The Missing 02/11/2016

“The devil is in the details”. Very wise words from Julien Baptiste. If you don’t know who I’m talking about then you’ve been living under a rock for the past four weeks. Or possibly for the last two years. Julien Baptiste is the retired and woebegone French detective who is starring again in the second series of Harry and Jack Williams’ drama series, The Missing. 

When the first series of The Missing came into our lives in 2014, I thought I was one of the only people who had heard of it. I’d seen it advertised on TV and when the first episode aired on 28 October 2014, I was signed off work on sick leave with very little on TV to stimulate my brain. By the time the first episode had finished, I was sat in a state of shock. 

Not only had it captured my entire attention for the full hour (and even better, it really was a full hour as there were no pesky adverts) but I was in awe at the brilliant acting, the unpredictable storyline and the chilling questions I had simmering in the back of my mind all week until the next episode aired. 

I quickly found a little group of people on Twitter who all used the hash tag #TheMissing and together, we discussed theories, we formulated answers and we batted ideas back and forth with each other. People quickly cottoned on to the fact that I was keen on the show and I would get messages on Facebook, emails from people in work, tweets from total strangers, all asking me what I thought was going to happen next. I once spent an entire lunch hour discussing the finer details of the previous night’s episode with a person I had never spoken to before as we toyed with ideas and laughed at our old theories for the story. 

Having never really gone in for the overwhelming amount of reality TV available to us, I’ve always scoured the TV guides for any original British dramas. Once I find them, I cancel plans and move things around to make sure that I can watch every episode and more importantly, make sure that I can watch the episode at the very time it airs to the public. I learned the hard way that it’s terrible stumbling across a spoiler for a programme that you haven’t had chance to watch. 

The types of British dramas I’m referring to are the likes of Happy Valley, Broadchurch, Ordinary Lies, Lightfields, Mayday, Paranoid, The Fall, The Level, Scott and Bailey and more recently, programmes such as One of Us and National Treasure. Anything that gets people talking about more than Kim Kardashian’s arse has got to be a good thing and if it’s written well, I generally enjoy it, but there are the odd exceptions to this rule. This may be an unpopular opinion but I really couldn’t get into Downton Abbey. 

I tried! God knows, I tried. I even asked for the box set for a Christmas present and devoted an entire day to lounging about in bed, nursing a stonking hangover, while I watched one episode after another. But I just didn’t get the same buzz from it that I did from other drama series I’d watched. I remember sitting in work on the day that the final episode of Broadchurch aired and I was literally counting down the hours to get home. 

Was this sad? Probably. Was it necessary? Without a doubt.

So, it might sound odd but by the time the very last episode of The Missing aired, I realised that the show had got a huge amount of attention and rightly so. The most refreshing part for me was that the show didn’t conclude in the way we would’ve expected. Thanks to programmes such as Midsomer Murders and Miss Marple, we expect to be almost spoon fed every answer, every clue. The Missing dared to be different. It made us think for ourselves. And even when we thought we’d cracked it, we were still on the edge of our seats. We ended the episode with unanswered questions, for which we suspected we may never know the answers to.

You can imagine how excited I was when my mum sent me a text message saying “Second series of The Missing starts soon – just seen the advert!” 

And here we are. Four episodes in. For years, I’ve toyed with the idea of blogging about the programmes we see on TV and week after week, I could kick myself for not blogging about The Missing. Tonight, I wrote down a few questions that I have following another nail biting episode and as a last minute thing, I decided to Tweet what I’d written. I went downstairs, made a cup of tea, came back and realised my phone was flashing and buzzing. 150 retweets. 500 likes. 214 comments. 300 new followers, all equally obsessed with The Missing.

Oh, I thought. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should be writing this down properly. After all, that’s what I do with anything I’m thinking about, struggling with, confused over. So, here we go. Please note that the following comments made are simply my own thoughts and my own theories. None of this is to be taken seriously, nor is it gospel. I might make mistakes with my knowledge of the series so far. After all, I’ve only seen the same episodes as you. If I do make a mistake, apologies – please let me know if this is the case. 

More importantly, if you don’t want to come across any spoilers, this is your warning. Do not read ahead. 

Okay. So, in the first few episodes, we discovered that Alice Webster was a British teenager living on a military base in Germany when she went missing in 2003. In 2014, a young woman stumbled into the German Christmas markets and collapsed on the floor. She was emaciated, she was barely conscious and, most notoriously, she had lips drier than the Sahara desert. When being transported to hospital by ambulance, the paramedic questioned her and the only words the young woman spoke were “Sophie Giroux”. 

In time, we learned that the young woman was Alice Webster and although we might have expected that her return to her family would’ve been a joyous affair, her family (and particularly her mother) were wary. Mr Webster put his daughter’s nervous energy down to the simple fact that she had been held hostage for eleven years. Mrs Webster described Alice as being “different” to what she had remembered.

At this point, we are re-introduced to the fabulous Julien Baptiste, the retired detective hired by Mr Hughes in the first series to help find his missing son. The Hughes story has no relation to the Webster story. The only link between the two series is Julien and as time goes on, we discover that Julien was the lead detective in a different case of a missing girl years before. This girl’s name was Sophie Giroux. 

We also learn that Sophie’s mother committed suicide in front of Julien, something which Sophie’s father had never gotten over and appeared to blame Julien for. In the second episode, it becomes clear that during the investigation of Sophie’s disappearance, Julien either suggested or accused Sophie’s father of having some involvement and that perhaps this was the cause of Sophie’s mother’s suicide. 

Julien contacts the German military police who are investigating Alice’s return. The police are uninterested in his help and shoo him away. The main police officer we meet is heavily pregnant Eve Stone, whose father also works in the military. 

I should probably point out here that in typical The Missing style, the story isn’t just set in 2014. Oh no. It jumps from 2014 to present day. The only way we can differentiate between the two times is on the characters’ appearances. For example, in 2014, Eve is heavily pregnant but in present day, she is not. In 2014, Julien is relatively healthy but in present day, his health has rapidly deteriorated and he later declares that he has a brain tumour. 

It becomes apparent early on that Julien suspects that something is fishy regarding Alice’s return and he isn’t quite as protective of her as everyone else is. In the second episode, this is confirmed when Julien accuses her of not being Alice Webster but actually being Sophie Giroux. Alice leads the military police to the location where she has been held hostage for eleven years and upon investigation of the area (a deserted war bunker in the depths of a murky forest), Julien finds a receipt half hidden by mud and guck. 

The police use the information on the receipt to trace a butcher, who is instantly arrested, despite protesting his innocence. The butcher’s wife, seemingly totally unaware of her husband keeping two girls captive for over a decade, is later brutally attacked by two masked men.

At this point, I’ll switch over to present day. Mr Webster is covered in scars that look as if he has been horrifically burnt at some point between Alice returning and present day. He is also undergoing serious counselling as it appears the army have signed him off sick. Mr Webster is engaging in a sexual relationship with the now not pregnant Eve. And yes, he’s still married to Mrs Webster, who later discovers their affair by spying a pen her husband picked up from the hotel they frequent for their sordid business. 

