2003-03-26 3:15 pm
Junked
A letter arrived this morning from my agent. They think it's time I should start looking for other representation.
I'm not surprised. I am a good actor, but I couldn't care less whether I get work or not.
On my break today I saw an old man in a wheelchair positioned squarely outside the door of the social services department. He was waiting for it to open. Behind him was a short queue of people. They looked like the fanatical fans of a small but trendy band, arrived far too early for a gig. But it was the appearance of the man that amused me. He was positioned with adamantine patience and mathematical precision. There was nobody getting past him in that queue. Not a chance. And if that door wasn't open at 9am on the dot, then by God there would be trouble.
On my round there were two junkies shooting up on the stairwell.
"Mind yourselves, chaps, coming through," I muttered.
They separated politely as they filled their needles with brown liquid. When I came back they were still there. Their arms were flopped down, their eyes were glazed, and one still had the needle sticking out of his arm, like a giant insect's sting. If I see them again I will tell them not to come back. Once is ok, but twice and my indignation will get the better of my interest.
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