ducks

“So I saw Will on Tuesday”
“Oh yeah? How’d it go?”
“Confusing. We both have feelings for each other but he keeps giving me mixed signals. He tells me he’s fallen for me and that he’s mine but in the next moment tells me there’s a wall around his heart because he knows he’s leaving the country again. The other Will, you know, Counter-Terrorist Will, thinks I should call it a day. He says if it walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, it’s a duck.”
“Yeah, wise words.”



“Sorry, what does that mean?”
“That actions speak louder than words, I suppose. But I get it. He is going to leave the country again and he is more practical about these things than, say, I am.”
“Fair enough. He does have a point and he does this a lot, doesn’t he? I mean Afghanistan one minute, New York the next….”
“Eh? No, not Counter-Terrorist-Will, other Will, the one I’ve been seeing for the last six months. Or not, as the case may be.”
“Ooh, I thought we were talking about Counter-Terrorist Will. Are you seeing him again? You kept that quiet”
“That’s because I'm not. Now, pay attention!”
“So tell me again. I’m confused. You and Will – who isn’t Counter Terrorist Will – really like each other but not enough to make it work when, or after, he eventually leaves the country?”
“That’s the long and short of it”
“Hmm”
Al, looks at me doubtfully for a minute as he tries to formulate a tactful question, one he hopes will help clarify the situation. Good luck, I think, I’ve been struggling with this one for months. I resort to metaphor.
“Its like Will and I…”
“You and Travelling Will not Counter Terrorist Will?” Al interjects, excitedly.
I nod, “..are on a large ship…”
“What? Like a cruiser?”
“Ah-huh…heading for an iceberg. If one of us doesn’t steer us away, we’re going to hit it. “
Al looks at me, unconvinced.
“…and disaster will strike?” I add unnecessarily.



“Tell me again, which one of you is the boat and which one of you is the iceberg?”
“Honestly Al, I’m losing the will…”
“Which one?” he replies.

an open letter to BT

I have never had to contact you about an internet-come-phone problem before. But there’s always a first time, that first time being today. I am having intermittent service disruption with both my phone and my broadband. I work from home so it’s something I need to address swiftly.

And I do. I spend half an hour on my mobile phone speaking to a nice man in India. We go through all the motions: what's blinking on my router; assessing that incoming calls are fine, outgoing are not etc. He has a long script to wade through. One that involves repeating everything that he's done, that I've said and what he's going to do next. He's very polite. It takes twice as long as it should. And I'm on my mobile. During the day. Time is literally costing me money. I am finally handed to the faults department, having all agreed that there is one. I am dealt with by a surly woman, she has a flat Lancashire accent and latent anger issues. She tells me how to check my line. It involves a screwdriver and prising open the socket. It’s a bit of an adventure. It feels flirtatiously manly. Like Kylie in her Neighbours overalls. Surly Woman gets annoyed when, at the next stage of the quest, I don't have a second phone to test on the socket. I find myself having to defend my one-phone lifestyle choice (“Its a one-bed flat, I live on my own, I only use one phone at a time, more could be deemed reckless…” etc etc). She's not impressed. She's incredulous. “Well, borrow one!” I hate to admit that I’m still in my pyjamas at this point (let’s just say it’s well past that time of day when people raise eyebrows at ordering something stronger from the bar). Who could I ask? “What about family and friends?” she offers sarcastically. Sure, but none of them live anywhere near me and what with it being a work day...I neglect to tell her about my attire. She tells me to try my neighbours (the few I do know are out, its that whole work-day thing) plus, I live in London. It isn't Eastenders. We don't all hang around the pub's joanna singing tunes about the Lambeth Walk. Us Londoners don't like to know our neighbours. We don’t want to look into the whites of their eyes in case they turn out to be axe murderers. Or religious fundamentalists. Or fans of Boris Johnson. Surly Woman's had enough. She's drawing the line at me not having a second phone. She practically accuses me of making the problem up as she darkly forewarns me of engineer charges for wasted time. (Shame that policy doesn't work the other way, eh readers?). I can almost hear her waving a well-manicured finger at me. Satisfied she has done her bit, she tells me she’ll get the line tested and that someone will call me back between 2-4pm. I’m assuming an engineer from the inner sanctum of the faults department. It’s ten minutes to 2pm already. I weigh up the chances of being caught in the bath. The guilt of not getting dressed has got to me. I wait. And wait. At 5.30pm, I call BT again. I feel more in control. That might have something to do with getting a bath in. I speak to Gareth he’s friendly and not bossy at all. He warns me not to call an engineer out until I have obtained that all crucial second phone line test. Who are these Naomi Campbells of the telecommunications world? I begin to imagine horses’ heads left in customers beds by disgruntled BT engineers. We’ve reached an impasse. So now I wait for my unsuspecting neighbours to return home to see if I can borrow theirs because BT engineers are far too delicate to look at a line problem unless they absolutely know its just a line problem. And their line at that. They won’t get out of bed for anything less. But how am I supposed to ascertain that it is indeed just a BT line problem? And whether it’s internal or external? Isn’t that what BT Engineers used to be for? What next? Will the NHS be demanding its patients to self-diagnose before allowing them to see a doctor?