Matthew Webster, Alice’s brother, has totally gone off the rails. He is hanging around with two bald twins, not doing anything particularly horrific, but recklessly causing trouble in supermarket car parks. At one point, we see Matthew becoming aggressive with the butcher’s wife – who is sporting a scar on her top lip. Matthew also visits the butcher, the man charged with the abduction and imprisonment of his sister, in prison and delivers a message to him which Alice has asked him to deliver. 

The message is “I’m sorry”.

We also learn at this point that Alice has died. Initially, we don’t know how but in the third episode (I’ve gone back to 2014 here) Alice asks her brother Matthew to lock her in the shed so she can sleep. Don’t be alarmed. This is usual practice for Alice and Matthew does it, albeit reluctantly. What he doesn’t know is that hours beforehand, Alice had ran away from the house (after hearing her parents rowing about how different she is compared to before she had been abducted) and she returns with a petrol can. 

You can probably guess what’s coming here but for those who are already baffled, I’ll explain. Mr and Mrs Webster are in bed when they see an inexplicable glowing light coming from the garden. Within seconds, we realise that the garden shed – where Alice has chosen to sleep – is up in flames. Mr Webster attempts to rescue her, which is unsuccessful, and in the meantime he suffers third degree burns. He later explains that he holds Matthew responsible for what happened. At the hospital, Eve Stone informs Mrs Webster that the DNA profile of the burnt body in the shed matches the DNA of Mr Webster.

Meanwhile, in present day, Eve is childless yet is very attached to the ultrasound scan photos which she stores in the bottom drawer in her bedroom. Mrs Webster has been given strict instructions from Julien to meticulously check every photograph taken on a rollercoaster at a theme park. We don’t know why until we flashback to 2014 and Alice boldly declares, whilst eating the driest roast dinner known to man, that her abductor let her and Sophie go to a theme park. Chillingly, she also explains that over the years, she and her abductor did have some happy times together.

At this point, the story line is reeking of Stockholm syndrome as Alice also confirms what the police had already suspected – that during her years in captivity, Alice has had a baby.

Meanwhile, in present day, a very poorly Julien Baptiste is a man on a mission in war torn Iraq as he searches for Daniel Reed, a solider whose father, Henry Reed – also a soldier – unexpectedly committed suicide in 2014. Before Julien’s search for him, the only time we get a real glimpse of Daniel is when he walks into a house and sees a pool of blood on the floor, which he quickly cleans up.

We later discover that Henry Reed paid a large sum of money every month to a mystery man. Julien is hot on the heels of the mystery man, who we later learn is named Mirza Barzani. After days of being shot at in Iraq, Julien tracks Mirza Barzani down and questions him about the monthly payments he had received from Henry Reed until his suicide in 2014. Disgustedly, Mirza tells Julien that Henry paid the money out of guilt due to an incident that occurred involving his sister in 1991. He also implies that Adrian Stone, Eve’s father, was involved.

Mrs Webster finds the photograph of Alice on the rollercoaster and realises that the girl she is sat next to is actually her daughter. Therefore, the girl who returned to the family in 2014 claiming to be Alice wasn’t Alice. She later zooms out of the photograph and sees a third girl, sat in the row behind Alice and imposter Alice. She is wearing a necklace very similar to the necklace imposter Alice wore the first night she slept in the shed.

Kept up so far? 

We’re nearly done. 

In present day, Adrian Stone is suffering with dementia and during a lapse, he tells Eve that he remembers a beautiful young girl with “alabaster skin”. This isn’t the first time our suspicions are raised by Adrian Stone, as in 2014, when the police presented imposter Alice with photographs of suspects of her abductor, Alice identifies the butcher, who at this point has already been arrested. She freaks out, goes to sit in the garden and is followed by Adrian Stone. Alice, inexplicably, says to him “How can you live with yourself?” They talk a little about a familiar childhood fable and the general message given by Adrian Stone is quite an intimidating one. 

Meanwhile, in 2014, Julien discovers CCTV footage from the three hour period that Alice ran away from home. She goes into a florist and buys a bunch of flowers. The florist explains that the flowers are a symbol of loss and that Alice had gone to the cemetery to place them on a grave. Julien, accompanied by a somewhat shady police officer, find the flowers on the newly dug grave of Henry Reed – Daniel’s late father.

At the very end of the fourth episode, we see a waiter in Switzerland attempt to woo a young woman and when the waiter heads off, unsuccessful in his quest for love, we see that the recipient of his affection was imposter Alice. Alive and well. (Having treated herself to a generous helping of lip balm.)

At this point, if you’re still reading, you’ll likely have a few questions. I’ve already asked some but I’m going to write them here so that hopefully we can answer them after next week’s episode.

The DNA profile matched with Mr Webster’s. Mrs Webster’s was not checked. Is it possible that Mr Webster is the father of both Alice and Sophie?

Mrs Webster’s wording to Eve was odd: “Have you never thought about having a baby?” when she knew that Eve had been pregnant just two years before. Why was this?

During the three hour window when Alice had ran away, could she have got a copy of the key to the garden shed for an accomplice to come and leave a body?

Does Adrian Stone really have dementia or is it a cover up in case he is linked to any criminal activity?

Was Mr Webster the father of Eve’s baby?

There have been three suicides so far in the story – Alice’s, Sophie’s mother’s and Henry Reed’s. Two of these suicides, Alice’s and Henry’s, were suspiciously out of character. Were they murdered?

Whose blood did Daniel Reed clean up?

What happened to the baby imposter Alice gave birth to? Or did she really have a baby at all?

The ultrasound scan photos Eve is attached to – are they all of her baby or could they be of imposter Alice’s baby?

Who is the third girl on the rollercoaster? Is she Mirza Barzani’s sister? We don’t know what happened to her in 1991, other than “something bad”. Did Henry Reed and Adrian Stone abduct her?

The camper van which was used during Alice’s abduction was last seen in Switzerland. Imposter Alice was calmly sipping coffee in Switzerland. What’s the link?

Why did imposter Alice want to let the butcher know that she was sorry? Is it because she knows she has foisted the blame on an innocent man?

Who was the girl with the alabaster skin described by Adrian Stone? Was it Alice? Was it Mirza Barzani’s sister? Was it Sophie? Or is there another girl involved? Was he describing Eve Stone? Is she really his biological daughter or was she abducted many years ago?

Was the receipt planted there to set up the butcher? If so, by who? Imposter Alice and the abductor who she is in love with?

Did the butcher’s wife have any involvement? So far, we’ve assumed that her being attacked was as a result of her husband’s involvement with the case. Is that a double bluff? Was she really involved? After all, in present day, we saw that someone had vandalised derogatory terms on the butcher’s door. Was it aimed at her?

If imposter Alice isn’t really Alice, then whose body was burnt to a crisp in the shed? The DNA matched Mr Webster’s, so it must be a relation of his. Does he have any more children we don’t know about? Or were the DNA results rigged?

Eve Stone received a phone call from someone saying they couldn’t watch over Adrian Stone because of a disturbance. Was this linked to Matthew Webster and the delinquent twins?

In the CCTV footage of imposter Alice emerging from the florist, we can see a van parked up. Is it the abductor’s camper van? 

Why was imposter Alice laying flowers on Henry Reed’s grave? Is it possible that Henry Reed rescued the girls and his ‘suicide’ is nothing more than murder to shut him up?

