Rosalind, sweet Rosalind

From 1000 until 1430, we listened to the director (and too often Macbeth) delivering notes as to our characters/motivations/relationships and delivery. I sniffled and feigned note-taking whilst actually drawing pictures of girls playing tennis. I also wrote poems. Here’s one about Rosalind:

Rosalind, sweet Rosalind

Reminiscent of Sienna Miller,

And I’d like to fill her

Top full of wine and expensive food.

Maybe then she would kiss me and

let me kiss her, a rudey nude.

Those kisses sent by Angel's lips,

God-blessed as found on Helen's face.

Such lips as pretty as a monkey's

(eating some nuts in some woody place).

That body as perfect as a hornet's

(buzzy, busy, body bee).

Oh forsake Macbeth for he is brain death

Out, out, damn twat, you could say

And I’d respond: hip hip horaay

And ask you to the pub. 

I didn’t use a rhyming dictionary, Reader.

It’s a simple journey from London Bridge to Charing Cross, whatever they say, and within thirty minutes of the director uttering ‘I’m now here to speak to you individually, but I suppose you can leave if you wish’, I was stomping up the Strand (on which Charing Cross station stands), looking for number 123a.

It was dead easy to find, a hop skip and a jump (not literally) up the road. I entered the building, and as the lift wasn’t working, pumped thighs up 17 flights of stairs to the ‘A’ section. Smiling like Jack Nicolson and breathing deeply, I approached the round woman I guessed to be Bukowski’s secretary. She sat behind computer and raised counter.

“I’ve come for Mr Bukowski, the Agent,” said I, smiley-smiley.

She said nothing. I sat in one of the scattered chairs opposite. I waited for an hour. Bukowski must be busy, I thought, and read two editions of National Geographic from cover to cover. Bloody Amazon Forest.

As the time spent waiting rolled into its second hour, I re-approached the round woman. Her jowls wobbled as she raised her head to address me.

“Can I help you?” she said without looking up. She spoke as if she possessed half a tongue.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve been sitting here for two hours. I don’t mean …”

She interrupted.

“No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have,” I replied. “I’ve read two National Geographics.”

She stared as if I were insane.

“You’ve been here, waiting? For two hours? I would have seen you.”

I argued no further.

“Can I see Mr Bukowski, please?”

I smiled THE smile.

“There’s nobody called that, love. There’s Mr Brown. He’s not here today.”

I suspected the lady to be simple.

“A theatrical agent. I’m Kay Richardson. I heard he was taking on new clients.”

The fat woman looked up and smiled, revealing two rows of cracked, yellow teeth.

“Theatrical agent?” (She had difficulty pronouncing ‘theatrical’) “Why would there be one of them here?”

I sighed.

“Because you’re an agency, lady.”

She smiled wider.

“This is an Outlook clinic for the homeless.” I smiled now. She continued. “If you take a seat, I’ll get someone to speak with you. Run through your options, like. Are you on medication?”

I didn’t reply. I left. Fucking asking me if I was on medication.

Pink Tom. I double-checked the address. It was the right place, but the bastard had given me duff information. No doubt he remained jealous of my success in grabbing the role of Malcolm in a mid-sized production of Macbeth.

At home, I telephoned him. He admitted that Bukowski never existed. It was a practical joke. He claimed he didn’t even know that the address existed, let alone it was some homeless charity. Tom was offensively unapologetic and refused to justify himself. ‘Because I can’ he repeated.

I fumed.