The three hopeful finalists sat in the front row, -a young woman wringing her hands, a guy with pronounced musculature escaping a skinny vest and the staid, 50-something, balding Phil. They had been informed the elimination exercise would follow briefing presentations.

Phil surveyed the cavernous, somehow claustrophobic lecture hall. Wood panelled ceiling and walls reminded him of horror films that in an earlier career-phase he had scoured, researching replicable facial expressions to convey being entombed alive.

Work opportunities as a character actor were becoming sporadic; it was the right time to diversify, to move on. The once familiar minimalist sets of The Grand, – a laden bookcase stage right. a chair centre stage, French Doors with greenery and birdsong stage left, were distant memories since the Catastrophe. How he missed the multiple curtain-calls, the whooping and whistling of an appreciative audience, the after-play drinkies with sound and lighting crews, the informal advice sessions to aspiring drama school students!  Commercial Crisis Acting had never been on the radar but what could he do? The mortgage had to be paid, and in order of priority, the dog, 3 children and a wife fed and clothed. That ranking was correct. Phil prided himself in being particularly self- aware.