response…until I realized that even monsters need friends.  So… I persisted. 

I said ‘Hello’ to her every single time I saw her. I smiled at her in the corridor.  Nothing.  I worked there for about 8 months, it was a barren time in my acting life…that’s about 160 days worth of ignorance. 

There were a few minor breakthroughs. 

One day she entered the showroom with a grand throwing open of the door.  My colleague and I were busy note making for the day ahead, so busy we did not raise our heads.  There was a general sweep of the room, a faint ‘Hello’ and a door closing.  It was then we realised she had been in, she had spoken…to us…and we had not responded.

On another day, some important Louise Feet On people came over from Paris.  They wanted to meet everyone in the office.  Two men entered the showroom and came directly towards me, shook my hand, smiled and said ‘Thank you’.   She stood aghast.  They shook my hand, me, me with the jeans and t-shirt, with un-straightened hair and unpolished face.  Me with my small bank account and accent.  She saw me that day.

 

I stopped reading The Devil wears Prada.  I no longer watched Ugly Betty.  Fashion was taking over my life.

The office was made up of a few petite French smoking filles and the rest, pale English rose non eating types, then I… a Northern Irish tree in the eyes of these sticks.  I slouched to work apologising for myself in my non designer clothes, sending out garments, calling them back, tracking all press coverage and sorting through the show room.  On the days when celebrity visits were happening I would be banished.  Somewhere unseen, no one must see the strange Irish girl.  She laughs without a care for her wrinkles.  She eats brownies.  No one must catch sight, scent or smell of her.

Until one day…when Thandie Newton was in town.  She came in with her stylist, she was lovely.  There was no warning, the dragon boss knew but had forgotten to pass it on to her minions, so one minute I was adjusting scarves on a shelf, the next the steps had gone beneath my feet and I was in a heap on top of a pile of shoes with a cupboard door shutting in front of me.

I hear voices, I am about to laugh and excuse my apparent clumsy behaviour when I realize, no, this was the plan.  She of much fame, beauty, clothes must not be presented with real life, with hardship. 

I have actually been hurled into a store room to avoid visual contact with a celeb.  Thandie, her stylist and the dragon take their time wandering around the room, remarking on the different cuts and colours for the season, picking out a selection of next seasons dresses for the premier tomorrow night. 

After ten minutes the voices die down.  Unsure as to whether they are maybe deep in prayer or meditation over these clothes I wait a while more, I try unsuccessfully to squint through the slats in the door but to no avail…twenty minutes pass and I’ve had just about enough of heels.  So I slowly and carefully open the door to …an empty room.  No one had even bothered to let me know they had left the room.  The invisible helper, the no one.

When I next go to a premiere, I’m going to shop in Oxfam, that or I shall parade into that very fashion house and demand that the work experience girl fits me.  The irony of it all of course is that I am now the owner of a Feet On bag, shoes and gloves…a feat I’m rather impressed with.

to be of sound mind

I’d been home for an audition in Belfast city where the girls are so pretty, and flew back into Stansted airport at about 9pm.  I jumped on a train “to Liverpool Street, calling at Bishop’s Stortford, Tottenham Hale and Liverpool Street”, and settled into my seat.

I then became aware that I was being watched.

I was in fact the only person in the carriage.

Apart from my stalker.

A middle-aged overweight man in a beige raincoat with a hat and beady eyes.

An attacker.

A murderer…most probably!

He was sitting at the table across the aisle from me, preying on me.  The fact that I had sat down after him did not occur to me until quite some time later.

So I sat there trying to avoid his gaze and his general communicative gestures.  I looked out the window where the world was dark with night and all I could see was his reflection in my face.  I tried shutting my eyes feigning sleep, praying all the while that he would leave at Bishop’s Stortford…but he did not.

For those of you who do not know there is a substantial amount of time between Bishop’s Stortford and Tottenham Hale, just enough time for those possessing a heightened sense of imagination to go way overboard in their thoughts.

Whilst I sat there in silence avoiding my murderer I became completely and utterly convinced that my last moments were to be on this train.

It was then the brainwave hit.

If I could just get a photo of him then he would be identified in my court case!

So, casually, I pulled out my phone…not a sound apart from the noise of the train on the tracks.

