The good thing about freelancing is that sometimes you get offered some quite leftfield gigs. When I was a professional loafer a few years ago, I did a stint working on short films for my sister at the National Film and TV School, which was great, other than having to get up horribly early when actually filming. Weirdest thing: having to phone a department at London Underground and ask if we could borrow a load of their lost property for one of the films. They said yes, were lovely about it and gave it to us for free. When I tried asking a supplier of industrial shelving if I could borrow some for a few days for free - bearing in mind we'd pick it up and return it - he gave me very short shrift, despite my protestations that we were students and had no budget. C'est la vie. I also got to meet Phil Daniels, who was in the lost property film, who was lovely. I had to largely avoid talking to him, though, for fear that I was going to get an attack of Tourette's and shout, 'PARKLIFE' in his face by accident.
I also sat in a Brick Lane gallery for the better part of two weeks, keeping an eye on an exhibition which no-one had really given me any information on. People weren't sure if they could come in for free, or what it was there for (if you saw the episode of this series' Apprentice when our favourite money muppets were flogging 'upcycled' furniture and tat in empty spaces to Hoxton-finned numpties, it was in one of those. Large, blank spaces with huge plate glass windows and no signage are confusing).
Despite the fact that all I was doing was sitting behind a table all day, and was free to read books or otherwise entertain myself, it was one of the most psychotically boring episodes of my entire life. It was the closest I've come to solitary confinement. And some bastard came in and stole my mobile while I was trying to fix the perpetually dicky sound on the 'sound installation' that was part of the exhibition. I spent most of the day with it on mute, but would, from time to time, panic that the artist would randomly drop by and have a hissy fit that it wasn't on, which was what used to happen to the guy who was baby sitting the other part of the exhibition in a different space across the road. He spent six hours a day being tortured by horrible wailing noises. The artist came by several times and complained that he'd turned it down.
I spent a day as an extra on a TV shoot (the final episode of White Teeth, which I hadn't read, so the scene I was in, which involved people bursting into a science lecture and shouting, was confusing. Especially as, I seem to recall, James McAvoy was playing twins, so lots of it had to be shot twice). My friend was working on it (hence the gig), and when I arrived merrily informed me that he'd 'put me in with the principals'. I'd assumed I'd be 'milling around at the back', safe from any sort of televisual coverage. 'What, so I'll... be in the shot?' I queried. 'Yes!' he replied chirpily.
I decided to draw on my stellar career of school plays and pretend I could act, despite the fact that in every single school production in which I'd ever featured, I'd played a man. (All-girl schools have a lot to answer for when it comes to feeling like an attractive laydee, when you're typecast as a bloke). Still, I had a costume for this and everything! Yes, as it was set in the 80s, and I was supposed to be an academic, I got kitted out with a navy blazer and a natty Tie Rack scarf. Essentially, we all had to look shocked as a kerfuffle unfolded in the middle of our nice science lecture (being given by nice Robert Bathhurst, from Cold Feet and the like). I looked extra shocked as someone came clambering over the seats and used my left shoulder for leverage.
Despite all this, I still assumed I wouldn't actually be on screen at all. There are, however, two quite lingering shots featuring me, if it still exists somewhere on YouTube. For weeks afterwards, every time I saw my mates, they'd go, 'Ooh, watch out, here comes THE TV STAR'. It's a very good job I never did want to actually be on telly as a job.
However, even with these varied and exciting forays into disparate parts of the arts, today's offer of work was properly unexpected. A friend has put me forward for copywriting (yay!). For a website (ooh! I usually only do six-word taglines for four-sheet ads). The website is for a group of plastic surgeons. I know! The dilemma of course is: should I ask to be paid in Botox and fillers instead of cold hard cash? After all, it's not like I want to be an actress; no-one's paid me to look worried, flustered or frowny since my TV debut all those years ago. With the world going to hell in a handbasket, perhaps it's time to have the top half of my face frozen so that I can just look blandly happy all day.
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