There were only a handful of us waiting for the performance. Not surprising. It was midday, midweek. Even the Turner Prize has lulls. No one looked at each other. The focus was the ragged structure we'd gathered round, somewhere between a tent and a den. The walls of the Tate are painted such a bright white that anything is incongruous against them but this drew our attention to the floor. How do you keep a floor that clean? Before I could think more, a shrieking in the distance startled us all. A creature made of four or five people under another bit of tent-den undulated through the gallery and came to rest. An assistant pointed at one particularly tall person, the creature beckoning them closer. The person had to crouch and fold themselves to get their ear close to the creature. I could see the creature's mouth move. The tall person looked confused, then straightened back up into their full height. The assistant pointed them to the other gallery. The tall person continued to look confused. The assistant jabbed their finger to the gallery again. The tall person looked around - are none of you stopping this? - and shuffled out of the gallery. The assistant pointed to me. Stepping forward and crouching down, I felt something in my back buckle under the weight of my big shoulder bag, containing everything that I needed for my long weekend stay in London. At that time, it was a lot.

"I am the oracle..." said the creature. I felt the wet pucker of its lips near my ear before it huskily said, "Get a real job."

I'd been made redundant. My last day was yesterday. I left the gallery in peals of manic laughter.

***

I pace the concourse of King's Cross, between the rail and tube stations, running my lines under my breath over and over again. Managed to spill soy sauce on myself from my good-luck-me sushi lunch. This is why I wear black, this is kooky and relatable, I think, between remembering the beats and inflections of Fleabag. I mean, what else was I going to pick for a modern monologue in the summer of 2016? Is it wanky to say I was at the run in Edinburgh? What do I have to say to get to be the me I want to be?

I'm auditioned by the head, a man with lightly greying hair, an open-neck purple shirt, and modern silver glasses. We have a chat first. He asks me if I went to university. I did. What did I read? Philosophy. Silence. I start to say philosophy again but he stops me.

"I heard you. I'm just trying to figure out whether that's a soft subject or not."

I don't have the self-esteem required for this. The rest is a total car crash. He criticises the writing I've chosen, that I didn't take cues from Shakespeare that GCSE-level students would know. He asks me back for a second audition, seemingly unaware that I am acting right now, that I have been acting since I got in, that I am acting as I have been for my entire twenties, someone of ease and breeze, who definitely isn't going to cry once they step over the threshold and back onto the concourse, ringing their partner to heave sobs down the phone.

My partner is a quiet man but I can barely hear what is meant to be some kind of advice.

"I can't hear you!" I wail-shout. We both recoil from the malice and disappointment in my voice.

I cancel the second audition.

***

Through some sheer luck, I'm working for the artist who created the oracle work a few years ago. I've written some lyrics for her commission, a children's commission no less, meaning it's both for and including kids. There's about forty of them, locals, between three- and fifteen-years-old. Their talent is off the scale. I'm there for dress rehearsals. The adults are divvied out to small groups of the kids, in their half-finished animal costumes, to oversee some practice. I get chatting the two tweenagers I've been assigned, decked out in hand-made, dog-patterned suits. They each have solos. I'm fascinated by the rhythms of their speech, their energy. I wonder if they know that I'm as eager to impress them as they are to impress me. The artist does her rounds. When she comes to us, she rests her hands on my shoulders and just says -

“Discipline.”

I snap out of it and ask to hear their songs. They swing into action. I try not to cry. There's nothing quite like hearing what you've written come singing out of a child. Suddenly, a panic. The monkey's not well. I stepped into the role of understudy a little easier than the costume, made for someone half my age but elasticated waistbands are very forgiving. I hold the tiny hand of a three-year-old girl as the whole company shuffles round the space for the opening number. She looks up at me and beams.

I think the ears kind of suited me.

***

If you want to make your friends laugh, say you're going to clown school. If you want to make your friends worried, say, no, you're really going to clown school. Not the expensive one in France where someone tells you you're an unfunny, boring, try-hard - can do that for myself for free, thanks. No, the far more reasonably priced intro weekend in the city over. Homer admiring his brightly patterned, perfectly fitting trousers floats to the top of my recent GIFs. We say our names and what we're okay with doing, physical-touch wise. I immediately relax, saying that I'm okay with arms and legs but no hugs unless I initiate it. We're supplied with classic plastic red noses on elastic. I still have to keep my eye-roll under wraps when we're instructed to be like seaweed around the room. By the end of that particular exercise, my limbs do feel loose.

In the final showcase, I end up paired with a man in baggy harem pants, who I've been studiously avoiding for the past day and half because, well, no. Our shtick seems to rest on him criticising everything we're doing and the class laugh heartily. I'm annoyed but whatever, the rest of the time has been an absolute hoot. We go off into the backstage - corridor of the community centre - and he opens his arms wide, the full breadth of him swooping down on me like an eagle, ignoring my signalling of turning away from him, until I realise for the thousandth time in my life that he'll stop if I just give him what he wants. I lightly pat his back as he gives me a long, firm squeeze that I hope hides the tension in my arms and neck.

The red nose of the clown is sometimes known as the smallest mask in the world.

***

After lockdown, I do one more audition. It's for a TV part. I have to do a quick improvisation, ugh, then have the even more dreaded chat-having. I don't hear back from them within the shooting schedule so let it slip from my silly little mind. I say yes to other very much non-acting work, including freelancing for the company I left to pursue acting. Then I hear from them. I scan the outline of the scene, the character description. The joke is meant to hinge on my character training an older white man in a position of authority in "woke" values. I have something that lands between a panic attack and a meltdown. Whatever I do on the day, I can't trust them to edit it in good faith. I don't think this is self-esteem. I don't feel strong and empowered. I say, no thanks, I'm working.

Because I am.