PETER PAN SYNDROME

Good afternoon FerryEggers! I am currently sat in an office, drinking Earl Grey tea, wearing flats and a turtleneck, pretending to be a grown-up. 

Those of you who know me intimately, some more than others… awkward… know that when I am not acting I earn my tuppence a bag by typing up meetings for important people in suits. I’m hoping it won’t result in my having arthritic hands like Bill Nighy, although actually he’s pretty damn cool and pretty damn hot… (WEIRD)… so I would take that.

So yes, I am in a ‘proper’ job… temporarily. Steven (Spielberg) called my agent the other day to tell her to tell me that his phone’s died and that’s why he hasn’t been in touch… 

ANYWAY, stop digressing Dazza with ironic jokes about why Steven Spielberg hasn’t called you. He’ll phone you aaaaaaaaany minuuuuuuuuuuuuuute……….. NOW. RING. ME. NOW.

Enough of this nonsense. Now I am not saying that acting is not a proper job (GOD FORBID!), as all my drama friends would immediately unleash the hounds of hell on me for such blasphemy. However, when I say ‘proper’ in these terms, what I really mean is grown-up. And no one can accuse acting of being grown-up.

For example, I filmed my first ever commercial type thing this week for MySupermarket.com and I was acting opposite a punnet of eggs. That’s right. Eggs. Me and Eggs. Eggs and I. Reeeeeeeeal grown-up.

When I was at uni - the University of Exeter (OHHHH EXETER… join in if you know it!) - I was constantly defending my drama degree to my various friends doing things like business (“BUSINESS”) or economics ("ECONOMICS"), who delighted in saying I wouldn’t get a ‘proper’ degree. Admittedly, they did catch me and my class outside the drama department enigmatically pretending to be trees. But the less said about that the better. I made a great silver birch by the way, just for future reference. Great.

ANYHOO; back to my job. I always wonder when I watch adults at work, if they are serious about it in their heads in a sort of, ‘Got to get this data form off to Susan straight away’, sort of way. Or, if like me, they are thinking of ways to avoid Susan and her perpetual data forms with ingenious ideas such as spending slightly too long drying their hands in the toilet or rearranging their stationary to look like a… (DON’T SAY PENIS)… smiley face.

Penis. I arranged my stationary to look like a penis. OK!?!

So, I took the man above’s advice. I woke up this morning, donned my turtle neck and decided to try and be a grown-up. It’s about bloody time I hear you cry! I bought a Pret coffee on the way in, just to add to the adult-aesthetic: coffee in hand whilst walking in London = Grown Up. Slung my ruck-sack over my right shoulder, my lap top over my left and joined the commute. 

I was mid goose-step when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Pausing my journey, I turned round to be faced with an octogenarian of small stature and kindly appearance. She promptly looked me up and down and said with a grunt, ‘LOVE, your skirt's tucked into your rucksack.’ 

The End. 

ps. It was definitely more this... 

Than this...