No verbal contact until…click…

And he’s waving at me.

So I look at him and engage my murderer in conversation…

“What…are…you…doing?!” I snap.

“Oh pardon me” he says jovially, with a toothy charming grin, “I thought you were taking a photo!”

“What?”

I am now completely aware that I have just been caught alone in a train taking a photo of a man I do not know.  I become fully aware of the insanity of my actions.

“I was trying to send a text!” I state, blushing.  “You see there was no reception, and I was trying to send it…and…” I teeter off, this story does not wash when spoken out loud.

I sit back aware that I have now engaged in open contact with a complete stranger, the man who will later kill me, but…at least I have a photo!

He of course did not kill me.  I write this about four years after the event.  And two days after being released into the real world again.

Lessons learnt:

Never try and take a photo of a stranger unless you want to engage in conversation with them.

Not all men in raincoats who travel by train are bad men.

Simon and the Witch

One evening on tour after a performance, it came to that time of night when the get out begins…once more.  Lugging an iron set into the back of a van that took the best part of two hours.  The show came down at 10pm and we had performed that evening in a church surrounded by a field.  Added to this the monsoon rain that had fallen since our arrival and the fact that the church had no outside lights I am much surprised Michael Burke never made an appearance to voice his concern.  

Set safely in van I was then beckoned to a sweet lady’s house.  This lady like many others over my two years of touring had voluntarily decided to host me: a stranger, feed me wheat free goodies and let me sleep in a bed in her house. 

And so I arrived, with a backdrop of thunder and lightning and a white transit van…it’s all very glamourous…to a huge empty porch.  With a solo light shining down on me, I knocked.  The door opened and there was my host.  A lady in her 70’s who looked exactly like the witch in ‘Simon and the Witch’…kind and wild looking.  I instantly loved her and profusely began to apologise for the wet and dirt I would be bringing in.

“Oh don’t worry about that,” she said, “We don’t worry about dirt in this house.”  

And indeed she did not. 

You see I’d been spoiled.  Housed by about 200 families throughout the UK who had supplied some of the most scrumptious breakfasts and restful times, I’d become very accustomed to royal treatment (always with a genuine thank you I might add!) What a gift these people provided.  

And so too, this woman, providing a bed, breakfast, my own toilet and bathroom.  Her house was 3 storeys 

high, and the “we” she had referred to on arrival was herself and her aged dog.  A mutt who adored her but nipped me at any given opportunity.  Yes yes little doggie, I know where you live!  

The air was thick with dust.  She told me she had food in the fridge for a fry up which was all very kind, until she said that she hadn’t bought it specially, she’d had it there for ages! She gave me tea and a saucer…of someone else’s crumbs.  My bed had moths flying out of it and when I climbed into the bath the next morning, I grabbed a sponge to give it a rinse and brown sludge came out.  A tiny squeal of despair exited my mouth.

Her generosity knew no bounds and she delighted in reporting what birds had visited her bird table so she could inform the RSPB.  I did however inherit a nasty rash but it was not to be with me for life.

Another evening, over dinner at another venue I was told that I was to have an American hostess.  “A model host” was the report across the dining table.   I had visions of waffles for breakfast and coffee machines and stories of her 17 Irish relatives who I must know.  Set back in the van and we pulled up outside her house.  

This time no rain but a solo light…above an empty porch…there is a pattern people there is a pattern.

This time no dust just dolls.  

Everywhere.  

Silently smiling, staring…where? Why there on the stair.  Of course.  

Completely blocking access to the top floor was a frightening display of miniature things…a lot of dolls, a Christmas tree (it was September), tinsel, and unlit candles…a shrine to a jumble sale?  She led me downstairs, where I was brought down an empty corridor past closed doors and a bowl of rat poison.  Which just so happened to be right outside my room for the night.  She opened the door to reveal a mattress on the floor surrounded by huge bookcases.

“ So they said you were pretty self-sufficient so good night!”

“Stop” I involuntarily shout “I mean…excuse me, would it be possible to get a glass of water?”

She offers tea, I accept. What follows is the most uncomfortable 10 minutes I’ve ever had conversing with someone I’ve just met.  As I scratched around for things to say I realized she looked like a doll.  Left hand side beside a vase of dead flowers, third stair…yes.  And she stared quite a lot. 

