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.