“Attention please, the Victoria line is closed for the entire weekend due to engineering works…” Travelling on Sundays in London is like trying to cross the Atlantic in a paddle boat. Racing through a maze of packed underground tunnels I seriously consider taking one of those dodgy rickshaws to finally make it to my date. Feeling slightly guilty as I really should have been spending this day prepping for my surprise recall – turns out the amazingly chesting (and chested) drama school grad didn’t quite steal my thunder after all. “They realised you were recovering from a bit of a cold so said they would see you at full voice in the next round” my agent notes. Maybe having two West End musicals and countless room-above-a-pub lead credits on your CV did actually mean something after all? “They did however note that your photo is possibly ever slightly out of date?” That’s agent speak for subtly letting me know that a non-negotiable round of new headshots is on the cards, aiming to blow a small crater into my new bank temp income. So: New photos or one all inclusive beach week in Turkey with my best friends? Hmm, it’s a tough one.

I finally reach my stop and cruise through the streets of Soho. Spiky-haired DSM Gary is apparently 88% compatible with me according to LoveArts.com – and he allowed me to view his private photo gallery. Him and his dog in the park, him at his work place, him lying in a hammock with sunglasses. Intriguingly, he also seems quite a keen messenger – sends me up to three a day with some rather charmingly witty banter. So I ended up activating my full profile for six months at £66 in total to reply. Reaching the pub I check my hair and make-up in McDonalds next door before entering. The place is packed – but no spiky. Suddenly a creature in grubby, muddy jeans approaches me. “Hi, I’m Gary. You must be Ava. Wow you look even more stunning than your photo.” He beams. Lucky him. Unlucky for me, Gary has made the catastrophic decision to shave his spikes off and now looks like he has a baby’s bottom stuck on the top of his head. He ushers me to a bar stool as I try to hide my disappointment and nervously sip on a coke handed to me from behind the counter.

“What errr…made you decide to….shave it all off then?” Gary shrugs. “Oh just got tired of the hassle of doing it every morning, would rather just get ready in ten minutes.” Right. I try and forget about the baby’s bottom and focus on the conversation instead. But unlike his emails, Gary seems to be a one-word-answer-man in person. Trying to get something out of him than the most recent football scores proves harder than fitting into my size eight Topshop jeans. As if to save the day he suddenly pulls two tickets out of his pocket. “Fancy seeing Cabin in the Woods with me at 4? Got us two tickets as a surprise.” He smiles sheepishly. I need a horror movie about as much as I need another bill at the moment but it’s touching of him to make the effort and talking clearly isn’t his forte. “Sure, great idea” I reply. We head to the cinema across the road and settle into row H. The film is every bit as gory and terrifying as I expected and I spend most of it peeking out from underneath my duffle coat. Gary misreads this as a sign to get up, close and personal. His hand wanders underneath the coat to rest on mine…and then heads slowly but surely northbound towards my top. Leaning into me he mumbles “Let’s get out of here and go back to my place instead.” I don’t even bother to answer, grab my bag and head swiftly for the exit.

Auditions: One recall – despite cold-muffled belt

LoveArts.com Dates:             Baby-bottom-head + wandering hands = nil points

Countdown to the big 3-0: 303 days