Then she bid me goodnight and I made my way down the stairs, down the empty corridor to the bathroom where I brushed my teeth wondering if I would survive the night.  Death by book? Rat? Host? The options were endless.

I did sleep.  I slept.  And awoke to silence.  No rats, no stares.  I did not revisit the upper stairs and asked one of the cast to come pick me up as soon as they were ready.

Facts I learnt: Not all Americans cook waffles.  Not all hosts own hoovers.  

I believe I can fly...

I have always and will always seek to live the adventure of life.  And one such adventure started whilst on a family holiday in Tunisia.

Tunisia it turns out, or the part we were in, was a completely non cultural resort of sorts but it provided a haven away from a rather horrific storm my family were going through.  Anyway, we sunbathed, ate lots, celebrated New Year, went to many markets and bartered away.  We went swimming in the sea and decided on one particular day to try para gliding.  This was rather adventurous for a mother with 3 children aged 14, 11 and 8…but that’s just the kind of family I’m from.

We had passed one set of men running the paragliding which put the notion in my mother’s head.  As we carried on walking we approached some more men and we stopped to enquire. 

Two guys on the beach would harness you into some safety contraption, we’ll call them Tom and Dick, then Tom would wave to a guy far out in the sea on a boat (we’ll call him Harry) and he would set off.  Tom meanwhile would tell the paraglider to start running and soon they would lift off and soar magnificently into the air.  They would be up in the air for about 10 minutes and then the boat would bring them back to the beach.  Tom or Dick would then whistle, the paraglider would pull a cord and then would descend gently onto the beach.  Got it? Simple.

Right, so first up, my brother, Richard, aged 11, the man of the house.  Harnessed in, he sets off and is back on dry land in 15 minutes all grins and wonder. 

Next, my mother.  I think it’s important to mention at this time that Tom and Dick, (I cannot comment on Harry, we never met) were the greatest sleaze balls Tunisia has ever had to offer.  Prolonged stares, whispers, with a gentle constant murmuring of ‘Will you marry me?’ playing in the background.  They loved our accents, my sister’s blonde hair, the fact that we were living apparently was even worthy of praise.  My mother sets off, is up in the air whilst her two daughters are being sold into marriage.  By the time my mother is heading back into shore I’ve had just about enough from these freaks and so refuse to look in their eyes and hold my sister close lest they sell her.

Mum has returned, loved it. “Way you go Ru…” she offers. 

So I did.  Took to the floor like a seasoned pro.  Tom is still whispering.   Refusing to look at either of them, I hear them drone through the ‘sexy’ safety procedures and I zone out and take in the beach. 

A vast beach; waves, people swimming, laughing, playing and in the distance a boat with froth coming out the back.  The thoughts begin…Froth happens when the engine starts…is that the boat that Harry is on? Scanning the sea I can see no other boat.  I think it’s the boat.  As I turn to tell my lovers that I think Harry may have got the wrong end of the stick, I am yanked forward by my stomach, like some extreme hiphop move. 

Harry has started the boat.  I am just about harnessed in.  Tom and Dick squeal.  Sexy.  

And I am hurtling across the sand at record speed on my backside with a parachute flailing behind me and an audience of about 300 across a beach.  I’m tearing through the sand like a crazy machine.  Harry will not be stopped. Then I hit a ravine, well you know what I mean, a pathway created by the sea leading to the sea, deep enough for my toes to dip into and flip me over…yes.  So now…I am hurtling at about 30 miles an hour across a beach with my face in the sand, my body completely flat.  This entire event lasts about 40 seconds and then silence.

I think I am dead.

Silence.

I lift my head, slowly.  Spit sand out of my face and turn around.

My family are on the floor crying with laughter.  Tom and Dick are apologetically whimpering.  And the beach is in awe.  That I survived, that such a thing could happen.  Bedraggled, and believe me I owned that word that day, I returned to the start position.  With only my dignity and entire ego bruised, I tried once more.  This time Harry co-operated and as I took off running and was lifted into the air I heard a faint cheer of support.

