East of Croydon

by Sue Perkins

  ME: What are we doing?

  I was shouting to be heard over the sound of the class, whose excitement had reached fever pitch.

  WOMAN: We are finishing our welcome song, and then we will perform a play.

  ME: YES! Can I join in? Can I?

  The volunteer looked slightly piteous in the face of my epic enthusiasm.

  ME: Can I? I’ll do anything! Can I?

  I don’t like to beg, but this came pretty close. Finally, after some fairly intense lobbying, she caved in.

  WOMAN: OK. You can play the part of the tree.

  ME: Yes! YES! Now, what kind of tree? Do you want something generic, or would you like me to be more region specific? I could be a Dalat pine? Or a Chinese plum? You’re the director, so it’s your vision …

  She ignored me. Well, your call, I thought, but don’t blame me if my performance is a little less nuanced than it should be.

  I do like to get into character. For me it’s important. I have had no formal training, but I tend towards being a little method in my approach.

  I remember, fondly, a casting for a tea commercial where I was auditioning for the role of Maggie the Pigeon. It was one of the two most embarrassing casting calls of my life.fn1 It transpired I hadn’t needed to rent the outfit – but you learn, don’t you? I wasn’t sure what kind of an accent pigeons might have, but a little research (and it really was a little) yielded the surprising fact that, although feral pigeon populations tend to be very concentrated in cities, their numbers are actually greater in rural areas. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I gave her a West Country burr – like she was the distant cousin of the Cadbury’s Caramel bunny, or at least lived in the same postcode. I also made her gluten-intolerant, which I thought was a counter-intuitive and unexpected little twist.

  I arrived at the audition to see the usual bunch of downcast actors, fidgeting and muttering to themselves while reading the script. I said a quick hello, and then settled myself down to begin my deep-breathing exercises. What I wasn’t expecting was for an assistant to emerge and hand me a character breakdown, a full A4 sheet, listing Maggie’s likes and dislikes. This was a last-minute blow. I had, of course, created my own back story for the character (abandoned at birth, fostered by doves, a chequered series of relationships with older pigeons that hinted at a father-complex) so it was somewhat annoying to have to rethink the role at such short notice.

  I shall always remember the first line on that sheet:

  Maggie is an organized and well-kept pigeon who goes to the gym regularly – at least twice a week.

  This stumped me. In all my calculations, I had not factored in that Maggie might be a gym-goer. What an oversight. I stared down at my midriff. It was too late to get in shape for the role. Mind you, what pigeon has a six-pack?

  Finally, I was called in. It became clear early on that the West Country accent was surplus to requirement. One of the casting directors even said ‘The Geordie wasn’t working,’ which I thought was a little unkind.

  ME: I can do other voices.

  DIRECTOR: Your own is fine.

  PRODUCER: Can you make her more clipped? Brusque?

  ME: Sure.

  PRODUCER: She needs to be abrasive and uncomfortable in her own skin.

  DIRECTOR: That’s why we asked you in.

  After about fifteen minutes of ad-libbing around Maggie’s busy schedule (popping the washing in the drum, sorting the shopping, organizing work diaries), they decided to ask another actor in to audition with me. This is called a Chemistry Test, I think, which ascertains whether or not you have the requisite sparky, je ne sais quoi with another performer.

  In walked a lovely Irish guy I’d met in Reception, called Dave.

  DIRECTOR: Dave’s going to be playing the part of Tom, the obese owl.

  I looked over at Dave, who wasn’t obese in the slightest. Dave looked down at his belly and then up again.

  ‘Hi, Tom – you massive owl,’ I said, trying to help him into character.

  ‘Hi, Maggie, you big fat pigeon,’ said Dave, returning the compliment.

  We shook hands. I welded my fingers together to form a claw as I did so – just to get us into the part.

  DIRECTOR: OK, you two. Tom and Maggie have the hots for one another. It’s an unspoken thing. Unconsummated. Think Dempsey and Makepeace, or that couple off Moonlighting.

