The sky feels heavy, my eyebrows have sunk so low they have settled on my top lip like Che Guevara’s moustache.
My forehead is concertina-ed and there’s a very slight niggle of an ache starting at my temples.
My clothes smell of petrol – I had to pull the petrol pump pipe over the car as I had parked the wrong way round in the garage. When I pulled out the nozzle petrol spewed out over the boot, my thighs and my t-shirt. I arrived at my acupuncturist smelling like a North Sea oil rig.
Not that I have ever been on an oil rig, although Jim and I did once spend a day in bed in Aberdeen.
We were touring with our theatre group and had one day off between gigs. The weather was churlish and grey and we had nowhere else to go. The digs we were staying in had an interesting beamed ceiling and a big bed. There was no choice.
You could say that today feels a little like that Aberdeen afternoon. The petrol pump attendant was a Siekh from Stirling and Battersea feels as grey and gritty as Bannockburn.
Acting is all about honesty, if you can fake that you can fake anything.