'Is thaaght like a sssspeshall seat?'

Oh God he's talking to me, I thought and responded impulsively with 'yeah, it's leather'.

'Yeah it's reaaaalllly niiigghhhsssss.' The loud, older, surely gay mancunian speaking to no one and everyone and apparently also me simultaneously, continued, whilst squirming quite delightfully and pondering his email. 

This guy was IN CHARGE. 

I was accepting from the rather pretty, but not aware of it, blonde girl to his left an iPad while she regurgitated some bollocks about filling in the casting network information signing in. I'd switched off most of my attention span as soon as I'd entered the under-decorated characterless office, the numbness, the protective coating that fools you into thinking that you can handle the situation, that you're relaxed and great and fully employable.

I speak and for some reason my voice is at its lowest octave. Like this makes me more professional. Like a plumber casually getting out a spanner on your doorstep when he arrives. Displaying and proving that he is indeed the man here for the job.

With twelve pieces of paper for me to fill in, clothing details and to sign off the cut of thousands of pounds that I'm almost certain I wil never see, I sit down and subtlety canvas the room.
There's usually one that just shouldn't be there. One like you but taller and boring looking and then some cunt who's clearly all over it and gregarious and charming and a cheeky chappy and you know he's booked four this year already and to top it off he's actually really nice, 'Hi I'm jonny, what's your name?!"
Jonny is wonderful. I want to hit him and but also be his best friend too. But I can never be like him, and I'll definitely never dress like him.

After sitting on plastic chairs in silence like the std clinic, one by one we are summoned into the bright room, greeted vaguely by a tired mid forties woman who could not be more bored by the job at hand, but fuck it she's getting paid so she's ploughing on.

So I'm in the room. She takes the script off me, mumbling it won't be needed but that I'm going to 'improvise' (she says it like that).

The scene, wonderfully written, of course is burned into my mind cos I learned it like it's my job and I manage to bullshit through it smiling like a maniac constantly thinking 'be charming dick!' and worrying about my teeth.

We stop, she tells me how utterly amazing I've just been, but apparently there is still room for improvement. Above all her major note is to 'be cuter!' 'Be more cutesy, cos y'know, you're cute.'

I want to kill her.

It is at this point I always wish I hadn't come.

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