  DAVE: (awkwardly) Cool.

  ME: Right …

  I was suddenly feeling a little hot under the collar.

  DIRECTOR: They’re obsessed. They have that ache, that yearning inside them. So, why don’t you have a role-play around that, really feel the sexual tension, and let’s see what happens.

  It was just your average casting session: a gay man playing an overweight raptor and a gay woman playing an uptight pigeon, both locked in a love that could never be. Standard stuff.

  We sat on the sofa and tremulously began. The lines, which were mainly about the rich brew being an excellent source of flavonoids, didn’t really lend themselves to a sexual subtext, but we did our best. In the end, Dave just gave up and simply laid his head in my lap – leaving me to carry on with a speech about how comforting a cup of tea is after a stressful house move.

  We both got the job.

  My only other casting call was somewhat different. This was for the BBC’s flagship blood-and-guts drama series, Casualty. Instead of a generic audition invite going out to all and sundry, my agent received a call requesting me, specifically, and asking if I could act. Call me old-fashioned, but I always think the safest thing is to find out whether that person can act before putting in the call. In any event, it’s a silly thing to ask an agent because they are invested, to the tune of 15 per cent of your gross earnings, in saying you are good at absolutely everything. Their job is to say yes. Your job is to turn up, disappoint and be vilified in the national press.

  Rather than go through a formal audition, I simply went and had a nice chat with the director. I let him know how committed I was to the defence and maintenance of a public health service free at the point of entry. I thought that was important to mention, in the context. In fact, I talked about it so much that we didn’t get round to discussing acting at all. The first sign that I’d got the role, and that everything was, indeed, happening, was when the script landed on my doormat.

  Now, knowing me, as you do, what kind of part do you imagine the good folk at Casualty had dreamt up for me? Well, here’s what I had expected:

  A drunken oaf dressed as a nun suffering from concussion following an accident during a student pantomime.

  A mute.

  Someone who had been driving behind an industrial truck carrying acid, failed to brake and was covered with corrosive liquid, who therefore spent the episode wailing under a payload of latex FX make-up.

  A myopic cretin who had been too vain to wear their glasses to a party, got off their tits on ketamine and copped-off with a fork. (The fork would be sticking out of my face, giving the props department a challenge I’m sure they’d embrace with relish).

  Sadly none of those roles were offered. Instead, I was horrified to learn that I’d be playing a police doctor in a very gritty scene involving a sexual assault. Two things occurred to me on first glance:

  I patently don’t have the gravitas to carry off playing a person with proper qualifications.

  The grim sexual-assault scenario was not going to play to my limited range of skills – namely punning and gurning.

  Still, I thought, they must have seen something in me. Some potential. I shall give it my all. I prepared for weeks and turned up on set, on time, with my lines learnt, ready to go.

  I stood in the costume department staring at my outfit, which was a rather drab affair. ‘Where’s the full scrubs?’ I asked, a tad disappointed.

  ‘Oh, you’re a police doctor – they wouldn’t wear those,’ said the wardrobe lady.

  Once again, I had to start from scratch. I had envisaged the character in a full hazmat suit with
a cheeky kitten heel poking out of the bottom – serious, but with a frivolous side. I would have to speedily rethink the way I played her.

  I turned up at location, ready to go. The actress playing the assault victim was sitting on the bed.

  ME: Hello, everyone.

  ALL: Hello!

  They really were a bloody friendly bunch.

  DIRECTOR: OK, are we ready? Let’s go for a take. Sue, you’re going to be swabbing round the mouth, remember? And … action!

  I steadied myself, then let fly my opening line.

  ME: That’s it. Just open a little wider, please …

  There was a pause. I waited. Why wasn’t the actress saying her lines? Why was she shaking? Was she choking? Had I pushed the cotton bud too far down her throat? It was then I realized she was heaving with laughter – as was everybody else in the room.

