Resting.

There are many actors who dislike the whole ethos of being 'out of work'. Many consider it demeaning, some see it as just a necessary part of the job, while others are driven mad and feel compelled to appear on the Performance channel moaning about having nothing to do. Surely such people have made enough out of the Italian Job and Harry Brown?

Anyway, I find that the phone is suspiciously quiet of late. I have gone so far as to have the line tested, firstly by being the other side of the road in the local phone box and ringing myself, dashing back to hear the ringing (although being careful not to pick up the phone. At 30p a minute, I am not some chat line customer. And even if I was, I would not be asking me what I am wearing. I don't need to call up for that.) Anyway, I endeavoured to get back to the flat, narrowly missing a lorry on my journey - although another traveller was no so lucky (sent flowers to the family) to find the phone chirping away. The dilemma was heartbreaking. Could it be an actual call? Should I risk 30p on the off chance it would be a major producer offering me the chance of a lifetime? Gingerly I picked up the receiver. I placed the receiver quivering to my ear, my nerves at breaking point. "Mr Speilberg?" I almost whispered.
Down the line came the most enormous raspberry I have heard for some time, in fact I have never heard such a noise since I was doing a 'Murder In the Library' in Glasgow. But the voice on the other end had not said 'no', so I repeated my question. Again, the sound greeted my ears, a rasping, rolling raspberry, this time followed by a voice which said 'You old pouff!'.
But still no definitive answer, and the call had been terminated. Could it be Speilberg himself had called me to issue this abuse? What had I done to him? I had met him on one occasion, when he was kind enough to come back stage, ask my name and have someone write it down for future reference.

And so the mystery deepens.