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.