I have a very sore throat. So sore, I think it must be Christmas, except it isn’t and so there’s no excuse to drink hot ports: it’ll have to be tea. This time last year, I had nice, brown legs from running in shorts. This year, no shorts. No way. I’m as pasty as an uncooked pasty and twice as grumpy. Pasties are notoriously vicious when uncooked: their splendour only arrives with the addition of heat. So, I believe, does mine. (Also, I am generally crammed chock-full of vegetables. There the pasty comparison ends.)
Not that splendour is a word I associate myself with very often, but the old legs look a bit longer with a lick o’ paint. The teeth look a bit whiter. The hair – well, the hair gets frizzier, more brittle and loses all its colour but I just feel better, goddamn it. Let me have this one. I love the sun. (Of course I use factor 20+. Relax, I’m not an idiot.)
There are those who believe that I married someone from Los Angeles for my own, selfish reasons. “Oh no!” I’ll be able to cry, “do we have to go to LA to see your family and friends again?” I will have to keep this up for years so that no-one ever sees through it. Truth is, I’ve never been to LA so I’ve no idea if I’ll like it. But I do know there’s sunshine and plenty of vegetarian action and Improv. That all sounds nice.
Thing is, the idea has come up semi-regularly lately that we might up sticks and move there altogether. But while I do love the sun, I am also very, very European. I love having Paris and Rome nearby. I like being near my family. I like not having plastic surgery all day every day, just to get into auditions. Would I have to forget about acting altogether? Or would I be happy to be relegated to being up for roles of the old, tired lookin’ one? Or the big-nosed, quirky neighbour? I might like that, but I don’t know.
All I know about LA is that it’s where my husband’s from and it is a possibility. And until the sun comes out again here, a very strong one. And I don’t just mean the actual sun (stay with me, you were here for the pasty – let the sun be the government/ economy/ immigration laws – this is my gig).
For now, excuse me while I slip on some thermals and sip my hot tea. That hot, healing tea that makes everything better. Sorry, did I say tea? I meant plane.