Para gliding, when I actually mastered the art of getting in the air, was not all I had hoped for.  When I approached land I pulled the toggle and landed…wait for it…in Tom’s arms!  Tom and I did not marry, although we did sell my sister.

Sing a song of sixpence

I like to sing.  I can sing.  I am a singer.  I sing.  I love it.  My vocals are on three albums and I’ve performed in front of thousands.  Singing is great for the soul and can lift your spirits instantly.  And if you’ve ever raised a note to the air then yes you did not need me to tell you that.

This musing leads me to a story on the gift of song, when I, with my 27 years of life, stood at the front of my church to teach a new song to the congregation.  Musicians; check.  Rehearsal complete; check.  Singer; check…Prepared; most would boldly say “Yes”. 

No one can really tell exactly what happened between the rehearsal of said new song and the time approximately 35 minutes later when it was to be taught.  I can only assume that I was elsewhere, there in body but not in mind.  The band started, playing the first verse before the vocals were due to kick in.  Whilst this was playing there was a distant thought in the back of my mind that I had in fact never heard this sound before.  Just as I opened my mouth I remembered that I was the one with the microphone and that 100 heads were looking my way.  I did not panic.  No.  I was simply going to improvise. 

Error. 

Improvisation does not and will not ever work in this case.  You cannot lead people to improvise the exact same thing as you.  As an entire congregation listened to me busk my way through a verse and a chorus I was left rather impressed with my ability to create new song.  Then reality kicked in, I saw the damage and a kind girl joined me at the microphone to try and heal the situation.  The irony of the situation…when the congregation joined in, I knew it.

I’d like to say this sort of event was a one off but no…I once auditioned for a musical about mental illness.  Yes tis true, there is a musical out there about mental illness.  I entered the room and was greeted by a team of two, and a pianist in the corner.  I started with a monologue.  This is nothing extraordinary.  The piece was not about mental illness…until that day.  I started and ended.  And then realized I’d left out the middle.  So the sketch did not come across as written and I looked instead, not like I was auditioning for the part, rather the part was based on me!  Too embarrassed to explain that I had completely mucked up the monologue, I moved onto the song.  Surely all could be redeemed.  No.   Overwhelmed by the fact that I had most probably come across to these three strangers in a tiny cell audition room as a complete loon, I realized the introduction had once again caught me unawares.  I seriously must invest in some warning siren for when a piece of music is about to begin.  As I opened my mouth to sing, I felt my cheeks begin to go red, then redder, until finally I was beetroot.  Clothed now like a tin of Heinz tomato soup I sang the song.  Several minutes later I left the room smaller than I had entered it.  I believe that later that day, I did cry for quite some time over my inability to do what it says on my tin.  

However folks, let us not forget the triumph of the day…I did remember the tune.  Yes, yes indeed.  But the audition…well that was not to be mine.

a person a day helps you work, rest and play!

I moved to London, a mere 7 years ago, to train at drama school and instantly became engulfed in the superb madness that is London life, with it 8 million inhabitants.

My first few days at Webber saw me slapped in the face by a random crazed French man, showered by broken glass and centre to a near emergency involving a toilet and a disabled alarm! 

The alarm it turns out was cunningly disguised as a light switch.  On entering my stage combat class I was informed that if I didn’t rectify the situation an ambulance would be there within 20 minutes…my teacher’s razor sharp skill with a sword left her lacking in areas of sympathy.  The French man who slapped me was not, as my new classmates assumed, an ex-lover or boyfriend.   I had never seen him before in my life.  He approached me with whispered murmurings, staring all the while, and with a strike he bruised my cheek and disappeared from my life.  And the window, well, that just decided to explode whilst I was downward dog, showering me in shards of deadly glass.  Well ok, I was left completely unscathed, but it could have been deadly.  My yoga career was unaffected.   And this within two weeks of moving to London.

In the past few months, I met a lady who sat with her pram on the bus with her twin babies…on closer inspection I was alarmed to discover they were in fact plastic dolls!  I got chatting to a man in a wheelchair when I went for run.  I would like to draw attention to the fact that I was running…thank you.  Minding my own business, ipod in, I slowed to hear what he was saying.  He introduced himself, asked my name and then offered me some food from his BBQ.  I declined.  Charred burgers aren’t what professional runners have mid marathon.  And then whilst waiting patiently for a bus, two men waited with me standing in nothing but aprons and motorcycle helmets.

