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Authors: Lucy-Anne Holmes
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like a turtle until the BlackBerry finally appears from beneath the table. I am rather pleased with myself. As I lift my body off the ground I hear a very loud clunk and feel an agonizing pain on the top of my head.
‘Wank. Wank. Wank,’ I holler at the pain. I sit wincing on the floor with my head in my hands.
‘Are you all right? I would have just picked the table up and got the BlackBerry,’ she says coolly.
I cannot respond because I am currently seeing stars.
‘Sarah Sargeant,’ she says slowly. Then she gathers momentum, ‘Sarah bloody Sargeant. Do you remember me? From the convent.’
I look at her for a few seconds before whispering, ‘Oh my God, Rachel bloody Bird!’ I wanted to be Rachel Bird at school. She was two years older than me, pretty, popular, in the netball team and always got the female leads in the school play. As we went to an all-girls convent school there was generally only ever one good girl part and everybody else had to play boys or comedy old people. Every year I had talcum powder in my hair and a cheap stick-on moustache in order to play some senile old man while Rachel Bird got to wear a pretty dress and lipstick. You always hope to bump into people from your past at an awards ceremony where you are picking up a prize or maybe coming out of The Ivy and they are walking past on the way to Subway. Not like this. Not crawling bleeding on the floor of the BBC.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks me.
‘I’m up for a small part in Casualty . What about you?’
‘Same, yeah, just a small part this time. I’m off to LA next week.’
‘Wow! Have you got an agent over there?’ I sigh.
‘Not yet. I’ve got a producer friend who’s going to do the rounds with me so that I can get one.’
‘Wow! God, I’d love to go out there and do an episode of 24 ,’ I sigh.
Rachel Bird starts to laugh, as though I’ve made a joke.
‘Well, good luck with it all.’ I smile. I pretend to start reading my script again.
‘Here, take my card. I’m going to document the LA experience in my blog. The address is on there.’
‘Oh my God! I’ve got a blog!’ I pant like I’m peaking. ‘I’ve never met another blogger! What’s yours about?’
‘Oh, you know, it’s a bit like Sex and the City , stuff about my career and sex life.’ She shrugs casually. ‘What about yours?’
‘Er, hmm,’ I mutter, ‘not really Sex and the City , more like Not a Sniff of Sex in the City. It’s all about my lack of sex and lack of career.’
‘Right.’ She nods uninterestedly. ‘How many hits do you get?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How many hits do you get?’
‘Dunno. But I’ve had two comments,’ I say proudly. Rachel Bird laughs so I decide not to tell her that they are both from the same person. I am very proud of my two comments though. I received this one this morning:
I went speed dating! I met your Ian Beale lookalike, I was hoping I would as I thought his orange joke was really funny when you wrote about it. We’re going out for a drink this Friday!! Thank you.
‘Why, do you get loads of comments, then?’
‘Go on my blog and see, darling,’ she tells me smugly.
‘OK.’
‘You need to get yourself a site meter. It tells you how many people click on your blog each day and how they find you.’
‘Fuck me! That sounds awesome. How do I get one?’
‘Go on to my blog, click on my button that says Site Meter and it’ll tell you.’
I realize that I’m still holding Rachel Bird’s BlackBerry. I pass it back to her.
‘Here’s your BlackBerry. It’s chipped slightly.’
‘Hmm. Yeah. Well, I was pissed off. I didn’t win the Bloggie this year, some bloody gay hairdresser did.’
I look at her and am just about to ask what a Bloggie is when she says, ‘It’s an award for the best blog. Sarah, you don’t know much about blogging yet, do you?’
‘Obviously,’ I mutter, still sitting on the hard grey floor. I am imagining myself winning a Bloggie next year
‘Wank. Wank. Wank,’ I holler at the pain. I sit wincing on the floor with my head in my hands.
‘Are you all right? I would have just picked the table up and got the BlackBerry,’ she says coolly.
I cannot respond because I am currently seeing stars.
‘Sarah Sargeant,’ she says slowly. Then she gathers momentum, ‘Sarah bloody Sargeant. Do you remember me? From the convent.’
I look at her for a few seconds before whispering, ‘Oh my God, Rachel bloody Bird!’ I wanted to be Rachel Bird at school. She was two years older than me, pretty, popular, in the netball team and always got the female leads in the school play. As we went to an all-girls convent school there was generally only ever one good girl part and everybody else had to play boys or comedy old people. Every year I had talcum powder in my hair and a cheap stick-on moustache in order to play some senile old man while Rachel Bird got to wear a pretty dress and lipstick. You always hope to bump into people from your past at an awards ceremony where you are picking up a prize or maybe coming out of The Ivy and they are walking past on the way to Subway. Not like this. Not crawling bleeding on the floor of the BBC.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks me.
‘I’m up for a small part in Casualty . What about you?’
‘Same, yeah, just a small part this time. I’m off to LA next week.’
‘Wow! Have you got an agent over there?’ I sigh.
‘Not yet. I’ve got a producer friend who’s going to do the rounds with me so that I can get one.’
‘Wow! God, I’d love to go out there and do an episode of 24 ,’ I sigh.
Rachel Bird starts to laugh, as though I’ve made a joke.
‘Well, good luck with it all.’ I smile. I pretend to start reading my script again.
‘Here, take my card. I’m going to document the LA experience in my blog. The address is on there.’
‘Oh my God! I’ve got a blog!’ I pant like I’m peaking. ‘I’ve never met another blogger! What’s yours about?’
‘Oh, you know, it’s a bit like Sex and the City , stuff about my career and sex life.’ She shrugs casually. ‘What about yours?’
‘Er, hmm,’ I mutter, ‘not really Sex and the City , more like Not a Sniff of Sex in the City. It’s all about my lack of sex and lack of career.’
‘Right.’ She nods uninterestedly. ‘How many hits do you get?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How many hits do you get?’
‘Dunno. But I’ve had two comments,’ I say proudly. Rachel Bird laughs so I decide not to tell her that they are both from the same person. I am very proud of my two comments though. I received this one this morning:
I went speed dating! I met your Ian Beale lookalike, I was hoping I would as I thought his orange joke was really funny when you wrote about it. We’re going out for a drink this Friday!! Thank you.
‘Why, do you get loads of comments, then?’
‘Go on my blog and see, darling,’ she tells me smugly.
‘OK.’
‘You need to get yourself a site meter. It tells you how many people click on your blog each day and how they find you.’
‘Fuck me! That sounds awesome. How do I get one?’
‘Go on to my blog, click on my button that says Site Meter and it’ll tell you.’
I realize that I’m still holding Rachel Bird’s BlackBerry. I pass it back to her.
‘Here’s your BlackBerry. It’s chipped slightly.’
‘Hmm. Yeah. Well, I was pissed off. I didn’t win the Bloggie this year, some bloody gay hairdresser did.’
I look at her and am just about to ask what a Bloggie is when she says, ‘It’s an award for the best blog. Sarah, you don’t know much about blogging yet, do you?’
‘Obviously,’ I mutter, still sitting on the hard grey floor. I am imagining myself winning a Bloggie next year
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