A darkened dark day this day is. And dark.

Quite an interesting day today. Quite an interesting one. I spent half the day realising that I in fact loath myself and all I stand for, and the other half realising that everything I ever secretly hoped for is in fact, a big pile of cat sick. And I burnt my tongue on some tea. Everything I have every believed in has betrayed me.

Actually I think I've done rather well, apparently usually it takes a good few years of living in the golden city to become empty, cynical and blackened like the inside of a lung in a scary 'don't fucking smoke you wankers' advert. But hey, I've always been ahead of the curve soul-blackening wise, so perhaps this was all pretty inevitable. Who knows. Who even cares anymore? I don't. Before I go and drown myself in a river (and by river, I mean the urine of the nearest prostitute, there are no rivers here. Only death. Or anywhere, for that matter. I'm pretty sure they don't exist) I better tell you of the day I have had, so that when the police try to drag Adrian away, you at least can force the cuffs of his furry claws and say no! Twas not the squirrel! the squirrel did no wrong!

So, I spent this morning on a set, helping to dress it, build two dressing rooms and generally move heavyish things from inconvenient areas to areas that will be much more inconvenient tomorrow, leaving me with a job for the morning. Super. Now, I realise that I have the physique of an undernourished bicycle, but dammit, I do enjoy playing with things that make noise, and a staple gun possibly makes one of the most satisfying noises known to man. I spent the day in relative happiness, and satisfaction, much like Danny champion of the world right at the beginning, before the unfortunate poachy bit, when he doesn't know much as he's five years old, but give the lad a drill, everyone's a winner. I was wearing jeans, I knew and understood words like 'rigging' and 'cables', and any words I didn't know tech-wise I announced fairly firmly that 'we don't call it that in England'. It was the perfect crime. So, i hear all (7) of you cry as one voice, why the heartache? Why the loathing? Why the overly indulgent dramatic lead up to the next sentence?

Well. The problem was. There were actors in the room. Actors, I have discovered this day, are bastards. But really though. The first problem came when we were fitting up the dressing room, creating tableclothes, chairs and even mirrors out of gaffer tape alone, and looking at the Actor's Equity rules we discovered that every actor is required to have 30 inches of mirror space each, otherwise they will turn into small beetles and eat through the very wood they are standing on. There wasn't really enough room for that. 25 inches each, perhaps. But to create that kind of distance would require someone (me) to move a LOT of dance-tile flooing type entities, to another room and I knew by now that all THAT meant would be that I'd have to move them somewhere else tomorrow. I wasn't up for it. It didn't matter. Actors have massive faces, and those faces need mirrors. Never mind, I thought, as I created a tractor out of gaffer to lift the mats, rules are rules, no one's fault.

OH also, HA, the equity rules also state that actors are required a small bed to have a nap on, should they get tired of saying lines standing up for an hour, perhaps even an hour and a half. I am an actor, I've done it, we dont need beds. We really don't. We need a good right hook to the face occasionally, but I checked in the rules and that wasn't really mentioned. If we need a sleep, we do what everyone else does, and have a cheeky sleep on the pavement. Helen Mirren is famous for it, and look how well she's done for herself.

Still, I persevered hopefully in my small actor's brain, this is no one persons fault. Rules are ridiculous. Thats the way life is! Actors themselves now, we are good people! Good honest folk who just want to make lovely things happen! Yeah. It turns out that that is all true, and it is possibly the most annoying thing in the world. The actors swanned in, much like I had swanned in about 5 hours earlier, but wearing the scarf I had decided against, in case it made me look a but too much like an actor. There, they sat on the chairs, laughed a bit, drank lattes and looked at a piece of paper together. For about 3 hours. There was no rehearsal, i heard snippets of words like 'meeting' and 'a informal quick chat' and 'hummus'- all words I was all too familiar with. Why were they here? Why were they in this room? this room where I needed to get behind them to stable gun some blacks to a bit of two by four (ohh yeah staple gun funsies, fuck you shakespeare, this was my life now). They. Were. So. Annoying. Annoying in the way only those who are exactly like you can be annoying. I felt every semblence of thespy love slip slowly away. I thought back to every show that I had sat there and watched Lynchy, Griggs, Rhys and everyone else who will never read this so its fine- sat there and watched them do stuff. Stuff I assumed was too complicated, too techy and, frankly, well, a bit too damn tiring to do. So I sat and had an informal meeting with my bit of paper. Maybe run to costies to get some pita bread and a babybel. Oh God. The sins of my formal self.

One of them, a girl possibly even more ethiopian of the wrists than I was, offered to go and get... something... her voice trailed off as she realised she had no idea what she was trying to offer, and I felt a twang of recognition, of the thesp so tangled in her own scarf she can't really do anything to help, even though at least she damn well tried. I shhhed her, and offered her a small hand mirror by way of consoltaion. She seemed happy enough with the trade off.

So, after that morning of disconcerting reflection, I thoughtfully returned to the my theatre's offices, after re-moving all of the dance mats after someone discovered they were in a very inconvenient position.

Now. To anyone who ever thought being a Thesp was far easier than its worth- including myself after the morning of self destruction- this next bit will probably be very satisfying. But for me, it was simply further proof that all of us poor poor acty types were just like a group of cockroaches being chased towards a fire. Hated by all, and ultimately doomed. I spent the afternoon filing. Not very dramatic, I'll give you, but I what I was filing was headshots of actors who had auditioned or applied to audition to the company, and the criteria to file them was the following-

Young White Female
Old White Female
Young Asian Female
Old Asian Female
Young Black Female
Old Black Female.
Young Hispanic Female
Old Hispanic Female.

And that was it. No matter who you are ladies, you will fit into one of these easy catagories. Simple! And the ones where you really can't tell from a photo? Just shove em in anywhere! Eyes a bit slanty? Could be from the sunlight, but just shaft her into Asian- is that a wrinkle I see? SHE'S OLD! This woman, well can't really tell her age but she's wearing a polo neck, probably hiding some tendons eh? OLD AND BLACK she is, wahey!
I couldn't help feel the dead eyes of the shiny photo face actors judge me as I was the most racist I have ever been, but I was assured that this was just how the business was.

But, that wasn't even the worst bit. The worst bit was that every photo also contained a 'Resume', and almost all of them also had a letter, stating their desire to come and audition for David, the Director of the company. And oh, they were some sad sad letters.

'David! It was so great to meet you in that alleyway once, 7 years ago! You're right, it was sunny that day! Anyway, I hear you're doing Measure for Measure, and strangely enough, my mom actually wrote that so...'

'Dear David- its possible you are the most amazing person I have ever met. I saw you buying a cake once, and it was so beautiful I had a small seizure. I'm Ok now though. So OK, in fact, that I thought I'd contact you about...'

'David-Weird coincidence, my name is also David! David, short for Esmerelda. Please let me audition for you David. Please. All the Davids together, eh? '

So Actors, if any of you are out there reading this, welcome to your future. A future where a short sighted foreign chick on a six week internship can decide your ethnic origin, whether you are old or young, and hey, you only get that privilege if you write a letter so full of your own juices that the ink actually drips off the page and burns the skin upon contact. Dark times ahead my friends. Dark dark times.

In lighter news the tea thing was probably my own fault, rather than that of the dark forces of destiny. I gulped in a post limber-lugging manic thirst. Schoolboy error. My tongue feels fine now though, thanks for asking. Perhaps I should be a professional drinker? I hear most people who do that a lot end up on a good road. Oh God. That's it. I'm officially in training, I'm off for a strong Vodka and some toast. The hummus will call, but I will not answer dammit. I will not answer.