May was the quietest month of my career. I don’t know why.
Normally it’s bustling setting up roles for the Summer, negotiating parts,
schmoozing and networking and generally being simply the busiest of bees.
But this year it has been quiet. Scarce has been the cheery
ring of the phone, the knock of opportunity, the heady anticipation of the
clunk of a new script hitting the welcome mat. There was some kerplunking which
I took to be a new offering from one of the finest scribes but it turned out to
be a magazine about belts from Amsterdam.
Not that I am bothered. It irks me not one bit that I have
been overlooked by all those who have chosen elsewhere to seek their thespian
talent. I have plenty to do. My novel. My jams. Finally getting around to
organising my collection of photographs of Gloria Hunniford. Oh, the McPhereson
sphere of activity is fair bursting with active endeavour.
It has also allowed me some well earned time to think about
my retirement. Having played almost every single role in theatre and
television, except the major ones, (which would be of little interest to me
anyway. Often the more interesting parts are the more minor, the cogs from
which the power of the greater engine is derived), I sometimes think it’s best
to quit while you are ahead. Or in one
case, still the behind.
I could of course use old Geoff Palmers Cotswold Cottage for
a couple of months in the Summer to ruminate. Geoff has always been very kind to me, even
after the last time and that little problem with the mustard.
Of I could have a word with Helen Mirren. She’s hardly at
home these days, and has little time for acting given all those awards and gala
luncheons. I could camp in her front room as I have done many a time before,
and consider my life in the sweet focus of distance, whilst obviously
studiously observing her request of no bonfires.
Of course, this is not the first time I have considered such
a move. A few years hence I was in a similar position, no work and little
prospects (this time not because of age but because of a small altercation with
a BAFTA bigwig over some twiglets). I remember in the late 80s a similar desire
for solitude and meditation came over me, and I spent a great deal of time on
Simon Le Bon’s boat. Simon was the perfect host, always checking I was still
there, suggesting at the various ports famous landmarks I should not miss and
at one point taking an active part in aiding my on-going battle in learning to
swim.
