First, I should admit something. My name isn't actually Myra Lester. I know, big surprise. Myra Lester was a ballerina and prostitute in the First World War who fell in love with Robert Taylor and subsequently killed herself on Waterloo Bridge. And she looked a lot like Vivien Leigh. This really doesn't have anything to do with anything, but I thought you'd like to know.
I wanted to try and do that secret blog thing - you know, 'Belle de Jour' and 'Mr. Big' and all that, but I couldn't think of anything catchy enough. So I stole a nom de plume from a 1940 film. I actually have a very common, very dull name and I'm sure there are millions of us with the same one, so anonymity would probably be a given anyway. But let's just call me Myra and forget it. So. I'm Myra (...) and I'm what is commonly known as a 'twenty something', living in London and trying to make it as an actress and newly single person.
I originally moved to the Big Smoke with my boyfriend of four and a half years - let's call him Rob after Robert Taylor - and we lived in a flatshare in Wood Green. We were both struggling actors and had met at drama school in Cardiff. I liked him because he looked a bit like a young Robert Lindsay and he could play Stairway to Heaven on guitar. He liked me because I had a slightly posh accent and could make a decent cup of tea. We muddled along together for four years quite happily, until one Friday night in North London.
There I was - innocently watching Ghost Whisperer and eating cucumber sandwiches with the crusts off (I'm really not that posh, but they taste good) when Rob comes in, white as a sheet and fiddling with his shirt buttons.
"We need to talk." says he.
"That sounds ominous" says I, and he sits next to me.
"I'm not happy with us. I haven't been for a long time."
I blink and put my sandwich down.
"Eh?" I say "You told me two weeks ago you were saving for an engagement ring."
Rob rubs his face with his hands.
"I think I was trying to convince myself of something... something that isn't there any more."
"Well that's a pretty stupid way of convincing yourself, don't you think?"
I won't transcribe the whole conversation because it went on for about six hours. Suffice to say, he announced about three hours in that he didn't love me any more, and I was heartbroken. Not because I necessarily thought he was THE ONE, but because we'd been together for four and a half years, and suddenly BANG that's your whole life changed. And he was the only man who'd ever loved me... and he didn't love me any more, so I must have done something Very Wrong. Knocks your confidence, that does.
He moved back to Cardiff straight away, leaving me with the option of a) finding £700 a month to keep staying in our room b) shuffling home with my tail between my legs or c) moving into a new flatshare. I chose C, because as lovely as my mum and dad are, I don't think they need a 27 year old bunking with them.
As it happens, I have taken the first and only one I saw - a lovely Georgian house with a small room in the attic. Two blokes and two girls live here already - (just to keep the trend going, I'm going to name them after old film characters too) - George (George Bailey - It's a Wonderful Life), Dex (CK Dexter Haven - The Philadelphia Story), Lina (Lina Lamont - Singin' in the Rain) and Jane (Baby Jane Hudson - Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?) These names are by NO means a reflection on their namesakes, otherwise the latter would not be ideal to live with. After all, I'm not a dead ballerina prostitute.
I moved in last week. I'm pretty excited, to be honest. Have been crying at random intervals, but that's to be suspected post break up, isn't it? I'm sure it'll go soon. And in the meantime, I will take to this - this BLOG, dear reader - and spill out my thoughts and hopes and disappointments and my wild experiences as a new London singleton. Such as eating cucumber sandwiches with crusts ON. Lucky you.