  DIRECTOR: Cut!

  Five takes later and there was total hysteria in the house. I have no idea why. I just maintained my professionalism and carried on. They’ll settle down, I thought.

  Well, they didn’t. In the end we had to make a compromise. I delivered my line to the wall, not looking at the actress, and she bit down on the swab so the microphone couldn’t pick up the sound of her guffaws.

  That was the last time I graced the set of a serious drama.

  Anyway, let us depart the heady glamour of Elstree Studios and head back to the sweltering banks of the Mekong, back to my latest starring role – a tree. I hadn’t been given anything in the way of direction, so I had to find my own way with the character. I was just in the middle of assigning a voice (gruff, strong, possibly Northern Irish), when the volunteer stepped forward and unceremoniously popped a large sheet, hung from a bamboo pole, in front of my face.

  ME: Oh. Really? A sheet? I’m a tree, not a mattress …

  They carried on, ignoring me.

  There had obviously been some crossed wires in the translation. When they said ‘tree’ what they really meant was ‘canvas’. It became clear that my job was to simply hold up the sheet while the rest of the group performed a puppet show. On me.

  Theatre can be such a cruel mistress.

  After I’d stood behind this histrionic windbreak for an hour, the show wound to a close. There was a big farewell, with lots of waving and shouting, then we all enjoyed an impromptu hula-hoop session. As you do.

  Once the formalities were over, the children scattered like marbles to the hills above, clutching their library books of choice. From what I could see, the most popular titles appeared to be Pirates Attacked Dr Dolittle As He Was Sailing Home, The Wasp With A Stick In Its Eye and Eat Teeth! – a treatise on dental decay and how to avoid it.

  A silence descended over the landscape, the crags of rock dotted with colour as the children settled into the outcrops and began to turn the pages. You could feel the concentration in the air, the silent fascination of a hundred children whose imaginations were being stirred.

  My eyes filled again as I saw the unmistakable cover of Eric Carle’s The Hungry Caterpillar. My favourite book, sent through time and space to this remote beach. I picked it up, my fingers poking through the cut-out holes in the watermelon and strawberries and as I did so, I felt it again – like a distant rumble – that excitement when I first sat on my mum’s lap, held a book in my hands, and started.

  Once Upon A Time.

  18. The School of Hard Knocks

  I didn’t know it, but I wasn’t done with schooling just yet. We left the banks of the Hmong village and headed further up the river, to the ancient city of Luang Prabang.

  I’d heard about the extraordinary energy of this place, the strange hypnotic effect it has on its visitors, but had been sceptical. I was so brimful of the crusty witterings of backpackers that I no longer took anything at face value.

  Prabang? Oh, man, it’s soooooooo mellow.

  Whatever.

  And yet, less than an hour into wandering its streets, I was captivated. Everything you’ve heard about this place is true. Linear time doesn’t seem to exist here. It is the in-between place. It is the every-place. You are caught between worlds, ancient and modern – the time-honoured rhythms of Asia and the modern interventions of its erstwhile French overlords, both happily coexisting, yet apart. Here you can meditate, grab a croissant and sit in the lotus position for a fortnight listening to an Edith Piaf tribute act without feeling incongruous.

  This gentle, almost somnambulant city is the place where you begin to understand the feeling, if not the philosophy, of Buddhism. It starts to make sense here, not only because of the concentration of temples, but because you are surrounded by water. The city is built at the confluence of the Mekong and its tributary the Nam Kam, and everywhere you turn you can see the snaking silver of the river.

  ‘Lao-ness’ is defined by Buddhism, Theravada Buddhism to be more specific, which advocates a calming of emotions. The basic premise appears to be that it’s not a good idea to get worked up by strong feelings, or worry about the future. The water seems to be the perfect metaphor for this view of life. Trying to contain or hold on to it is a fool’s errand – best to relish the moment it touches your fingers, and, with love, let it go.

