Discretion
By Elizabeth Swan on
I had sat down in a restaurant in South Ken and ordered some food. My ears pricked up to a conversation on the next table. They were talking about books and as I always have a book to hand, this was a subject that would always pique my interest. When I heard “How did your last thriller sell?” I almost pulled my chair up to their table.
I don’t impress easily. In this world of celebrity worship, I would sooner have a conversation with John the plumber at Wetherspoons than Emily Blunt the actress. Actors bore the tits off me.
I almost always find them narcissistic with an ego much bigger than their stature. Because they are always tiny. The same size as you see on tv.
Of course I could be bitter as I was an actor for a short time. Terrible at networking and always saying the wrong thing at parties, I wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. But I was also forgetful. It doesn’t matter how much you method Hedda Gabler, if you forget the gun in the last act, you are probably best off doing a different job.
But authors on the other hand. Authors impress me. I once walked past Ian Rankin at a literary festival and if I was inclined to throw my knickers at anyone, it would be the man who brought us Rebus. So whilst pretending to concentrate on my book I listened to the author and his pal. And I casually looked in their direction. The thriller writer I recognised but I could not say who he was. His friend however…I had seen him in the flesh. His flesh possibly. Was he just really familiar because he was another writer who I had seen many times on a book jacket? But no. This man I had seen in person. Perhaps at the opera or the theatre but probably on my bondage table. During that quick glance I felt like I KNEW what made him tick. Nipple play.
So I concentrated on my food and didn’t look in his direction again. Discretion you see. Very important in our job. As for forgetting props, it doesn’t matter when you work from a dungeon. All at hand you see.
Elizabeth Swan