When I grow up I want to be an actor.

God knows when I got it into my head acting would be a good idea. When I was 5 I remember wanting to work part time as a teacher and part time as a check-out girl at Sainsbury's. I think it was the beep on the supermarket till that I was drawn to. Bizarrely I have just realised that has partly come true. (The teaching not Sainsbury's.) Anyway, I digress. (You'll have to get use to my asides.)



Now this is a tale about a jobbing actor not one who just gets discovered and it's all nice and easy and I dunno a Casting Director sees you at your showcase and you end up in a 3 film deal for an award winning Director or your spotted while having an argument with your bank manager and ooh a producer thinks you have star potential. All actors dream that will happen and for Orlando Bloom and Charlise Theron respectively they were indeed that lucky but we know that's not real life. Most actors who make it in that sense aren't just lucky but have a lot on their side. Namely contacts and money. I had neither.



I come from a really small but lovely one-horse town in Devon. It is literally one horse. I remember as a kid the local gypsy's riding their cart through on a Saturday, in the shadow of the honey bricked church, while everyone turned and stared I did too as I plodded my way up the hill on my way to the now defunct Woolworths to buy a record with my Dad. The concept of acting in this setting is simply ludicrous. It rears its head only yearly in the format of a Panto at the county town or a Kiss Me Quick show at the local pier. Not exactly a Mecca for art let’s say. It's all very sweet and sedentary, all uneven cobbles, little shops with nothing of much importance other than trinkets in them and the spring fair. Which is brilliant I might add? May polls, Morris dancing and tons of beer like something out of a Hardy novel. As I walked along the aisles I perused the pick and mix before my train of thought was jolted by a seven year old boy diving headlong for the fizzy cola bottles. “Tristan!” screamed his mother as his sweaty and possibly snotty hand drove itself unbidden into the plastic shoe box grabbing a cluster of flying saucers. I pondered the night before.