Where is Sophie Giroux? Is Sophie really imposter Alice, drinking coffee in Switzerland? Do we know that Sophie actually has any involvement whatsoever? Other than imposter Alice murmuring her name in an ambulance, there hasn’t been any proof she’s involved.

If imposter Alice really is an imposter, when did she get the tattoo on her hand? Did the third girl on the rollercoaster also have a tattoo?

The burnt body in the shed – was this person already dead when the shed went on fire? Could it be imposter Alice’s child? 

No Man's Land

Apologies in advance that I am writing this from a laptop which is on death’s door. It’s been on death’s door since well before Christmas and I keep meaning to buy a new one but then I’m torn between do I buy a tablet and keep up with the times or do I buy a laptop which I need for writing? It’s been a constant problem for months so me being me, I’ve done my typical response: I’ve buried my head in the sand and ignored it.

However, it’s getting pretty hard to ignore something where the fans have broken so it heats up uncontrollably and is currently burning me through my pyjama pants onto my leg. Also, the letters N and B aren’t working unless I really press down on them. So, I’m writing this hoping it will be worthy of publishing but suspecting it might not be.

Back to the problem with the laptop – I keep talking myself out of buying a new laptop for a couple of reasons. The first being the expense of forking out several hundred pounds. Every time pay day approaches, I make a mental list of things I need to pay for (usually my list complies of which child’s birthday is it this month?) and every time I mentally calculate my wages factoring in paying for a new laptop, I hesitate. It’s not that I desperately need the money for something else. Okay, last month I crashed my car again. (This time it was my fault. Luckily, no one else was involved. I drove into a wall. Okay. There. I’ve said it. Laugh away) 

So, yeah, okay, last month I had to fork out to have my car fixed. But other than that, I know that I could afford a new laptop if I just saved gradually, month by month. So why am I hesitating?

Because I haven’t written much in a while?

Because I’m constantly tired and struggle to find the time or the energy to write anything?

Or is it because I’m from a generation of people who were promised big things which have yet to happen?

It’s quite sad really. Sometimes, when I’m sat in particularly bad traffic coming home from work and I’m listening to the radio and shuffling along in first gear, my mind will begin to wander (perhaps this is why I’ve crashed twice in fifteen months?) and I’ll think about when I was a student at Priestley College. We were young, we were fresh faced and we were eager. So eager. Eager to please, eager to show off, eager to learn, eager to go out and get drunk and go to parties and get into clubs and start our driving lessons and lose our virginities and yes, somewhere in the back of our minds we vaguely thought about the future, but it didn’t worry us. We weren’t terrified when someone asked us “where do you think you’ll be in ten years time?”

Well, guess what. It is ten years. I started college in September 2006. That’s ten years ago. A lifetime ago. I remember my first day very clearly, when I was sat in the performing arts room wearing all black clothes with bare feet and we sat round in a circle and spoke a bit about who we were. I remember thinking God, I wonder who’ll make it first. Who will be the one to get the first BAFTA or the first to appear in a film?

It pains me to admit that it was none of us. The same goes for the wonderful souls I met at university and then at drama school. Hugely talented and incredibly driven people. But again, for some inexplicable reason, it hasn’t happened for them. We were the generation who were going to make it. We were the ones our parents proudly bragged about to friends they bumped into at the supermarket. We were the ones who used to see people lugging briefcases onto a packed train at seven thirty in the morning and we pitied them, because we didn’t for a moment think that would be us.

As the years have passed by, more and more people faded into the background. And now we are all approaching our twenty sixth birthdays. We will soon be in our late twenties. For the remaining ones still at home, we are feeling increasingly guilty and worried. Will I move out? Because if I do, that would most likely be the end of most of if not all creativity. Creativity is wonderful but I've discovered the hard way that it doesn’t pay the rent.

I remember a conversation with Eva McKenna, the actress who played the lead role in A Walk in the Park back in November. We were talking about her journey after university and I smiled in recognition as she admitted “I’m so lucky, I haven’t had to get a real job yet”. That is our generation down to a tee. A real job. Also known as a nine to five job. An office job.

How I wish I could wake up in the morning, lie in bed for another twenty minutes, shower, eat my breakfast and sit and write. And get paid. How I long for the day when I have my own theatre company and going to work is the thing I look forward to each day.

And on the days where I’m sat in stop start traffic, my left foot burning on the clutch, my mind will wander to why. I must know at least one hundred actors or performers of some kind, all of whom are disgustingly talented, yet haven’t had their lucky break. Why? I don’t think it helps that reality TV is overtaking the world. I read an article online the other day about how White Dee from Benefit Street has landed a role in the hit TV show Benidorm. It angered me. I thought about it for days. A woman who was made famous for being on benefits for her entire life who, thanks to more reality TV programmes such as Celebrity Big Brother, is now a millionaire and about to land her first role in a British drama.

I know so many actors and actresses who would kill for a role in Benidorm. They would most likely do it for free, just for the experience and the exposure. Yet once again, producers choose a familiar face to hopefully pull in the masses. The same as when Shane Ward landed himself a part in Coronation Street. Or how Katie Hopkins, who is only known for her wicked tongue after being on The Apprentice, is in the news day after day after day. Or when Cheryl Cole got a part in a film despite having no relevant acting qualifications. Repeat for Lily Cole in Snow White and the Huntsmen.

The less parts there are out there, the less new actors are needed and the more that happens, the more people lose their spark. There’s only so many times you can be told you aren’t good enough or you aren’t right for the part.

So the fading sparks seem to have split into a few groups. Some people went travelling after university. Others have started a family. Some threw themselves into building a career. And some people completely disappeared off the radar. But there’s a few – and it is only a few – who are stuck in No Man’s Land. Half in and half out of reality. Dipping our toe into the grown up world of holding down a full time job and saving to move out, but constantly hiding from the question “what did you study at university?”  

We are the generation who can’t quite let go. The generation who fiercely defend anyone who is still courageously striving for their goals. The generation who smile and hold back tears when explaining to our grandparents that it’s not that we don’t like acting anymore, we are simply trying to please everyone.

That’s why I hesitate before buying a new laptop. If I commit to spending approximately £400 on a new laptop, it is a commitment from me to continue to write. I enjoy writing and I know it’s something I’m good at – but it’s surely tempting fate to splurge such a large amount of money on an item that may not be used professionally again? The laptop I am typing this from is five years old. It is the source of many a good play and book. I’ve got hundreds of scraps of Microsoft Word documents containing snippets of a new book or an idea for a play. 

But will they ever be used? Or will they sit and fester in my documents, showing the last activity as being over two years ago? And if I decide to buy a new laptop, am I saying goodbye to the previous me? After all, I bought this laptop with the money I got for my twenty first birthday. I wrote A Walk in the Park on this laptop. And Scarlett Fever. And Vee for Victory. And goodness knows what else. If I accept that I need a new laptop, am I accepting that this part of me is all in the past?

Or am I being overly sentimental about a bloody laptop for crying out loud?

Do I just swallow and accept that I cannot live off solely a writer’s wage? Do I admit defeat? Is it better to throw myself into a more sensible career where admittedly, I might not be as happy, but on the other hand I’ll never be hungry?

No. I can’t.

