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!