Tuesday

Things are finally looking up and I am now officially a freelancer... not that I've been paid, or more to the point, completed any work for said production company, but it's done wonders for my confidence. Unfortunately, I'm also still stuck in my flat in Hornsey with rabid hysterics wandering about on the streets outside. And, perhaps even more unfortunate, one has recently been re-born as one of my flatmates, her excuse being - that time of the month. I'm now scared to emerge from my room and have armed myself with one of the rocks from the fish-tank the Colombian left behind, as well as a pot of black ink. It was all I could find, but I think a combination of the two will ward her off.

I have also really got onto this writing lark and am attempting to build up some sort of portfolio to show off my range. It helps, that behind the school blocking the magnificent vista from my window, there are a thin strip of Dickensian houses visible that look especially good under the recent full moon and August smog, so I only need glance out the window to get my fingers typing. True, this may only be when the security guards have left the premises, or have gone round the back to turf out rouge smokers and tramps dressed as school-children. You think I joke.

Another perk of this freelance business is I don't just have to restrict myself to writing and film, and so will be attending a casting workshop on Friday... that is, if I can get hold of Amy the casting agent. I received a call from her two weeks ago when walking on Hampstead Heath and was offered the opportunity to come along. I immediately panicked as the photo I sent her only reveals the top, better-looking part of my face - my coat obscuring the rest. I'll make sure when I turn up, to not smile at her properly and wear a turtle-neck jumper so she doesn't change her mind. I'll just have to sweat it out.

I've also decided to start up yoga again, and this time I won't have an embarrassing exercise mat that I let my gay friend pick out in the heat of the moment and end up having to perform sun salutations on top of line drawings of men with visible arm-pit hair and hard ons for six sore sessions. My old tutor Amanda was not impressed - I swear when I complained of back pain she purposefully massaged me wrong so that I walked around resembling Igor for the following weeks. 

A final update is that I've made a list of 'Things I want': 

1. To be named 'the next Sylvia Plath', 2. To study filmmaking in Paris 3. Some fish for the fish-tank 4. To publish a Sophie Calle-style book (I've found someone's address book and everything), and 5. To obtain more varieties of gaffa tape.