Every time I hesitate and every time I worry and every time I question whether I’m doing the right thing, I have to give myself a quick kick up the arse to remind myself how I felt on November 13^th and 14^th. Seeing a play that I had written taken to the stage with a sell out audience for each performance was exhilarating.

I cried at the end of each performance. The first night, I just brushed away my tears and wandered over to the bar where people were foisting drinks my way (which I was glad of). The second night, I just gave in. My neighbours had come to watch it and when the lights came back up after it had finished, they were all in tears. Which of course set me off. I had this lump in my throat as I was passed from little old lady to little old lady, all of whom have known me from when I was in the womb, and they all sobbed into me as they told me it was the best thing they had ever seen. 

Perhaps they were just being kind. But it was what I needed to hear at the time. Not particularly that night. But at that stage in my life. I needed to hear that my writing was good.

It was life altering. I still can’t quite believe we pulled it off. It’s not something many people can say they’ve experienced. But I can.

So I guess yes, right now, I feel a bit lost. A little bit bewildered. But so much has changed in the last few years for me and the only constant has been my writing. It’s quite comforting really. Even just sitting here in front of my computer with a Word document open in front of me soothes me.

I think this is what I’m meant to do.

So how on earth can I give that up?

Happy eggs.

“When are you next putting a play on?”

That’s a question I must get asked on average at least once a week. It’s not necessarily a question I dread answering but it’s so difficult to form a response in a positive manner. In an ideal world, my answer would be oh, there’s another show this weekend. But this isn’t an ideal world. I work full time. Forty hours a week. I leave the house at eight o’clock in the morning and I’m home every evening at six. All the usual things build up on a weekly basis – doctors appointments, picking up prescriptions, buying birthday presents, wrapping them, visiting the army of children I have somehow acquired over the years – all the normal day to day things that sit in the back of your mind all day and you put them off again and again until you have no choice but to waste your day off trying to sort them out. Before you know it, it’s Monday morning again and although you’ve ticked everything off your mental to-do list, you’ve had absolutely no chill time.

It sucks. But it’s the life I chose. I made a conscious decision three years ago to work full time and do all my creative malarkey on top of that. It’s tiring but this way, I learnt to drive. I bought a car. I have enough money to live quite comfortably. As much as I adored working as a hit and miss actor, it was a bit of a threadbare existence. I loved performing and I loved touring but I didn’t love having next to no money and having to rely on people for lifts everywhere. That was fine for the first year or so after graduating but there’s only so many times you can drag your sorry arse to the job centre in between tours.

I got thinking about it, though. When are you next putting a play on? What normally happens is I’m approached by a theatre company – sometimes I approach them – and they secure the rights to my script for a specific period of time, meaning no other theatre company can perform that particular play until their run is over. It’s done on a profit share basis, which means the more bums on seats there are, the more the actors and the writer get paid. When working as an actor for profit share, the sum of money I would end up with as a wage was pitiful. When working as a writer for profit share, it was even less. And sometimes I didn’t receive any payment at all. Which is fine because, as I say, I work full time. It’s never been a career for those who love money. I remember telling someone I was a writer and he smiled and said, “so are you a waitress as well then?”

It was my mum who first gave me the idea. I was lounging around the living room, sprawled across the sofa, probably still in my pyjamas. I was moaning that I was bored. I hadn’t done a play in months. She was barely even listening to me as she was sewing name tags into my nephews’ school uniforms. “Why don’t you just do it yourself?” she muttered and immediately, I snorted with laughter. Yes. Because I can really produce a script, hold auditions, direct actors, secure a venue, get an audience and actually produce a play, I thought. I dismissed her idea with nothing more than a laugh.

Only it planted a seed in my mind. Without really thinking about it, I began gathering ideas and making mental notes of different plays, possible venues, willing actors. Then I shook some sense into my head. No, Emily. You work five days a week. You don’t have enough time to do all of this. No but if you got some help with it, you’d be fine. This could be something brilliant. Or it could be dreadful and you’ll be a laughing stock. Or it could be everything you’ve wanted for the past twenty five years.

I ran the idea past a few friends and family members, all of whom were massively encouraging and supportive. Before I knew it, I’d spoken to the owners of the Kings Club; a charming little venue which holds 100 people and just so happens to be directly across the road from my house. I threw around a few ideas, enquired about prices and left the conversation feeling daunted. Excited but daunted.

After a few conversations with a fellow drama graduate, we decided to go for it with a script I had written for my university dissertation: A Walk in the Park. I put down the deposit on the venue and secured two nights in November. This was in June. I remember feeling like it was ages away. In fact, I felt quite smug about the fact that I had plenty of time.

A few weeks later, I was advertising for actors. The power of social media came into play and I was inundated with emails from budding young actors wanting to audition for the roles. Some familiar faces cropped up. I’ve said this before but I always remember a face and a name. People I’d worked with on various other productions popped up and it was a pleasure to speak to them again. I paid another deposit to the venue and hired out the building from 9:30am until 5pm one Saturday. My only day off that week. In the back of my mind, I started to doubt myself again. Wouldn’t I be shattered spending my only day off doing audition after audition?

The answer was yes. I was knackered. Particularly because three days before the auditions were held, the other two ladies who had agreed to help with the production decided they didn’t want to be involved anymore. I had a mad panic for about a day – “I can’t do this on my own. I’ve got to pull the auditions. Why did I decide to do this?”  - followed by the voice of reason aka my mum drilling some sense into me. I could do it. I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice. Actors were coming from as far as London to audition. Pulling the auditions made no sense. So, ever the supportive mother, she volunteered to help me audition. She’s a teacher so she’s sat in on more than her fair share of auditions. In fact, she was far more experienced in that sector than I was.

Audition day came and I was wide awake before my alarm went off, my stomach writhing with nerves. It was almost laughable. Actors would have been sat in their kitchens panic muttering their lines and hoping that they came across well and there I was, so nervous that I couldn’t even be coaxed into eating my breakfast.

My first audition of the day was a tiny little female. A whirlwind of pinafore and bobbly tights. She came running into the room, chatting ten to the dozen and making me laugh. She immediately put me at ease. She auditioned for the role of Wendy – a lady in her late 40s/early 50s - which initially took me by surprise as she was so tiny and cute that I thought she was younger than me. Her name was Elizabeth Gorman. I didn’t know it then but she would turn out to be my absolute lifeline in the coming months.

By ten thirty, I’d auditioned five or six people. One of them was Craig Sharkey, a cheeky Scouse lad who I’d had the pleasure of working with at Black Box Theatre Company back in the day. He was auditioning for the role of Hanson – a filthy minded hilarious individual – and as soon as he’d left the room, I looked at my mum and grinned. He was absolutely perfect for the role. The audition after Craig was with an actor I’d never heard of and didn’t know too much about. His name was Conor Burns and he was auditioning for the main role of Jack. He walked in and straight away came over and shook both of our hands. He was polite, courteous and smelt wonderfully clean. I took an instant liking to him. Then he opened his mouth and this fabulous Irish accent came out.

