A glass of brandy and Anthony Powell

To the Old Fire Station in the Holloway Road last night, for another rehearsal for The Players, the short film we're shooting on Sunday. I'd missed one rehearsal, when everyone sat around playing poker so that the cast could get familiar with all the elements of the game. To make up for it, I had spent an hour playing a moneyless game online to remind myself of the mechanics of Texas Hold Em. In a rapid-play room, where thinking time is limited, I started with 400 chips, headed up towards 600, then fell back towards 0. Only by risking All In on a hand of three 7s did I manage to keep in the game, quitting with an overall loss of only 50. Poker is fun, I decided, as long as money isn't involved...

Back to last night... The rehearsal room was cold, I had slight toothache, my seat at the table was uncomfortable, one of the cast had had to quit and his replacement wasn't yet available, we were slow at picking up the mechanics of the game to be filmed, we spent ages analysing each character's motives for every move he made. As time passed, more questions distracted me: shouldn't this character have more chips? shouldn't that character react differently in that situation, surely by now we should be rehearsing much more and discussing mechanics less?

Pluck the log from thine own eye... As I mentally criticised the script, the director, my fellow players and the makeshift set, I was also conscious of the weakness of my own contribution. I forgot some moves and repeated others. I couldn't get into character - even though the director had not asked us to - and felt increasingly lost and incompetent. Where should I be looking at this point? What should my hands be doing? How can I convey my thoughts and emotion with just a glance?

At the end of the evening I said goodbye to everyone cheerfully and walked out into the cold, windy street depressed.There was no bus in sight and the busstop indicator said the next one was 12 minutes away. I was shivering. A taxi brought me home to warmth, a glass of brandy and Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time.

After a good night's sleep and a thorough review of the script my optimism returned. There's still time for everything to come together; besides, I've never made a film in my life, so who am I to decide whether it is going well? As for my acting, perhaps I shouldn't worry. In costume and on set, with the whole sequence running without interruptions, the Spike I had created earlier will surely come back to life. Let's see what Thursday's rehearsal brings.