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!
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