“Is it going to be a problem? My accent?” he asked us and of course, we said no straight away. In fact, I cracked a little joke along the lines of well it would make me a racist if I said yes, wouldn’t it? And although he laughed, I could see how nervous he was. His audition was wonderful. So wonderful that my mind flitted to the script. How could I change it to explain why Jack had an Irish accent and why – presumably – the rest of the cast wouldn’t? Could I get him to change the accent? Would it be believable? He didn’t have as much previous acting experience as most of the other auditionees and the role of Jack is such a huge part. Was that a bad thing? Or did it mean he would take it more seriously than say, someone who had just done a six month stint on the West End?

He walked out after his audition and I struggled to speak. What I wanted to say was let’s stop auditioning for Jacks now. I’ve found my Jack. But that would be horrendously unfair. There was always the possibility that someone else would be better than him. Except I knew in my heart of hearts that they wouldn’t.

It’s safe to say the most popular character people were auditioning for was for the role of Kate. There were just over thirty auditions for Kate. Some of the girls auditioning were fantastic. There was one very memorable actor who, during a scene about a miscarriage, burst out laughing, rolling her eyes and went wah-wah-wah impersonating a very fake sob. It didn’t sit well with me for obvious reasons and she immediately got a strike across her name. One girl came in quite confidently and introduced herself as “My name’s Eva, it’s pronounced Ava but it’s actually Katy”. I absolutely roared with laughter. What an introduction! And what a memorable audition. She was without a doubt the best audition overall in terms of learning the script. Her name was Eva McKenna and she didn’t know it then but she was my Kate.

The day went on and I barely had enough time to go for a wee or have anything to eat. During the afternoon, I got to meet the lovely Sheila Jones, who was auditioning for Wendy and gave a memorable cracking performance. I also got to meet Phil Champagne, who had auditioned for the role of Dave. By the time we finished up, we’d had a tiring but wonderful day and I was fairly certain that I had my cast.

Two days later, I rang Conor and offered him the role of Jack. I could hear him bouncing around the room on the other end of the phone and he kept saying thank you over and over like he couldn’t believe his luck. I remember telling him we’d find a way to make the Irish accent work. I didn’t want to take it out of the performance as I felt it added an element of natural charm to the character. Before I let him accept the offer, I had to tell him the twist in the story. I won’t go into detail here (you should’ve come to see the play if you didn’t!) but I wasn’t sure if he would accept the role as it is so challenging. I needn’t have worried however, as Conor was still running around saying thank you and promising me he’d work hard.

After six phone calls, I had myself a cast and a very enthusiastic director in the form of Elizabeth. After a brief holiday to Sharm el Sheikh, I was back and ready to rock and roll. For the first time, I felt a thrill of excitement. Could we really do this? We had ten weeks to rehearse and our rehearsals consisted of three hour blocks in the Kings Club. At £15 per rehearsal out of my own money, it wasn’t cheap but I didn’t want to take the money out of the profit when we hadn’t even sold a single ticket.

All the while, I kept thinking about my experience of previous profit share productions. What worked well? What didn’t? Well, for starters, public transport was so expensive that ferrying myself back and forth to rehearsals two or three times a week meant a serious dint in my purse. Bearing that in mind, I decided to provide food for the actors where possible. If we were having an afternoon rehearsal, I’d buy their lunch. If we were rehearsing for six hours, my lovely mum would rustle us up a buffet. Little things to boost morale and keep the actors happy. I remember someone I worked with years ago talking about employers doing little things which make people gratefully want to work harder. Happy chickens lay happy eggs. That’s what she said and it’s stayed with me for years.

The months turned into weeks, the weeks flittered into days and before I knew what was happening, we were performing our amazing play. Unbelievably, we sold out both nights. In fact, on the Friday night performance, we were over capacity with people stood in the aisles and crammed into every little nook and cranny with a small stampede for the bar during the interval. The play went down a storm. There were moments and jokes throughout the performance which we had completely overlooked due to the amount of times we’d rehearsed it. Certain parts had become words which simply came to life when the audience were laughing.

The actors were unbelievably brilliant. I know that sounds a bit twee and cliché but it’s also the truth. There were certain moments during their performances when I would genuinely think what did I do to deserve these guys?

Sadly, one of the actors dropped out after the first night’s performance which shook our confidence, however we were saved by a very brave actor called Tim Paley who stepped in to save the day. What had consisted of a broken night’s sleep, zero food and my brain working overtime had ended up with a terrific performance from a very gifted actor. For someone to meet a cast, get given a script and perform in a piece of professional theatre within twenty four hours is incredibly brave. As I say, I never forget a name or a face and I know if the opportunity ever arose in the future, I would jump at the chance of hiring Tim again. What a guy.

So, at the beginning of this blog I talked about working full time and struggling to find the balance between work and theatre. I lost count of the amount of times I got in from work and went without food so I could put together programmes and trek to the library in the rain to print them off or the sheer amount of tickets I had to sit and cut out and post to people or the amount of times I’ve ran to the Co-op in the rain to withdraw money to pay the venue for a rehearsal.

On top of all of this, I actually got a new job at work – still working for the same company, just in the other office which is slightly further away and much harder work. At times, I would get in from work, my head buzzing from all the new information I had absorbed and I would think of how much I needed to do for the play before I could go to bed. I would lie on the sofa sobbing from exhaustion. Most of my days were fuelled by caffeine and chocolate. Of course I began to panic that I would balloon – I’ve had no time to exercise. In fact, I got an email from the gym last week saying Don’t forget about us, Emily! – but I needn’t have worried. It turns out stress is the best method of weight loss.

Was it hard? Yes.

Was it tiring? Definitely.

Would I do it again?

                                                                   Without a shadow of a doubt.

An open letter to Walter Palmer

I got into a fight on the internet a few weeks ago. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I can’t stand all these keyboard warriors you read about – teenage bullies name calling and threatening each other on Facebook with not so much as a sideways glance at each other in the corridor the following day. It’s not really my cup of tea. Apart from the fact I’ve been brought up believing if you have nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything at all, the last twelve months alone have taught me that silence can be just as powerful as words.

It all started with me scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed and seeing that a friend of mine had commented on a photo. The photo was of a beautiful zebra. My stomach lurched when I saw that the zebra was dead. It lurched even more when I saw that the stunningly pretty blonde girl with a smile to rival the Cheshire Cat’s was proudly propping up the zebra, as a trophy of her handiwork.

Call me old fashioned but it’s not something one likes to unexpectedly stumble across. Particularly not during my lunch break at work. In fact, it turned my stomach so much that I binned the majority of my tomato soup and felt strangely flu-like all afternoon. Perhaps I was getting ill. Or perhaps I was realising, yet again, how much I have come to despise the human race.

I could have left it there. I get very poor internet signal in work, you see. I couldn’t have commented anything on the photo from where I was. But I couldn’t shake this image from my mind. I thought about it all afternoon.

Was it the fact that it was a photo of a beautiful animal, cut down in its prime that had shaken me? Yes, but I’m no stranger to seeing unexpectedly vile images on social media. It’s a daily occurrence to come across a video someone has shared or an article someone has commented on automatically splashed across your newsfeed. I’ve seen a lot of things I wish I hadn’t, from people’s racist views on different cultures to a video of someone’s zit being popped to an image of a child black and blue from the hands of an adult.

Was it the fact that the animal in question was a zebra – an exotic, beautiful and innocent creature? Yes, although it wouldn’t have made me feel any easier if it had been a mouse, a badger or a cat, for example.

