From the pine wood to Pinewood
Town mouse and country mouse
Having finished a book and spun my writer’s trilby, à la Bond1 to the hatrack that stands in the corner of Miss Moneypenny’s office, I have straight away snatched from that rack my Actor’s Wide Brimmed Fedora, (a brim so wide and soft it can’t be snapped). In other words, I am about to embark on a performing-rather-than-writing period for a few months.
I am very aware that I am, in the eyes of many—myself included—highly fortunate to be able to choose such different ways of earning a living. One of the most common questions I get asked (after “Who are your ideal dinner party companions?”, “What do you wish you had known when you were fifteen?” and “What’s Rowan Atkinson really like?”)2 is “Which do you prefer, acting or writing?”
It’s hard to answer that question. I usually prevaricate with a stock reply: “The one I’m not doing at the time.” Which is to say, if I’m in writing mode, stuck in a chair, staring out of the window—anything but looking at the blinking cursor on the screen—then I dream of the joys of a film set. There, you get a nice caravan to sit or lie down in. Someone brings you coffee and offers you nibbles. A knock on the trailer door: “Ready for you on set in ten minutes, sir.” Coloured tape on the floor of the set showing you where you stand: “You are YELLOW in this production, Stephen”. A few lines of dialogue to blather out and then, “Cut! Thanks, Stephen, we probably won’t need you till after lunch.” A good gossip with the cast, makeup and wardrobe. Another scene or two and finally a nice ride home to your door in an electric Mercedes or something similar. Pretty much spoilt rotten.