Weekend Terrors

It's all a disaster. I've been hopelessly miscast in the show. My American accent is terrible. My portrayal of an intellectual lesbian writer unconvincing and sometime today, or tomorrow, or even Monday morning, I'm going to get a call from the director (he's a nice man, he'll do his own dirty work) saying that they're really sorry but they've made a mistake and they'll pay me to the end of the week but they'd like me to leave now as my replacement will be arriving to be measured to see if she fits the fabulous Ossie Clark suit they've found on ebay for tuppence.

Can they do that? Can they only pay me til the end of the week? I reckon they can, but they'll have to bypass the equity agreement and go straight for trade misdescriptions: Your agent said you were good and you're so not. "Excuse me m'lud, this actress is blatantly not fit for purpose..."

I won't be able to pay the mortgage, the Little House will be re-possessed and will stand empty for 25 years until the xylophene protection wears off and then it will be eaten alive by capricorn beetles and woodworm.

I dreamed last night that it had a huge swimming pool and I was tying myself in knots over how to maintain it. Won't be my problem now though, will it? All my teeth are going to fall out so I can't even play the trumpet, my family friends and agent will all disown me for being useless and I will end up sad and lonely in the workhouse.

Or I could just get over myself, take the dog to the park and learn some lines. Hmmmm.