Woes of a Set Decorator.

At the house where we are shooting, there is a beautiful green-eyed cat. He has large patches of fur and his tail missing. I ask the housekeeper about the cat and she laughs disparagingly: "Nerves! The cat has a nervous condition, can you believe..." Both the housekeeper and the full-time maid lie watching cable during the day and the house is very, very dirty. We clean as we work.

The nervous condition... I do believe. How did a lover of peace like me land in this industry?

Things move at a frantic pace, sleep is interrupted by nightmares of spiral staircases and scattered baby teeth. A permanent list by the bedside. One in a notebook, one on my phone. We are thinly spread and this results in barking and growling, small but momentously important things forgotten.

We eat lunch as we drive, in supermarket queues or in parking lots. Sometimes we forget to eat.

The director, fresh from a job in the Amazon, arrives with six pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage. He smells of sandalwood, he smokes cigars. Mistakes? Not acceptable. Could you replace my Maglite and bring me a campaign bed to rest on between takes and where can I buy Ostrich and Crocodile skins?

The actress takes over the newly dressed set, wrinkling the crisply ironed linen, getting make up on the pillows.

I curse this job, I think it may be hexed. At every traffic light and in between, there are the familiar beggars and the new. This makes me feel worse.
How dare I complain?

I spend my Tuesday off looking for a hinge on which the story hangs, but after the sixth far-flung source I am still empty handed. I want to roll in the grass. I want ease and I want sweet sleep and I want soft, soft words.

That is what I want.