Behold, the man of clay.    I realise that New Year is the time for resolutions, resolve and ruthless ambition, but I’m as bufoonishly impressionable as ever.  And indecisive, to boot.  Maybe.   I research locksmiths for a play I’m writing and decide that, actually, it would be quite good fun to cut keys.  I read a National Geographic and realise that my true calling is dusting off stegosaurus skeletons in Angkor Wat.  I daydream about

Dublin and become absolutely convinced that my soul will only be content with the peace and quiet that library stewardship brings.  I’m useless.  If you ever become frustrated with your career, just ask a dilettante to romanticise it for you.  You won’t feel better about your job, but you’ll thank your lucky stars that you’re not a dilettante.

 What with it being a brand new year, brimming with incipient disappointment, I make a concerted effort to focus more efficiently on how to progress to purchasing some sort of cardboard box on the pungent end of Primrose Hill.  But which career? So here’s writing vs. acting in the guise of two lovers, because everyone can relate to having a rubbish love life.  I hope.   

On the one hand you have Dear But Dreary.  Someone who will just lay there and listen to you pontificate for hours on end about any old rubbish, smiling inanely as you blather.  In your little world, you are Supreme Emperor of Wordsmithery, commanding legions of thesauruses.  You can do no wrong (not until opening night, anyway).  And you can do it in the comfort of your lounge with a cup of tea by your side and a languorous cigarette hanging from your lip. Then you have Fabulous But Flaky. The sort of lover that doesn’t call you for months on end, and then, when they do, gives you ten minutes to get ready for a masquerade ball in

Monte Carlo.  And then forgets your name.  They’re dangerous, duplicitous, and make you feel like a giraffe on a slalom slope.  But no matter how much egg they leave on your face, you somehow convince yourself they really do make a good omelette.

 Look, it’s difficult enough to get through a whole season of The West Wing in an afternoon, never mind do a full vocal warm-up, get to the gym, work a few speeches and then pen a play.  So surely at some point a decision needs to be made.  Yesterday I offered to buy tea for a familiar face at my usual haunt.  To my pinkening realisation, it turned out the familiar face was a bastion of British cinema.  Before he left, however, he took my name and vowed: 

‘If I can get you a job, I will!’ So perhaps the career chooses you.  I leave you safe in the knowledge that there is one thing that brings all us muddled and befuddled career variants together.  Something awaiting me, and possibly you, at this very moment.   

The tax return.    Toodles. 

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