It takes 4 and a half hours to get to London from Manchester, on the coach. Once in, it takes a further 45 minutes to get to my agent’s office in Clapham Common (well I say office, but really it’s a room she converted in her house) then it takes fifteen minutes for her to finish her phone conversation with the “famous Hollywood producer” who no one has ever heard of and we all suspect doesn’t exist. Once she’s finished her conversation only then will she instruct her assistant (who is really her daughter’s friend who helps out for the experience) to send me in. She greets me with a smile which I’m sure is genuine, but I never return the gesture.

Why? Well, because she’s useless!

Her name’s Bev Newman. She’s in her mid-40s, speaks with a thick Scottish accent, and owns the most hideous yellow suit I’ve ever seen. It gives me a headache just thinking about it. She was wearing it this week when I went to see her. The conversation went something like this:

“So what did you want to see me about, Bev?’ I asked this because it was her who called me to come down. A phone call is normally enough for me to learn she still has not found me any work.

“Good to see you too, Fiona. Have a seat.” (I was already sitting). “When was the last time you and I had a face to face?”

“6 months ago, I think. You told me you didn’t have anything for me and that it wouldn’t hurt my career if I lost some weight. I believe those were your words.”

She gave a nervous laugh. They were her words. She always made it seem as though I was wholly to blame for being out of work for so long, but really she was as much to blame. Besides, I had taken her advice. I lost 7lbs!! But then gained 8lbs a week later.

“That’s history. Let’s talk about the future,” she said, with a little too much enthusiasm. But what use was there talking about the future when the here and now was full of uncertainty?

“What have you got for me, then?”

“There’s a role in a 2-part drama. Now, it isn’t big -”

“Would I have any lines?”

She smiled nervously at that point.

I sighed. “What else?”

“Emmerdale? You would have lines for this one. It isn’t a recurring role, but it’s better than nothing.”

I’m not really a fussy person; I can’t exactly afford to be fussy because my receptionist job doesn’t pay enough. I can’t afford to be fussy because it is a rarity that my agent finds me work, so when she does I try to grab it with both hands. And what you don’t know about me is that I would have taken the 2-part drama if there had been nothing else. But as it was, Emmerdale sounded much better. The way I see it is, what’s the point being an actress if you can’t speak?

“When’s the audition?”

“In a couple of days. The only thing is…they asked for an Asian lady in her early/mid thirties.”

I saw red when she said that. I felt like throttling her.

“Why did you tell me about it, then? I’m white!”

And that’s how it always is with Bev Newman. Word of advice, don’t ever hire that woman. At first when you’re young and fresh and you’ve been around the block searching for agents to represent you and make you the next Keira Knightley and she agrees to add you to her “client list”, you may be jubilant. But soon after you’ll come to realise that she is possibly doing more harm than good to your career.

I left her office feeling deflated, even more so than I normally do. I said I’d do the drama, which means another trip to London for the audition in a week. If I get the part it’ll mean I can buy that new wardrobe I’ve been after for months. The one I currently have was a secondhand purchase when I first moved into the Moston house. It’s just about had its day, and the doors are hanging off. I’m pretty sure it’s a hazard.

When I got home my housemates were at each other’s throats, again. It was over something trivial as usual; she forgot to wake him up for work, he got in late and got stick from his boss. You don’t know what it’s like living with a couple, especially teenagers. But I was glad to be back home, away from London, even if I had just walked into a thunderstorm right in the middle of my living room.

It takes all those hours to get in and around London, then all those hours to get out of it again. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.