How I Met – Your Director, season 1 episode 3

5th February 2016 – I am a doer. I do things. I either do things or I have to pop a pill not to fall on the floor like the girl in The Exorcist. To be quite honest, it’s a great thing about me and I would not change it for anything in the world. Not now, four years to my ultimate deadline: I either make it before I turn 30 or I obviously do other things better and I will dedicate myself to a safer career, family and gin.

I am a doer and I am an intolerant little c*nt for non-doers. I hate meetings, unless everybody has something that they have done that can be brought to the table for collective praise. I know, if everything goes well and this company gets on its feet, I will be the worse CEO since Steve Jobs and Miranda DevilWearsPradaLady. They will bury me when I am old and I will be sitting in Hell right next to them and Saddam Hussein.

I am a doer and while I was budgeting for London vs. Edinburgh I also started sending applications for the Camden Fringe. I didn’t do it because I had already made my decision, I was giving myself different options and I simply don’t understand the concept of waiting, not when time is running towards me with a chainsaw.

What I suspect happened to Lizzie, for which I am terribly sorry, is that her heart sank when The Cockpit decided to contact the both of us to confirm availability of the slot. I know she has felt betrayed and she has felt I was making decisions without her and that I had already decided on my own. It is unimportant that that is not true; I am just sorry it was for her.

Because I am a doer, when I receive her text and I am trapped in a classroom at RADA about to start my movement lesson, I start running around pushing a wheel-chair. Thankfully, my mates know me enough to know that this is perfectly normal and they don’t get worried. Which is also something against me, because no-one thinks to ask me what is wrong – nothing is changed from the normal me, I repeat – and I am really dying to tell someone. Only, I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know what I’ll say. And because I don’t have a solution, there and then, I simply cannot fathom the idea of exposing the problem. I am a doer and there is nothing to be done.

I miss the first forty minutes of class, watching our professor’s lips move while I try to focus on the stabbing pain of my coccyx (wah, that’s a hard word!) pressed against the floor instead of melting down in tears. When I see that I am about to crack, I pop a Tavor. Because, although I can budget, drive a car, pay my rent and cook practically anything without screwing it up, I still have to learn how to control my emotions and I need a helping hand in inappropriate situations such as crowded rooms, work or uni.

I have to confess, popping a Tavor feels like being hugged by the Dalai Lama. I focus on my feelings: what is making me feel so anxious? The answer is, the thought of abandoning the idea of this production. And what follows is simple: the show must go on.

With this newly found awareness I realise where I am standing. I am standing in a classroom at RADA. I turn to my left and I see Dom.

Dom is one of my classmates. I don’t think he likes me that much, because he is a wise calm man and he sees through my flamboyant exuberance. I am looking at him because in the Directing class we take together he has mentioned that, as well as writing for a newspaper – or magazine, I am not sure – he has also directed lots of things. And I actually like the idea of working with someone who is not my best buddy, as this could be the chance of actually establishing a working, business-like relationship. There is no bullshit with Dom, I know that for sure.

I sit cross-legged next to him during our break, and I feel like I am about to ask him out. Instead, I calmly explain that my director has pulled out and ask him if he wouldn’t look at the script and accept to work with me if he likes it. He is very collaborative. He also says something very nice, that he would have liked to read the script nevertheless. I don’t know if it’s true, but it is sweet of him to say. Also, munching on his chocolate rice cake, he writes down the name of twelve new writing theatres in London he thinks I should approach.

We agree that I will bring him the third draft of the script to class next Thursday.

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