“Everyone makes mistakes – and so do I,” sang the wonderful Big Bird in Sesame Street all those years ago. I still remember the tune of that song.

And the message is great. I was brought up to feel I shouldn’t make mistakes, I shouldn’t get things wrong. So I tried very hard not to.

Nonetheless, we do all get things wrong from time to time – and I certainly did. This is the story of a real doozy.

Becoming a film ‘extra’

Over 40 years ago, I received a general invitation to take part as an extra in a movie being filmed in London. An amusing idea, I thought, but not for me. I was busy with work, as well as looking after my seven-year-old daughter.

But my husband and daughter had other ideas. The minute I told them about it, they became very insistent: “You’ve got to do it.” I demurred. They pressed. They did not let up.

In the end, I went. My work was part-time and very flexible, so it was easy for me to take a few days off. My husband would get my daughter to school and back.

The film

The film, directed by Fred Zinnemann, was called Julia, starring Jane Fonda, Vanessa Redgrave and Jason Robards. It was about the American playwright, Lillian Hellman, and her attempt to smuggle cash into pre-war Germany at the request of her Jewish friend Julia.

Not that I knew much of that at the time.

We extras were used for several scenes, but my moment of glory took place in only one – a post opening night dinner at Sardi’s, the place that theatre people went on such occasions. It was famous for its cartoons of theatre people all over the walls.

(I was taken there years later by my parents, to see how it looked in real life. It was not very different from the film set. Having opened in 1921, it still exists one hundred years later.)

Being on set

We were all dressed in costumes of the period, plus a wig and make-up, so I looked nothing like my normal self (short hair and no make-up). I was amazed by the detailed trouble taken over people who would only be in the background.

I soon found that it was very boring most of the day. We spent a lot of time sitting around reading or chatting amongst ourselves. Some of the extras were regulars and I learned that we should hope that the filming went on for a long time, because we would then be paid overtime.

On set, it became more interesting. We were seated at tables with food in front of us and warned not to touch it. There was real shrimp cocktail, but they would not vouch for its freshness or safety.

When filming began, we had to look like we were in conversation, which was not difficult as we had been talking all day. But we could watch the actors surreptitiously, of course, as well as the director.

Watching a scene being filmed

When we were not on set, we were able to watch some of the filming.

I watched one scene, where Jane Fonda was talking to a young actress with the peculiar name of Meryl Streep. She was not especially pretty and seemed very awkward and uncomfortable in the role.

Indeed, I concluded that with her apparent lack of ability, lack of good looks and her odd name, she would not go far.

I even remember wanting to put an arm around her (she was ­only six years younger than me, but I felt motherly) and give her some sort of comfort.

I even wondered whether it would be appropriate to invite her home for dinner, but never acted on the thought.

Getting it very wrong

Oh dear. So much for my perspicacity. I did make a very large mis-judgment. Although I can add that I did read subsequently in some magazine interview that she said it was her first film and she definitely did feel uncomfortable.

I saw Julia, of course, when it came out – and on the television years later, when I could stop and rewind. There was no sign of me whatsoever – just a blur as the camera panned the restaurant while Jane Fonda made her grand entrance.

It was not a terrible film, but not a great one either and seems to have disappeared into the mists of time.

The beginning and end of my film career. But I don’t need to tell anyone that Meryl Streep went on to impress the world, including me, with her enormous sensitivity and skill as one of the foremost actresses of our time.

Perhaps one should cut a little slack to first films, first books and first everything else.

A version of this article can be found in my book, The Granny Who Stands on her Head: Reflections on growing older (see getbook.at/Stands-on-Head)

It was also published on SixtyandMe.com

Three weeks or so ago, I had that old familiar bitter-sweet pang of regret. Not really serious – and it never lasts very long. Nor does it happen often. Perhaps once every six or eight years.

It’s not exactly real pain. Just a sense of melancholy. A thought of what might have been.

West Side Story

The trigger for this regret was our first trip to a movie in two years. And what a fabulous choice – the remake of West Side Story.

To avoid crowds, we went at 10.00 a.m. on a Monday morning before Christmas. We figured everybody would be busy with last minute work or shopping.

We were right. Only 10 people in the whole theatre. It felt safe.

And it is brilliant. I loved the original movie, especially the beginning where the apparently random lines slowly morph into New York City. No one who has lived in New York could watch that without a warm glow inside.

But this one surpassed that movie in almost every way. Both the singing and dancing were brilliant. So full of verve. So full of feeling.

And it used the City of New York with true originality. If I may offer one spoiler, it even went to the Cloisters, that completely improbable spot at the northern tip of Manhattan that seems to be straight out of medieval France.

We walked out in that spirit of excitement that a good movie can engender, especially one full of Leonard Bernstein’s music.

Plus, in my case, that pang of regret.

Dancing school

What few people know, even many of my friends, is that I once wanted to be a dancer.

My parents sent me to dancing school from the age of four until I was nine, when we moved from Washington, D.C to New York. I was taught to master the five ballet positions and much else about dancing that I have long forgotten.

Most of all, I learned to enjoy the feeling of movement in my body and the joy of working with a rhythm. Even as a child, it made me feel very alive.

I was well trained by the age of nine.

My lost career

Although I always loved ballet, I don’t think that is where my dreams took me.

As soon as I saw all those musicals developed in the 1950s, that is where my heart lay. The King and I, Oklahoma, South Pacific and even Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Many others. I had the records and knew the songs off by heart.

I belonged in them.

Unfortunately – or, in hindsight, fortunately – my life took another turn.

I never had dancing lessons again. I was so busy acclimatising to all the changes that a move at that age entails that I didn’t even ask about them for about six months. When I did, my mother said that the dancing teacher had told her my body was stiff and I could never be very good.