Which leads me to my recent realization…it seems to be quite some feat to get a casting director to meet with me and yet I seem to have no trouble in meeting just about anyone in London town.

Last week a random French man (I’m pretty certain it was not the same man) started chatting with me on my cycle home.  We were both stopped at the red light at a busy junction (I do hope my friends at the Transport Police are reading!) and he pulled up beside me on his bike.  Mid 40s, taking his fluorescent safety jacket off, he said “It is ‘ot non?”

Apologies for the crap French dictation.

I smiled and made a reassuring friendly “Mmmm” sound.

So we wait at the lights and set off like all good Christian folk when the green bike appears.   Cycling off, my new friend is by my side chatting about the weather and asking me where I live…No, she of the pin number, was not about to launch into exact co-ordinates of my abode.  I said London Fields.  That is near my house.  I’m so cunning. 

And he told me he lived in Leytonstone…always good to find out the whereabouts of your attacker.  I reached the end of a road and turned right and said “Ok, see you”

At which point he added “But Je going the same way as you”

Oh yes, so you are!

Great.

We chatted for about 5 minutes, I learnt that he lived in Leytonstone, that once you cycle past Mare Street it gets a bit dodgy and that he’d had a hard day at work.  Turns out that is it, we cycled together for about 5 minutes…which must mean he knows a lot more about me than I figured I’d shared.

Some truthful facts: He did not actually say “Je”-I added that for dramatic effect.

I would rather meet all these wonderful people than all the casting directors in the world, but throwing one or two into the mix once or twice a month would really do me no harm!

holiday soon

Living in London as an actress I’ve worked about 25 jobs in 7 years, to keep me living in this city of dreams!  I’ve slowly learnt the art of booking holidays, casting aside that notion of missing the audition of your life, that life is to be lived and not waited on.  So I took the bull by the horns and booked myself a trip to New Zealand and Australia for 5 weeks.  It was a big bull.

I was en route to visit one of my favourite friends from school, but decided to do a two week tour of NZ whilst I was out there.  It was whistle stop but it did manage to reveal the beauty of the country.  A group of about 25 people from all over the world on the road on a coach for five, seven, ten, fourteen days…people joined and left along the way…including my ‘best friend’ Soon!

Now to be fair to her we had a very brief friendship, we didn’t have much to do with each other until our climb up the Fox Glaciers…stunning and awesome.  When we reached the top with our expert guide he suggested we leave our cameras at his feet, walk to the viewpoint and he would take a succession of team photos on the 25 cameras available.  Soon and I were last to the top…scenery not slow!  So by the time we got there cameras were aplenty and I placed my camera beside the others and approached my family of travellers…it was then that I heard a ‘plop’ from behind me, followed calmly by an “oops!”  I turned around to see Soon staring at the ground, actually staring at a puddle.  I walked back towards her quite aware that should my fears be realized Soon could soon find herself hanging off a glacier, and yes, twas as I’d thought, she was actually staring at MY camera in the puddle!

 “Sorry it not my fault” NB. Soon was not from Northern Ireland. 

Rather sternly, I asked “What’s not your fault Soon?”

“It not my fault…it fell in!”

Shoving Soon to the side, I yanked my 2month old digital camera out of its bath, laid it out, dead, and stormed over to join my friends, .  The 24 photo opportunities that followed show a succession of faces from the actress who comes to terms with the fact that her birthday present drowned, her memories will now be on her retinas and not on her computer, through to the fact that I did not lose a limb and no one was hurt…these I believe are rational thoughts.  However for the rest of the trip I renamed Soon…Soon to be dead!  Not to her face! 

I do hope she is not and that she is well.  In fact it was the fault of the guide for asking us to place our cameras beside the only melted pool on the whole glacier…and he knew it!  Language may have been a barrier but the look of guilt is universal.

cycle chic

For those who have read this before I apologise - a brand new story is on its way.  For those who have not, read on!

