Audition - it's what we do.

Tis a great feeling when your agent calls and says that you, yes you, have been selected to meet with someone regarding a job. 

It was with such delight and urgency that I received a call about five years ago for a musical going to the Edinburgh Fringe.  An audition for a musical about mental illness.  I had it in the bag surely.  Whilst training, a director told me he was sure I’d been a schizophrenic in a previous life so convincing was my portrayal on stage.

Like buses I went for a few weeks without one casting and then a string of mentally unstable characters in theatre and TV came along…I’ve had to surrender to the possibility of ever playing pretty.  Recently I waltzed up to an audition beaming as I was called for the pretty flirty wee thing…on arrival I was quickly corrected.  “NO.  Today you’ll be auditioning for Ellen…older, plainer, bitter.”

Anyway back to mental illness. The real life subject not to be laughed at but could this musical really be serious? I hadn’t seen a script so had visions of choruses of “I’m mad, you’re mad, we’re all mad together” running through my head.

I was quite inexperienced in the art of auditioning at the time.  But even now I have to fight the demons of insecurity when you hear the person before you doing their thing.  The brief…the old familiar chestnut.  Prepare one piece two minutes long and a song of your choice.  Simple.

I entered a room and was greeted by a young couple behind a table in front of the brightest light.  It was like the sun had landed on the pavement outside and was shining straight at me.  Almost hidden from sight was a pianist.  As a trio they were not ogres, terrifying and grizzly.  They were in fact quite pleasant.  So I don’t know what happened on passing through that door into the room of light but henceforth that following 15 minutes would go down in history as my worst audition.

Now perhaps I should not be so bold to profess this yet.  I am not yet dead, who knows what lies ahead but I pray I have learnt a lot from this experience.

I started my monologue, one I’d performed a fair few times before…and approximately 30 seconds in I completely forgot what I was doing, where I was, who I was.  Now this perhaps could have been seen as perfect for such a musical as this.  But no!  The idea is to cast an actor who could play mental illness not someone suffering from a condition.  It was awful.  I stuttered, then staggered my way through the piece, my brain trying to grab any semblance of control.  I found it, but was shaken.  My audience looked shocked…and not with pleasant surprise.

Next, the song.  Surely something could be regained.  Surely.  Something.  And so the pianist started.  And off I set too.  A dainty little ditty from my home country…except the old brain had started to engage with what had just happened. 

And so I started to go slightly red at the cheek.  Singing my Irish ditty I started to focus on trying not to blush, which we all know works so well, and continued to get redder and redder and redder.  By this stage my audience have signed me over to be committed.  Song ended.  Brief chat.  And I ran out of that room.  Straight on the tube.  Back to my house and burst into uncontrollable tears.  After finishing four years of training, performing professionally and countless times as a kid, I couldn’t even stand in front of 3 nice people.  I could, I can, I will.  It just would seem sometimes our best days are not every day.  Sometimes madness catches you unawares and sometimes perhaps your finest performances are in real life.

Meeting An Appearance

Appearances can be deceiving.

I have two reports on this very fact from this week.

First up, I am now working at a chocolate store and café…a place where you might stay and where you buy chocolate minus the ‘e’.  Located in the centre of London we get the odd celebrity buyer…Justin Lee Collins, Gina McKee to name but a few.  And my guest of all guests.

I did not recognise him by sight but by voice.  Flying past him whilst he was at the counter I turned 360 to see the beholder of said voice.  One I had heard many times on re runs, one usually so full of exasperation and here he was ordering a latte.

It was Clive Swift; most famously known as Richard from Keeping Up Appearances.  This may have gone unnoticed apart from the fact that I love this show.  It is brilliant, I love Patricia Routledge.  I love the writing and the performance.  I was in awe.  I’ve watched Clive Swift (albeit a younger version) for many a Christmas/ Sunday afternoon.  He is great.

Now we all remember my success in meeting these people who are known from the world of movies and TV (Huge Bus)

I was so confused as to whether it was him.  The voice said so but he looked older.  I observed him from afar for what seemed hours whilst deliberating whether or not to approach. Was it rude to? Was I an annoyance?  I took three steps forward, six steps back...about three times and then suddenly I was at his side poking him.

He turned around.

“I’m really sorry to bother you” I start nervously, “but I just want you to know that I love your work”…yes I did use that phrase! “I’ve watched you all my life and think you’re great.”

His face is shocked.

Then I freak out thinking “Dear God this is not him, this is not Clive Swift, this is some poor unsuspecting member of the public.”

I continue rather frantically, “I mean you are the guy who played Richard, with Hyacinth Bucket, I mean Patricia Routledge, it’s you…isn’t it?

Silence.

Then his voice, “Yes, yes it is, thank you, gosh, thank you very much.”

Delighted I throw my hand into his with a ‘My name’s Rachel and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

And with that I pick up my chocolate and skip off.

When he’s leaving a bit later he comes up and chats with me asking me what it’s like to work at this chocolate place to stay! I tell him I’m an actor and we then have a mighty chat involving the Actors Centre which he set up, mutual friends and general good cheer.

He came back the next day and asked after me. I’d rather he asked casting directors to ask for me but we all must start somewhere!

Then I had an audition for a 22 year old flirty pretty Irish girl.  I thought all my wishes had come true.  Someone had seen my profile picture and thought I was pretty.  Very pleased with myself I did my hair, made my make up nice and turned up only to be greeted with “Ah yes, you’re going to audition now for Ellen.”

“Who?”

“Oh she’s 27, bitter and plain…”

Yes, appearances can be deceiving.

Life is a Musical

Never did I think when I got cast as the lead in Redundancy The Musical that I would actually be made redundant.  So my New Year’s resolution is to gain employment in ‘Happily Married with Kids The Musical’, and ‘Really Exciting Acting Job, Never Have to Temp Again The Musical’…in fact even ‘Dating The Musical’ would suffice for now!

Yes the days of cold calling green accommodations throughout the UK are behind me…as apparently are the days of paid work.

I recently went for an audition for a huge event that is happening this year.  I am unable to say anything about it apart from the fact that I got recalled…”Excellent!” I hear you cry.  Yes, excellent, yes indeed for a…hip hop class. 

Now for those of you who do not know me, there is nothing in first meeting with me that might lead you to believe I was hiding any such hidden moves…but someone in the Events Team thought they saw hip hop spirit within me.  And I will discover in about two weeks if it is indeed anywhere near me!  At my recall I was sporadically placed between the two best dancers of the 200 present; a hot, tall, black teenager and a cutesey elfin Irish girl; both of whom had the moves like they’d choreographed the whole routine.  I feel I may be watching both my new friends from the comfort of my living room but time will tell. 

And yes the delay in writing for a while was because the unknown actress started making contacts – hurrah!  A lot of them unpaying contacts but hey you’ve got to start somewhere! Oh yes, hang on, I did…seven years ago!  But anyway a comedy night, a musical, a trip to act in Israel and Palestine and a chance to be involved in that huge event that’s happening this summer all happened over a couple of months so long may that continue.

Here ends a brief intro to the New Year from the Unknown Actress so…

Happy New Year of Olympic proportions…may everything bloom apart from our waistlines!...unless you’re pregnant, in which case congratulations!

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?