How I go.

I sit at the big table now.

Doesn't it look serious.

Yes, well, that's how it feels too.

It doesn't belong to me, of course.

This is the banquet table in the dining room of the four room room apartment in which I'm staying for the next few weeks. This is the dining room table at which I learn the lines for my script and enjoy the odd beer I've nicked from the fridge.

This is where my employer is storing me temporarily while I work on this new play. The new play I'm in called "Maria/Stuart."

And I thought it might be interesting to capture myself on film in this location. It's only night number two of my stay, but already it's starting to feel a bit creepy. Like an old stately home in the English countryside occupied by a single youth, knocking about among the cobwebs and kicking cans along its endless staircases.

Of course there are no cobwebs in this apartment. But its size and its comparatively unfinished state (it's two flats recently knocked into two, with a second bathroom still being built) make me feel a bit David Copperfield-ish. Or is it a bit Jack from "The Shining"-ish? Something about size and singlehood combined, even though this is far from the middle of nowhere, and it isn't even a house.

I must have someone over for dinner. Preferably a family of eight.

And preferably a family of eight who are not my family. Like, the family from The Godfather or something. Like, the key eight from One or Two.