Another afternoon of auditioning today at Avalon, my evil baby-murdering management company in Ladbroke Grove (the baby murder is a separate arm to the business and nothing to do with the comedy management, so I don't think I am culpable in the senseless slaughter of infants).
Slowly and steadily we seem to be sorting out the cast. I wish the same could be said of the script. I am back in one of my dark funks where I can't get anything done. On the positive side these funks are usually followed by a period of creative fecundity. So fingers crossed that I can sort out all the crappy bits in time for the read-through on Wednesday.
I had to leave just before the last actor came in as I had a gig in Reading to get to. I got my bike out of the store-room I had left it in and headed for the entrance. Avalon is situated in an obscure part of West London amongst some intimidating estates and next door to a mental institution, so it can be a little scary leaving there once darkness has fallen. As I got to the door I could see through the opaque glass that there was someone (or something) outside, straining to look through the clouded window. As I got to the door it became clear that this figure was a boy og about 10 as he pressed his face right up against the glass and I could clearly see his squashed features.
I opened the door and saw that this youngster was part of a gang of maybe seven or eight boys of the same age. They were young enough to not be a direct threat, but in enough numbers to dictate that one should be slightly cautious. In two or three years time this little posse will probably be something to contend with, but for the moment they were quite cute and funny.
"Is that a man or a statue in there?" one of them asked, pointing at a large dark shadow that you could see through from outside. It was clearly about ten feet tall and not moving so it would have been amazing had it been a man, but I told them it was a big statue (I believe it depicts Lenin and no doubt comes from some TV production that Avalon have been involved with). "It's a statue," I told them.
But they wanted to be sure and kept peering in and trying to open the door, which opens when the person on reception pushes a button to electronically release the lock.
"Why is the door locked?" asked one of the lads.
"To keep troublemakers like you out of there," I joked. I reckoned even if they all turned on me I could take at least four of them out before they killed me, so I wasn't too scared. But it's amazing that there was a slight level of concern. What kind of world is it where a 39 year old man is slightly worried about what some 10 year olds might do? The world is London town, where even babies carry knives.
The receptionist, perhaps slightly foolishly or maybe thinking I was trying to get back in, released the lock and a couple of the boys poked their heads round the door. They were still too nervous and respectful of authority to cross the threshold, but like I say, give them a couple of years and they'd be running down the corridors, raping and pillaging like the pint-sized Vikings that they surely truly are.
As I tried to cycle off the pre-teens gaggled in the road and got in my way. I slowed down to negotiate a way through this sprawling haul of human spawn. "Oi mate," warned one of the cheeky imps as if pointing out some fault with my bike, "I think you should know that your wheels are spinning round."
"Thanks," I smiled, "I'll have to look into that."