Really, BT, your customer service is anything but.

extras

The hall was filling up quickly. It was barely eight in the morning and I stood in one corner, behind the TV monitor, discussing the script with the writers. The sparks were still rolling cable around me and the director was deep in conversation with the DoP. I look around the room trying to tot up in my head how long it will be before we start turning over. We are on location, and time really does mean money. 

As I'm sizing up the scene before me, I slowly become aware of a man staring at me from across the floor.  Judging by the skin-tight leopard skin and long tartan scarf, he is one of the first coach-load of Rod Stewart impersonators (circa 1974) to arrive on set. We need to fill the room with them. He catches my eye and gives a nonchalant nod, one that seems entirely at odds with his appearance. I double-take. An enigmatic smile plays on his lips. At least, I think it is. It's hard to make out what is going on underneath that enormous blonde Rod-wig. There it is, he smiles lazily at me again. Surely he's not actually flirting with me? He readjusts his leggings. Well, they are tight. I blink. Embarrassed, I look away and immediately fall back into the job at hand. Logistics. Timing. Team.

"Excuse me"

I look up. He's now the other side of the monitor. He laughs and waves his hand at his outfit as if for me to inspect. He seems quite pleased with the costume and leans in, companionably:

"Soo, I couldn't help but notice you across the floor and wondered what you have come as...?"

It strikes me his outfit is more Atlantic Crossing than Maggie May. I look down at my jeans, T-shirt and trainers. I'm already wearing cans around my neck and the script is tucked under my arm. 

"The producer'' I reply with a firm smile, "I've come as the producer."

He scuttles away, mortified and I feel quite sorry for him. He'll get thrush if he's stuck in those trousers for too long and at this rate, that's very likely indeed. 

eastenders

"Don't you toast that?" I ask politely. Admittedly, slightly intimidated. 

Her young face smacks of hard living. Her black kohl-ed eyes narrow as she sizes me up over the counter, her gold chains glinting in the early morning sun. I'm no mind reader but the way she holds the butter knife in her fist suggests there are other uses she could put it to.

"Grill's broke" 

She holds my eye for an uncomfortable nano-second before returning to attack the open bagel with a plastic gloved hand. As she slaps the butter across it with vigour, my eyes slide around the shop. The lino is cracked and peeling. I don't know if it started out that yellow. The counter is scratched and grey, the walls spattered in grease. A worn glass cabinet holds prepared fillings in metal trays. The egg mayo has grown a dry golden crust. It has seen better days. Clearly, I am regretting my breakfast-on-the-run decision but there are limited options at this end of Brick Lane at this time in the morning. 

A builder enters and the girl behind the counter does something unexpected: she smiles warmly back at him. She is a different woman. She cannot do enough for him - or his two mates following up the rear. Her eyes twinkle as they share a joke. When they get to the red-or-brown-sauce part of their complex order, she remembers I am still standing there. Her face drops. She flings the discarded bagel into a bag and barks a price at me. I hand over the money and she gives me change in her still gloved hand.

As I step outside, I wryly look back up at the shop sign "Hot Fresh Beigals" it reads. I look at my change, it's short. I can't be bothered to run back over there for a handful of shrapnel. Instead I step across the road and into a hair salon for my early appointment. Its a beautiful, kind-of-arty looking salon filled with beautiful, kind-of-arty looking people. One street across, it's another world. The contrast doesn't escape me.

marketing man

He does look a bit skanky but he has an impressive range of fruit and vegetables on his stall. So shiny you can see your face in them, so bushy and green and irregular in shape, they whisper 'organic'.

He's not there every day but, in a half-arsed attempt to withhold money from the coffers of the supermarket giants, I'm quite keen to buy fresh produce from him whenever I can. Which isn't as easy as it sounds - you need to catch him actually working.

I did once ask him what his days/times were because that seemed like a sensible option. He's more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel. But he was very vague. Said sometimes he was there every day. Which sounded a lot like sometimes he isn't.

Wanting to make the most of this rare sighting, I kept him on his toes with a long list of seasonal leafy things, which one by one, he carefully flipped into brown paper bags for me. At the end of the transaction, an afterthought really, I asked:

"Do you have any herbs?"

"Sure," he replied and leaned in conspiratorially, "What you looking for? An eighth? Some skunk?"

"No" I say slowly, as if speaking to a child, "I was thinking more along the lines of coriander and basil"

I think I might have an idea why he has such a sporadic approach to his market presence. Sainsbury's can rest easy.