So, what was it that made me feel so shaken?

It was the girl. She was pretty, skinny, tanned and well dressed. She had nice hair, good teeth and a cracking pair of legs. She was young. She was the sort of girl I stare at wistfully on Instagram and fantasise about her life in California with sunshine and an all year round tan. Yet she wasn’t lying on a sun lounger or posing in a bikini or driving a convertible like my Instagram crushes. She was holding a dead animal which she had killed. And she was proud of it. It didn’t sit well with me.

I got home from work and immediately went back to the photograph. I saw a link to the original page the photo had been shared from and, hesitating slightly, clicked on it. Photo after photo emerged of the same girl – whose name I learned was Kendall Jones – smiling away next to various animals she had killed. Look her up. I bet she's right up your street.

It was spookily fascinating. Not the dead animals, I’ll point out. But the fact that this girl, with a life not a million miles away from my own, could be so different to me.

At this point, you’ve probably made a few assumptions about me. I was upset by a picture of a dead animal, I’ve spoken about various aspects of social media and the flavour of soup I mentioned I was eating was tomato. You think I’m a vegetarian. You think I’m an organic fruit and vegetable eating, environmentally friendly, allotment owning vegetarian who, let’s face it, is probably a lesbian to boot.

No. I’m not. I eat meat. I enjoy eating meat. I know where it comes from. I know how the meat is produced. Oh and for the record, I’m straight.

I’m the first to admit that I sigh and roll my eyes when I hear a vegetarian preaching about how their Linda McCartney sausages and soy bean stew taste just as nice as a Big Mac Meal. Credit where credit's due, I think vegetarians are marvellous. It’s just not something I could do. I’m not a huge meat eater but I think I would find it a struggle to enjoy a meal in a restaurant when my only choices are macaroni and cheese or nachos.

The point I’m trying to make is although I’m very much an animal person, I’m not someone who thinks you’re a monster because you choose a bacon butty to remedy your hangover.

It’s strange. My mother is a vegetarian and my father is a big meat eater. They are two very different people, in many ways, but particularly with their attitudes towards animals. My mum is an animal person. In fact, she’s just this second walked through the door and said “I’ve just helped a woman reunite a lost dog with its owner” and this is perfectly normal behaviour for her.

We’ve always had a houseful of animals. Our own little menagerie. Dogs, cats, hamsters, birds, fish – we’ve had them all. We took in a rescue dog who growled at us every day due to a background of being hit, kicked and having scalding hot water poured over her with her previous owner. We were patient. We gave her space, love and time. She grew to be the most loyal and faithful dog in the world. Our pets are like our family. I can’t understand people who say they have to get rid of their dog because they don’t have time for it anymore. (As far as I’m concerned, you made a commitment to that pet. It’s yours. Make time, you selfish bastard.)

But my dad has no time for animals. Not even our own pets. He’ll stroke the dog and play with her but he has no real understanding of what it is like to love or respect an animal. He has no patience. He can’t fathom why I would want my cat to be sat on my lap while I watch TV. When discussing foxhunting with him, he told me he thought it was a fantastic sport and given the chance, he would love to take part, whereas my mum’s eyes fill with tears when she sees an RSPCA advert and she goes out of her way to feed stray cats.

They are two very different people. Incidentally, they’re in the middle of a divorce.

I decided to leave Kendall Jones a message on her Facebook page, telling her that no matter how good looking she was, she was hideous to me. Within minutes, the abuse began pouring in. Perhaps I was asking for it.

“Says you, you look like Aladdin”

“She’s worth ten of you”

“It’s no wonder you’re defending animals when you look like a whale”

I kid you not.

Kendall herself responded telling me she had millions of YouTube followers and therefore, my point wasn’t relevant. Oh, I’m sorry, having millions of people following you on a website means you automatically must be a good person? You know who else once had millions of followers? Hitler.

Needless to say, the whole experience ruffled my feathers.

Can you imagine my horror yesterday when I stumbled across a link shared from a friend showing a photograph of you and a dead lion, charmingly named Cecil? Yes. You guessed correctly. It sent shivers up my spine.

I spent a good few minutes toying with the idea of clicking on the article to read it or just scrolling past it. Not because I didn’t want to know what had happened. But because I was frightened of what I might read. I’m the sort of person who will perform an emergency stop for a bird – and on one occasion, I slammed on for a leaf which I thought was a bird. I cried watching Marley and Me. I can’t bring myself to kill a spider. So, as I clicked on the link and began reading about what you did, I felt as if my soul was leaving my body.

It wasn’t just that you killed a magnificent animal. It was the way you did it. You lured him away from safety, from his home, with the scent of another dead animal. You did this on purpose in order to get Cecil to step outside the boundaries of his safety zone. To get him into a zone where it is legal to kill him.

In another world, we might call that grooming. Manipulating the innocent to take advantage of them and bring harm to them.

You shot him and then pursued him for forty hours until, thoroughly exhausted, he gave up. You then beheaded him. Did that make you feel good? Did it make you feel like a real man? Is it the same feeling as when you get a hole in one when you play golf or when you get through six sets of traffic lights without a single red light? Did you feel euphoric? Were you proud of yourself? You had a photograph taken with his lifeless body. You look thrilled. Did you smile like that on your wedding day?

I find it absolutely inconceivable that you not only did all of that but also paid the equivalent of £35,000 to do so. That’s more than I earn in a year. In fact, it’s just over double what I earn. Think what you could’ve done with that money, Walter. Given your children a private education. Bought a brand spanking new car. Saved a wildlife conservation park from closing down. Anything. Yet you chose to spend it on persuading some other sick minded individuals like yourself to allow you to kill a beautiful and innocent animal. How cruel.

There was no purpose in killing Cecil. You aren’t a hunter in a famished area, trying desperately to feed his starving family. Cecil was simply involved in your twisted little game. Only he didn’t volunteer to play.

I’m speechless at your small mindedness. For such a well educated man, you are surprisingly stupid. You went through years of medical school to better yourself, created a worthwhile career. I feel saddened for your family. Do your children still think you're their hero? Or have they been taken out of school for fear they will receive the backlash for your cowardly actions?

I hear you’ve gone into hiding. I imagine you’ll resurface again in a few days with a carefully prepared speech about how you deeply regret your actions. Perhaps you’ll disappear off the radar permanently. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Bad things happen to bad people, remember.

At the beginning of this letter, I said I felt silence can be just as powerful as words. So, why have I written this? Will you read it? Probably not. Will it stir any emotion within you? Definitely not. But I couldn’t not say anything. And I didn’t think sharing a link on Facebook slagging you off or joining a long list of comments on a forum discussing your behaviour was enough to rid me of this overwhelmingly sad feeling. I wanted to write it all down. To get it off my chest. In this case, silence is not more powerful than words.

After all, as they say, the pen is mightier than the sword.

That's not even a word!

“Unfortunately, you just don’t have the experience we’re looking for. We wish you luck with your future endeavours.”

How many times have you heard those words before? Sitting there refreshing your inbox over and over again, praying that despite their promises of “we’ll let you know either way”, that you will actually hear back from them, even if it just to break the bad news that yet again the forty five minutes you spent filling in the application form has gone to waste? You pray that they’ll ring you, even if it is just to say that although you were great in your interview, someone else just beat you to it?