  I suffer from crippling anxiety – there aren’t many days when I don’t succumb to the adrenalized spike of a panic attack. The headaches, the dry mouth, the pounding chest, they are the physical signs, but it begins way down beneath the surface. There will be a misguided thought, a negative connection forged in the subconscious that slowly and perniciously works its way upwards, causing chaos at the surface – at the point where you meet the outside world. After years of trying to be better, here, in this venerable city, I was able to release my mind from its familiar traps, be in the moment, and experience something approaching true relief.

  We approached the central monastery, its towering roof sweeping up and down from the ridge, like the crest of a wave. From a distance it looked like the trees outside were weighed down with strange orange fruit. As we drew nearer you could see they were decked with monks’ robes, hung and slung onto every available bough. It was obviously washing day for the spiritual community – either that or someone had accidentally put one monastic robe in on a white wash, in which case someone was in deep, deep trouble.

  I wandered in. A young man, bent like a river-willow, was too busy sweeping the courtyard to take any notice of us, so a rather beautiful white mutt took it upon himself to be the welcoming committee. He lolloped over, rolled in one of the dust-piles the novice had so meticulously created and exposed his belly to me for a tickle. You’ve lucked out here, mate, I thought. Good for you. Animals tend to congregate around temples. There’s food, of course – but, more than that, they get to be calm and safe for a little while, away from the beatings and constant, unpredictable menace of cars, bikes and tuk-tuks. I sat with the dog while the others set up, picking the fleas from the base of his tail and crushing them in my fingers. A pointless task, perhaps – the poor thing was riddled – but, in the monastery context, a completely understandable and valid one. After all, the end is not the reward: the process is reward in itself. It is the journey, rather than the destination, that must take our attention. However fruitless it may appear, there is a point to everything if you are sufficiently invested in the moment.

  The monastery has another attraction, of course: education. The sons sent here won’t have to break their backs on their parents’ farms. Instead they will sit in orderly rows meditating and learning English. And from there – after a respectable period of veneration – the world is their oyster.

  As soon as we headed for the classrooms, a low-slung concrete block that provided some much-needed shade, I knew they were going to make me teach a lesson. This time, however, I would stand in front of a group of older boys, who would hopefully make sure the tables were moved before we played Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Lucy. ‘I think the lesson is all worked out.’

  ME: That�
��s a relief – I am not sure I have any more songs in me.

  LUCY: Honestly, it’s just a vocab class. All you have to do is look at what’s on the board and teach them the words.

  ME: That sounds easy enough. Leave it with me. Are we good to go?

  MATT: Speed.

  I screwed my courage to the sticking place, took a deep breath and strode into the room.

  ME: Sabai dee!

  ‘Sabai dee!’ replied the class, somewhat taken aback at the sight of this bumptious Westerner marching through the door.

  I approached the teacher.

  ME: Sabai dee!

  TEACHER: Sabai dee!

  He bowed in greeting, and stepped away from the front of the class, joining the rows of pupils waiting expectantly.

  OK. Deep breath. Here we go. It’s fine, I thought. It’s really fine. Just look at the whiteboard, say the words out loud, give a simple context for those words, then move on. You can do it. Sure you’ve had no training, but you can do it. How hard can it be?

  It was fine. Right up to the point I glanced at the lesson set out on the whiteboard. At that moment it became clear that this was not going to be like any lesson I’d ever taught before. If I were to sum up first impressions, I would go with ‘hostile’. It resembled a serial killer’s mood board. Scribbled across it, in red marker, was the sort of alarmist vocabulary I’d expect someone like my mum to use when describing traffic at Hyde Park Corner.

  I could make out ‘wound’, ‘accident’, ‘ambulance’, ‘car crash’, ‘collision’, ‘scar’ …

  What kind of lesson had I wandered in on? Whatever happened to good old Peter and Jane?

  I tried to joke a little, to break the mood, which was, I have to say, pretty intense.