Today I cycled into Covent Garden from Hackney, parked my bike at Leicester Square to do a bit of shopping and then headed back to cycle to Oxford Circus to meet a friend…When I reached my bike I text my friend to say there would be a delay to my arrival as my bike had been vandalized.  The lock had been totally ripped off, and was gone.  My front tyre was flat, the gears had been messed up and there was a new wire connecting the rear tyre to the bike stand, securing it in place…I couldn’t believe it, my bike was three weeks old, I loved cycling around London and discovering wee nooks and crannies in London town.

So I went to the underground staff at Leicester Square and asked for the local police.  They recommended I head to Charing Cross Police Station.  Access from Agar Street, should you ever need to know.  I queued and waited and got a bit emotional as I told the friendly policewoman that my bike had been abused.  She asked me to take a seat while she tried to locate the Safer Neighbourhood Team.  I met a man who’d just been released from prison after 14 years inside.  A group of people on the street were singing anti Mugabe songs.  Whilst I waited I tried to speak sense to myself, it’s just a bike, no one was hurt, but why had they beaten my bike? Why had they locked it up again? What was the procedure with insurance, reporting the crime?

So I waited and listened to the newly free man rant.  Then I was ushered forward, no one on the Safer Neighbourhood Team was free to help at that time, so I was advised to go back to the underground staff, ask the Transport Police to break through the wire attaching my bike to the stand, retrieve my bike, and bring it home.

So I got back and approached my bike, only to realize that they had in fact also stolen my bike rack, and changed the tyres.  Aghast I raised my eyes a fraction, and looked straight at my bike!…I had spent the best part of an hour reporting and mourning for a bike that was not mine.

Things learnt today, there is more than one maroon bike in London.  Thieves do not steal tyres and replace them with other ones.  If you ever need to report a crime visit www.met.police.uk

Huge Bus

About three years ago I trained as a tour guide for a leading London bus company.  For the purposes of this story we’ll call them ‘HUGE BUS’!   My dream was that whilst not an acting job I would be employed in a creative environment, outside, meeting new people, the potential was huge!  Using voice skills, something I could come back to again and again…yes, well…in reality this meant flying around London on top of a bus in March with about 15 strangers, a group that Channel 4 would have been proud to make a documentary on -no common thread, no age bracket.  And, it has to be said, a truly brilliant teacher…there wasn’t much he did not know about London. 

Throughout the 11 day training course you would be given a section of the Huge Bus Bible, to learn by heart that night and the following day we would run through it a dozen times or so, with each of us getting our chance to speak on the microphone and bring our group of contemporaries on our work in progress tour.  The beauty then is having enough information in your brain to be able to keep speaking for up to half an hour in any spot on the tour map, should you get caught in a traffic jam, a parade, or anything else London throws at you in a day.  The other trick is picking out the essentials that must be pointed out.  For instance, when the light goes green and the driver sees a way to catch up on journey time, essentials like St Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben are essential to point out…and not as one of my colleagues did….”and now on your right hand side, ladies and gentlemen, the wonderful building society…Alliance and Leicester”!!

One particular day I was in a foul mood, early morning, Sunday, sleet, you’ve got the picture…add to this the following – Huge Bus has clothed me head to toe in the most almighty disgusting uniform you have ever laid your eyes on!  A coat the size of Africa, with luminous stripes lest I get knocked down.  Underneath said sleeping bag coat, I wear a shirt, tie, jumper WITH lapels, all emblazoned with Huge Bus. There are the trousers, my own, so I feel ok about those,  and finally the shoes, the shoes, yes, NHS shoes come to mind, perhaps if you’d had surgery or had one leg shorter than the other, but no, just shoes for a tour guide.  And an emblazoned hat that sells the company in the dark with its luminous yellow writing. 

So back to Sunday, sleet….some delightful tourist has decided to brave the elements and sit up top…so up I go, and sit for 3 hours on a tour pointing out all the sites. Tour ends, I’m frozen.  I head to the nearest coffee shop and get in the queue and this guy, this indecisive guy, is just hovering around the sandwiches, and I have neither the patience nor the inclination to wait until he makes up his mind about egg mayonnaise or tuna with cheese so I scowl and snap ”Are you in the queue or not?” and then things slow down quite significantly.  He looks up and I realize it is him.  As he gazes into my eyes I know I am his long lost love, he will rescue me from my life, he will help me on the road my career is travelling down…he steps back and considers the size of me…that I, in my Huge Bus tent uniform would dare to speak to him like this.  Matt Damon.  He smiles and offers me a space in front of him.  At this point I lose all communicative ability, just smile, shrink and motion that he carry on as before.  Never has a hole in the ground been so necessary and so absent.   As I stood behind him I did wonder if I should say something like “I love your work Matt” or possibly even just plainly “I love you” but I refrain!  I'm not capable of making sounds that sane people make when faced with experiences like this!