(Much later, I was told by a dancer friend that being stiff is something any devoted dancer can overcome with a bit of work. No reason to stop a career. But by then, it was way too late.)

I moved on, I was good at schoolwork and found many new interests. I did a degree, then another and eventually ended up with a PhD.

I spent my life using my brain – researching and writing. It has been a good life; I have loved what I did and still do.

I rarely stop and think about that lost dancing career. And when I do, I think of all the physical pain involved, all the difficult rehearsals and, if successful, the demands of travel which necessarily impinge drastically on family responsibilities.

And, like the little boy who wants to be a footballer, I need to remind myself that the probability of my ever making a success of such a career was very, very small. I would never have made it to the big screen.

The regret

Yes, the regret is extremely rare. It is a fantasy that I am much too practical to contemplate very often.

But once in a while, when I see a movie like West Side Story, I want to say, “Wait a minute, I’m supposed to be in there, dancing like there is no tomorrow.”

This was first published on SixtyandMe.com.

This is a true story. Improbable, but true.

It was a few years ago. My husband, Ray, and I were staying in central Rome for ten days. It wasn’t our first visit, but we did many of the usual things – going to churches and galleries, having a very memorable trip to the Vatican at night, and just walking around.

One day, we had gone out for lunch at a local restaurant – a rather old fashioned place. It had been in the same location for decades, perhaps with the same classic menu, and there were numerous waiters in black uniforms. I can’t remember now what it was called or what we ordered, but the food was reasonably good.

The tables were close together by English standards. Our two-person table was next to another, with only a small space in between, presumably so that they could be easily joined for a group of four. As a result, we became increasingly aware of a man, probably a little older than us, sitting alone at the table just to the side of ours. He was well dressed, with a confident air and an intelligent face. He seemed to be known to the restaurant staff.

We had been married for years and had a very easy way of chatting about all kinds of things, from what we had been seeing in Rome to our grandchildren, the current news and much else besides. I wondered how much this man could hear of what we said, but nothing was so confidential that it mattered much.

Sometime around the point when we had finished our second course and were ordering coffee, the man made eye contact with us. He made a comment about the food or the restaurant or something similar of no great importance. He spoke in good English, although it was clearly not his native language.

But this had broken the ice. He asked where we were from. When we said London, he told us that he loved London, especially the gentlemen’s clubs around St James. This was not part of our world, but we smiled to be agreeable. He mentioned that one of his sons worked in London and he liked to visit from time to time.

He then told us he was from a country in South America (which shall remain unnamed to preserve his anonymity) and was a former Supreme Court judge there. I wondered briefly if I should believe this, but decided why not. It seemed an unlikely detail to invent. He had apparently been forced out when the then President came to power and had moved hurriedly to Europe. Most of his time was spent in Rome, but he travelled around to England and other countries.

There was some mention of a wife and four or five grown up children, but it did not sound like he had much contact with them, even his wife. Indeed, he seemed a slightly forlorn figure, eating alone – perhaps frequently – in a foreign city.

He asked about us. How long had we been married? Did we have children? What were we doing in Rome? All reasonably innocuous. Most of this was directed to Ray, possibly because he was more comfortable talking man-to-man or perhaps simply because the configuration of our seating meant that he was more within direct eye-contact.

And then suddenly the conversation took a very different turn. He said it looked like we loved each other and stopped briefly to check for confirmation. Ray, although normally reticent like most Englishmen, said yes, we did. I think I nodded or murmured some agreement.

Would you mind my asking, said this stranger, but what do you mean by love?

The atmosphere shifted. This was not a light-hearted question, but a serious question from a serious man. We knew it, he knew it and he knew we knew it. Perhaps he was trying to work something out in his own mind.

I could see Ray beginning to reflect, to search for an answer. That’s a difficult question, he said, buying a little time. Yes, was the quiet reply.

Ray is a thoughtful man and not afraid of difficult questions. As an academic, he is used to them. But this was definitely not part of his lunch plans.

Well, he began, looking back I’m not at all sure that I was in love when we first married. Of course, I was strongly attracted for many reasons, but I didn’t understand then what love was. I was much too young and un-formed. And my mind was on other things, mostly myself and where I was going. Had I been asked what love meant, my answer would probably have focused on my wife’s special qualities.

But now, he continued, I feel that love is something that develops slowly over time. It requires a period of growing into maturity. It’s something to do with wanting what is good for my wife – to be willing, if necessary, to sacrifice my own interests in order to help her. Of course, I may also benefit from doing that, but I would do it even if I didn’t.

I want –very deeply – for her to be happy and fulfilled. It’s in this same way that I also love my children and grandchildren.

All of this was said over some time in a slow and thoughtful way.

I’m not a weepy person or a sentimental one. I don’t weep in the opera or when watching a touching movie. But here was my husband trying to explain his love for me, right in the middle of a public restaurant in Rome. My eyes definitely misted up. There was nowhere, anywhere, except these two small tables.

Ray said later that the judge’s eyes were also moist. He had looked lost in thought, perhaps seeing what might have been absent from his own marriage.

The table became rather quiet. The judge said something to the effect that he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced this. We slowly went back to more normal conversation.

At some point, the waiter came for the bills and they were paid. This has been a very interesting discussion, the judge said. We could have taken contact details and continued the conversation elsewhere – after all, he said he came to London from time to time. But I made a calculation that we were not likely to have that much in common and a future relationship was unlikely to thrive. Perhaps he thought so, too.

We shook hands and left the restaurant separately. We did not even know his name.

I am currently writing a series of short stories based on meaningful moments in my life, to be published as a book in early 2019 (or sooner). This is the first one to be published in any way. It won Stevie Turner’s Short Story contest at the end of April 2018.  For further information, see my website www.annrichardson.co.uk.