I’ve been unemployed before. I spent three months on Job Seeker’s Allowance, dreading that God awful moment when I would have to visit a place which was full of people swearing, couples arguing, babies crying, people spitting – actually spitting – on the floor because they were bored. Or angry. Or both.

I was one of the lucky ones and got myself a Christmas temp job at Asda. Terrible hours. Long, long days. Doing the work that no one else wanted to do, sorting through a big bucket of mismatched DVDs to reunite them with their cases. Cleaning the shelves in the stockroom, up to my elbows in cobwebs and dust bunnies, convincing myself I’d caught TB in the process. Trying to find a bucket of steam and a tin of tartan paint. No word of a lie. I was twenty one and it was crap but it was work and I was getting regular money, so I was made up. Until I got laid off on Christmas Eve.

Naturally, I found myself back on Job Seeker’s Allowance for a further three months.

That was even worse. I’d had a taste of what real life was like. I’d had two nice big fat payslips whilst working there and it had given me an inkling of what money could do. I’d booked my first set of driving lessons and paid off some of my ever increasing student overdraft. There was even enough left to buy clothes – things that I didn’t actually need but I wanted. So, yes. It was far worse signing on the second time, knowing I didn’t have enough in my bank to both pay my phone bill and get my dad a birthday present.

Not to mention the crippling self loathing that boils inside you when you sit across the desk from a condescending albeit very polite lady called Karen or Martha or Genevieve and she scans through your little booklet to check that you’ve applied for at least three jobs every seven days just so you can get a measly fifty quid a week.

I won’t even mention how utterly worthless you feel when someone asks you “so, what is it you do?” and you have to admit that you’re the person they’ve just been ranting about – the one who drinks and takes drugs and has baby after baby after baby with any man they can find just so they can sit on their arse all day watching Jeremy Kyle. Despite the fact that you’ve never done anything of the sort. You’re just a twenty something university graduate who’s stuck in a rut. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you can’t drive – you just want a job.

I’ve done all that. I’ve been that girl. No, it’s not nice. Yes, it is crap. Nobody wants to be in that position despite what you may have read in online articles or what you may have seen on one sided television shows, dripping in propaganda. Realistically, there’s a very small percentage of people who would choose to receive a measly sum of benefits every fortnight rather than earn proper money, actual money themselves but that’s not what the media will have you believe. The media portrays unemployment as a vicious illness which you only catch if you deserve it.

It’s a horrible shitty cycle and it’s enough to make anyone feel faint with despair. I know. I’ve been there.

But what about when you have a job – a full time, reasonably paid job at that – but you’re desperately trying to find another one?

You don’t have The Fear, for a start. The Fear is something Chandler Bing describes one episode in Friends as the reason why Rachel should quit her job at Central Perk. He also explains it’s the reason he can’t quit his job in – erm, what was Chandler Bing’s job?

Ultimately, The Fear is a bit like a big kick up the backside when it comes to finding new work. You can usually only get The Fear if you’ve impulsively quit your job and have no alternative employment. The Fear kicks in and you dedicate seven or eight hours a day to applying for jobs over and over and over until Google Chrome can fill an application form in without any help from you. Whereas if you’re comfortable in a job – you may not love it, you may not necessarily like it, but you’re comfortable because the shifts are nice, the money’s not bad, the people are great – you’re less likely to apply for a new job.

It’s no secret that I did a drama degree. It’s no secret that I love writing, enjoy acting, thrive off seeing people enjoying my work. You’re reading my blog right now so of course it isn’t a secret. I’m the first to admit that my career path isn’t on track right now. And it kills me. Don’t get me wrong, I like the job I’m in at the moment. It’s nice, it’s easy, my colleagues are little rays of sunshine. But it isn’t what I want to do for the rest of my life.

After a big wake up call in March of this year, I started applying for new jobs. Writing jobs. Acting jobs. Anything which is remotely linked to the field I want to work in. Unlike applying for admin jobs, call centre jobs or retail jobs, it isn’t as simple as uploading your CV with a cover letter. Often, there were two or three page application forms I needed to fill in along with a 3,000 word sample of my work or a link to an online source of my work with a 1,000 word explanation for the content. It was tricky but I dedicated whole weekends to it. I didn’t exactly feel positive but I was confident that I’d done the best I could.

Weeks later, the rejections began pouring in. Now I can handle rejections. I’ve had rejections before. I’m the queen of plastering a smile on my face and pretending I’m fine when my world is crumbling apart. I’m the bees knees at it. But there’s something disconcerting, something a little uncomfortable, alarming even when every day you get told that you aren’t good enough for something. Especially when that something just so happens to be the reason you feel you were placed on the Earth. The sad thing is how little they care when they tell you.

Look at this:

The name of the company has been hidden and it’s worth pointing out that the company in question is very respectable, well known and very good at what they do. Except perhaps responding to unsuccessful job applications. “Unfortunately, we feel you do not have skills or experience”. What? In anything? In life itself? Did they somehow know about my lack of cooking abilities? Had they seen me trying to parallel park? Or did they just mean with writing? I laughed and thought nothing of it. Until the following day, when I got a similar rejection email from a different company. Again, the reason I hadn’t been offered an interview was because I didn’t have enough experience.

Okay. Fair enough. After six or seven more knock backs, I was finally offered an interview for a very well respected TV production company. I’d submitted my work about two months beforehand and it had been a blank canvas submission. This basically means you submit two documents: one containing your work and one containing a cover sheet with your personal details on it, such as your name, age and experience. The two documents are kept separate from each other and initially, the only document which the employers look at is your work.

Then when the employers have made a decision on which samples of work they like, they match up the two documents to find the applicant’s personal details and contact them for an interview. It’s fair. It’s reasonable. It’s how all employers should work. And in this case, I’d submitted the first three scenes of a play I wrote a few months ago and thankfully, was offered an interview.

The strange thing is, I wasn’t actually that nervous in the morning and was more excited. It turned out the interview would be a group workshop followed by individual assessments. There were five other applicants there and aside from one young whipper snapper, I was the youngest by at least fifteen years. Interestingly, the final six of us were all female.

The day began with a buffet lunch. Now, if I was organising this workshop, I would’ve made it very clear that lunch was provided. The workshop started at twelve o’clock but in the emails we’d received, there’d been no mention of food so without knowing what time I would be finished, I’d anticipated that I would be starving, so I’d stuffed my face before I went in – as had the other applicants. Then they announced we had a buffet lunch. Great. The awkwardness of eating strange sandwiches (seriously, who offers lemon chicken and cucumber sandwiches to people they’ve never met before? It seemed a tad adventurous to me. What’s wrong with good old fashioned cheese?) around people while trying to introduce yourself is damn near impossible.

“Tell us a bit about yourself, Emily.”

Now, I’ve done enough drama workshops and theatre auditions to know the answer to this question off by heart. Any actors reading this will agree. You know just the right sort of information to provide which highlights your good points but without sounding like you’re showing off and you know when to stop speaking. If you’re really good, you’ll know how to make them laugh. I’ve been playing this game for years so my answer to this little ice breaker is always more than adequate and I usually end it on a funny little true story (which I’m not going to share here in case someone less imaginative steals it.)

