My fiancé is a very passionate man. One of the things that first attracted me to him was that passion. Long before I appeared in his life, long before our paths crossed, he already cared deeply about cars. There is something enormously attractive about watching somebody love what they do and throw themselves into it completely. Sometimes it's a little bewildering. Sometimes it's all-consuming. But enthusiasm on that scale is difficult to resist. His love of cars was firmly established before I arrived on the scene. Indeed, there are moments when I suspect his car, and I continue to compete for attention, although I should point out that only I receive a cup of tea in bed every morning, accompanied by a winning smile. His extraordinary car community, Vengaworld, has become a source of pleasure to thousands of people. It's rather wonderful to be driving through some distant town and suddenly spot a Vengaworld sticker in the rear window of a passing car. Their events have...
At this time of year my mind always drifts back to school. New satchel, polished shoes, the faint smell of pencil shavings. And it’s been rather like that this past month — a busy time, conferences everywhere, me scurrying round with my homework in hand. Portugal was the big one. My biggest every year. And, in the end, it was rather marvellous. Everyone acquitted themselves, as my old headmaster used to say, and there were some brilliant touches. Chief among them, an interview with the racing driver Billy Munger. Inspiring, honest, authentic — and truly moving. The sort of lad who makes you feel you could climb Everest before breakfast, or at least manage the hill up to Marks & Spencer without wheezing. Back home I landed on the rarest of rare things — an on-time British Airways flight. Almost a miracle. I was still savouring that when the phone went at baggage claim. Lexus. Always Lexus. The part they’d promised to fit on Tuesday has been “back-ordered”. Which, near as I can t...
Most people, if they’re lucky, only do three or four job interviews in their life. A couple of shifts here, a rung or two up the ladder there, and before you know it you’re in a swivel chair with a pension scheme and a lanyard. Lovely. For actors, it’s different. We do them all the time. Weekly, sometimes daily. Except we don’t call them interviews. We call them auditions. These days, that often means a self-tape — two syllables that strike more fear into the average actor than “tax return”. Picture the scene: you, in front of the only bit of white wall in your flat that isn’t cracked, crooked or adorned with a poster of Les Mis. You’re trying to summon the emotions of a broken man while balancing your phone on a stack of cookbooks and praying the neighbour’s dog doesn’t start yapping during your big moment. You send it off, you wait, you hear nothing. Then weeks later you’re watching telly with a digestive and a cuppa when there it is — the very job you auditioned for, being play...
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