I lasted at Huge Bus for 6 weeks, I have completely forgotten most of what I learnt, Matt Damon is actually not that tall, and he seemed very pleasant.  And Sean Bean married an ex Huge Bus tour guide! I presume he met her when she was not in uniform. 

pin up

One of my very first temp jobs, as a naive professional actress, was as a receptionist at a Media Company in Soho.  It was here that I learnt the invaluable art of ALT TAB – the combination necessary to switch from one site to another on your computer in a second, essential for those surprise visits from the person in charge.

For all ye who have never temped, as a receptionist, let me explain a few things about this job.  It does not matter how you dress, how you speak, where you come from, nor even if you arrive on time, you are chaperoned to a reception desk like an elderly aunt, a phone is placed in your hand, while some poor soul explains that when a phone rings you have to pick it up, that to dial out you need to pick up the phone and that you must smile when people enter the building.  Anyway I digress, more on that later...

This reception was incredibly busy, all the time, with visitors for the 23 floors, requests for studios/recordings/lunch dates…the switchboard rang non-stop, and in the midst of this each customer was to be greeted (see above) and sent to the correct floor with access to the right rooms, it took a while but I got there.

It was in this little scene that I received an email saying that my Paypal account had been hacked.  I was most concerned so I followed all the instructions to rectify the situation.  Simply fill in your basic details once more, including the long number on your card, expiry date, security number and pin number…yes…pin number.  Now at this stage most would halt the procedure in hand and remember the age old rule, a bit like putting your hand in a fire, that you never give your pin number to anyone.  Not this day, no, not me.  I filled it all in and with one click the page disappeared.  Busy reception, busy reception, busy reception…not a flicker of concern.

That night whilst chatting to my housemate I mentioned that I’d finally got my PayPal thing sorted.  She rolled her eyes and said “Yeh, what a bloody scam that is!”

“I’m sorry?” 

‘’It’s a scam” she continued, “it asks for your pin number and then it disappears, I mean how many idiots would do that”…

There was a brief pause as my mind fast tracked into images of 10 coins (the status of my bank account) drop into a big bad burglars bag.  

I leapt off the sofa, and yelled  “That was me, I did it, I did that!”

Char attempted to calm me down, “No Rach, you’re fine, you haven’t, they can only get your money if you gave them your pin number”. 

My face drops… “Char…I did”. 

You see Char had known me at this stage for about a year and a half.  I’m not claiming to be some type of Einstein but I have an actual working brain inside my head, I live in the world, I talk to people and even go out for dinner sometimes!  I gave my pin number out on line!

Immediately I’m rifling through bank statements as I try to locate a number for my bank. Time is 2150.  In ten minutes, internet banking, which I haven’t got, shuts down for the night.  I call and plead that they take me seriously.  I chat with this lovely Northern Irish woman, who like Char assures me they can take no money unless I gave out my pin, she chuckles and tells me not to worry.

“Um…the thing is…I kind of did”

Then there is a brief two second hiatus and the phone goes dead

“Hello?”

Two seconds more of silence…the chuckle is no more.  At this point it is necessary to adopt your own  Northern Irish accent, I’ve made it easy to sound out

“YOU GE-AVE THEM YOURRRR PIN NUMBER! Oh dear, oh dear, dear, dear…you NEVER give owt your pin number”

Yes lady, I have by now realized that you never do, in fact I do know, I just went completely mad for a tiny second…so now that it is 2158 can you please stop my account…which she did and for the record I never actually spoke the last bit out loud.  I was at her mercy, I’d have given her my ten coins if it meant the big bad crooks didn’t get them!

It would seem apt at this point to mention that I have never used PayPal, I have no account with them.