NURSE: But if the Medical Council finds out …
DISHY PATIENT PULLS NURSE TOWARDS HIM. THEY KISS …
‘AuntyEm! Aunty Em!’
I wake up with a start to find wide eyes, the colour of conkers, beaming down on me.
‘Blimey, how long have I been asleep?’ I say, rubbing my eyes.
‘Only an hour or so,’ says Faye gently. ‘You looked so peaceful and happy, I didn’t want to wake you. How do you feel?’
‘All kind of … floaty, more calm … less like I want to crawl under a stone.’
‘Good! Now Tariqand I insist you stay for tea, and he’d like you to read himGangsta Grannyagain.He says your storytelling is much better than mine as you can do all the voices.’
‘Aah, nice to know someone appreciates my acting skills.’
‘Then I’ve got a nice bottle of Sauvignon in the fridge we can crack open,’ she says, popping two extra fish fingers under the grill.
* * *
On the bike ridehome, I give myself a good talking-to and decide it’s time to take control and not wait for something to happen. Time to start thinking positive thoughts, do yoga, and create the life I want.
Faye’s right; if opportunity won’t come to me, then I need to devise a way of getting to it.
Back at Beryl’s I grab a coffee, fire up my laptop, and open a new Word document.
TITLE?
A One-Woman Play in Two Acts
by
Emily Forsyth
* * *
To my surprise, it doesn’t take long (five days to be precise) for the visualisation technique to work its magic. I found the ad inThe Stage,just belowPOLE DANCERS WANTED IN JAPAN …
PRESENTERS
FOR NEW SHOPPING CHANNEL
Now, admittedly, flogging power tools and gadgets on the telly isn’t exactlyHolby City, butit would be experience in front of a camera, wouldn’t it? And it’spaidwork.
Many actors would probably pooh-pooh the idea, but women on the verge of bankruptcy cannot be choosers.
So I e-mailed the channel, and after a brief Skype interview, where I presented a Puff the Magic Dragon ornament (borrowed from Beryl’s china collection) to an imaginary audience, they offered me a trial slot.
It may not be presentingThe One Show, but it’s got to beat scrubbing toilets and other people’s coffee-stained mugs, hasn’t it?
And who knows, today, shopping channel presenter, tomorrow, heaving-bosomed, bonnet-wearing BBC period-drama heroine – okay, so period-drama heroine’s mum/maiden aunt.
* * *
‘There’s nothing else for it – lift up your dress please,’ commands George, thebutch, no-nonsense sound engineer, as she strides purposefully towards me, swinging a transmitter and clip-on microphone, like a lasso. Whatever possessed me to wear my tattiest knickers, the ones with the elastic showing, on today of all days?
A receiver is poked in my ear.