Does that sound daft? Probably. Does it work? Yes. I’m not sure about other types of jobs. I’m trying to think back to interviews I’ve had for retail, admin, call centre type jobs. Usually, it’s competency based questions, for example, “tell us about a time you’ve handled an unhappy customer”. I suppose it’s the equivalent of always being asked things like that. After a few years, you generally tend to know what you’re going to say.

At the workshop, one woman began to crumble. “Tell us a bit about yourself, Linda.” (Just for the record, her name wasn’t Linda) “What? Me? Oh, I don’t know. There’s not much to say. I’m fifty six. I’m married with a grown up daughter and a grandson. Erm. I don’t really know what else to say.” Poor Linda. She turned out to be a really lovely lady and the weeks that followed the interview, we emailed back and forth to see if either of us had heard back from the company.

At least her answer was a damn sight better than Wendy’s. (Yeah, that’s not her real name either.) Wendy had the slowest speaking voice I’ve ever heard. Whereas it takes the average person two seconds to say “What’s your name?”, it took Wendy a good five minutes. 

“Tell us a bit about yourself, Wendy.” 

“Where do I start? Okay, so, I got into writing two years ago when my ex husband remarried a woman who was a writer. I’m not sure it’s something I’m a natural at but I’m willing to work hard. I haven’t worked since before I was married unless you count the time I was a Zumba instructor twice a week.”

And it went on and on and on and on – for the love of God, Wendy, we don’t care! She just didn’t stop speaking and because she spoke so slowly, it went on even longer. We all began to shift uncomfortably in our seats. I started to panic, wondering whether I should have spoken about my first holiday abroad the way Wendy had, when one of the interviewers put a hand up and asked her to stop. She looked so taken aback at being interrupted that she actually sat back in her seat and sulked. A forty something woman sulking because a potential employer had interrupted her babble about Dotty the dalmation.

The rest of the day went by like a dream. It was thoroughly enjoyable and I really got into what we were doing, not being frightened of asking when I didn’t understand something and volunteering ideas willy nilly. The day came to an end and we’d been set another task to complete more work to submit before a decision was made. Aside from the phone call I got from my mum on the way home saying my nephew was in A&E, it had been a brilliant day. I got this little fizzle in my stomach when I realised Yes, this is what I want to do.

It was the only thing keeping me going. No news is good news as they say. So you can imagine how disappointed I was when I got a rejection email two weeks later: “Your written work was excellent, however, you just don’t have the experience we’re looking for.”

Ah, there we go again. That bloody experience. Fanbloodytastic. I felt utterly dejected. How on earth did I gain the necessary experience when no one would give me that chance in the first place? It was a horrible case of Catch 22. I moped about for days, thinking about the entire saga.

Like many people, I sound great on paper. Sixteen GCSEs, two years of A Levels, three years of a drama degree, twelve months working for a theatre company, two years at drama school, three books, four plays and a blog.

Is it do with my degree? Is it because people smirk and sneer when I say, rather proudly, "I did a drama degree", then continue to ask, "Oh. They actually let you do that at university?" Is this what the careers people were talking about in college when they said I wouldn't be able to make a career out of drama? ("I know you think acting is a lot of fun but have you thought about pursuing a more serious career?") Is this why I feel overwhelmingly sad when people I trained with slowly but surely abandon all hopes of acting, writing, directing, producing, casting, anything linked to their degree? Perhaps I'm my own worst enemy, I thought. I've done this to myself. Created a monster with a useless degree.

No. I was being ridiculous. It wasn't a useless degree at all. I learnt so much from it: confidence building skills, how to work independently, how to work as part of a team, learning huge chunks of information word for word, how to speak clearly, how to think fast on the spot, how to sell myself, how to cry on demand (lol) and more importantly, I met some of my best friends in the world there - look, look how pretty they all are!

- and I learnt a hell of a lot about myself. So, no. It's not because of my degree. Besides, working for a production company - what other degree would you need? Accountancy? Geography? French?

So, it was down to my experience. What more experience did I need? I’d sort of understand if I didn’t have any clue about the working world – I’ve seen some people get a job straight out school and because they’re still very much in the I-just-want-to-go-out-all-the-time stage, they never seem to last long. Fair enough. They’re young. They’ll learn.

But I’m not young. Well, not really. And I have learnt. Believe me. I’ve worked for minimum wage. I’ve worked until midnight, spending half my shift’s wages on a taxi home. I’ve started work in Liverpool at seven in the morning, getting the five thirty train every day. I’ve paid my dues. I’ve worked hard. Okay, maybe not all the time but definitely in the last two or three years.

(It's not even about the money. Honestly, money doesn't motivate me. I suppose I'm quite strange like that. For some people, the first thing they ask at the end of an interview is "how much will I get paid?" For me, I just want to do a job that I love and I'd happily settle for minimum wage. Getting up every morning and feeling excited about going to work to do a job that you love has got to feel like heaven on Earth, surely? It wouldn't even feel like work. That's how it felt working for Black Box Theatre Company: what, you want me to learn these lines and perform in this play and then... you're going to give me money for doing it? That.)

What more can I do to gain this seemingly compulsive experience? There’s always the option of volunteering somewhere I want to work and hoping and praying that they offer me a job. But how do you fit volunteer work around a full time job? Volunteering is a wonderful thing to do, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t pay the bills and at twenty five, watching my car being repossessed wouldn’t be the best thing to happen.

It reminded me of being sixteen and applying for my first full time job. Every single shop, bar, café, restaurant, everywhere I was applying would inevitably get back to me and say I just wasn’t experienced enough. It was sort of true – I hadn’t ever worked before, aside from one measly little paper round which my poor mum ended up doing when it was raining. Which was all the time.

But what if that was the rule? You can’t get a job unless you have experience. Well, you just wouldn’t ever work, would you? And that would mean we would exist as a country with thousands of job vacancies and millions of unemployed people. Exactly. Ridiculous and not likely to happen. Why is it not happening now? Because someone somewhere took a chance on you.

Think back to your first ever job. Maybe a glass collector, a shelf stacker, a cleaner, bar staff, working on a till, dog walking, office work – whatever it was. How did you get that job? You’d never worked before so it couldn’t have been a glowing reference from your previous employer. No. It was down to some kind soul in HR who met you and thought you looked decent and hardworking. Or maybe they were absolutely crying out for staff, I don’t know. But someone took a chance on you.

Thanks to that first job, you got your second job. Maybe you stayed there a bit longer. Worked your way up a bit. Thanks to that job, you maybe got the job you’re in now. Or maybe there’s been thirty jobs in between. But none of that would have happened if someone hadn’t taken that chance on you when you were young and inexperienced.

How very sad that it’s not always the case years later.

Edit: I'd originally planned to leave the blog entry on this note but when I sent it a trusted friend to proof read, we agreed it sounded like my soul had left my body. 

Instead, I'll just say, after weeks of moping about feeling sorry for myself, I received a lovely message from an old friend from college and after a few hours of chatting, we've decided to work on a little project over the coming months. 

I won't say any more right now because a) I don't want to jinx it, b) it's still very early days and c) I don't want to ruin the surprise. But you know what? It's made those niggling little doubts in the back of my mind disappear for the time being. 

Everything happens for a reason. 

Especially when you can't see why at first.