Dear lady in the coffee shop near my house, You know not what you do.

When I arrive betracksuitpanted, hair assunder, ahead of a morning of solitary script writing and an afternoon of frenzied bursts of people auditionining… you know not what you do.

When you dive across your shop towards the coffee machine and reach for the extra large cup as soon as you see me enter the shop… you know not what you do.

When you slip an extra croissant in my brown paper bag “just in case”… you know not what you do.

It’s the small joys, it’s the simple ones, it’s that kickstart to a day I thought was going to be business only.

I think if I went in there wearing a suit and looking less like the frayed end of a tether, you might charge me full price and take your time.

You are nice lady and I hope the people close to you are as nice as you are to me.

Also, your croissants are very nice.

I visited my mum. My mum is lovely. She makes me tea and gets the giggles with me and remembers who all my friends are. Sometimes, though, one wonders.

MY MUM: So these auditions - what do you wear?

ME: I wear comfortable clothes, just like the actors.

MY MUM: As comfortable as what you’re wearing?

ME: This is fine.

MY MUM: You should wear something nice. You don’t want to put people off.

ME: Mum!

MY MUM: (Two brief sniffs). You stink, Lozz.

ME: (Expletive) I had onion on my pizza!

MY MUM: (Benignly leaving the room) I’m saying because I care.

I am currently wearing tracksuit pants with holes in them and a T shirt with yoghurt on it. This is my writing outfit. It’s hot. Thanks to mum I am now going to have to schedule at least five minutes into my already packed schedule so that I can wear something less alarming and “stinky” to the auditions this afternoon. I hope it’s appreciated.

PS. I bet that Lord of the Rings guy doesn’t have put up with this crap.

Five hours of meetings.

Left my mobile phone charger at my other day job.

One hour to go before next meeting starts.

No access to computer (bar this two minute break).

Going well.

If anybody needs me, send a pidgeon.

The other thing about auditions, from the perspective of a writer/director, is that running auditions is heaps of fun and therefore a total culture shock.

I’ve had deadline after deadline recently for writing various projects (the kids’ TV show, the comedy festival script etc) so I’ve been locked in a small room with a laptop, measuring my life in half hour slabs and cups of tea and seeing nobody with the exception of housemates, Rita and Stew.

So imagine the shock of going from that (I literally haven’t seen my other friends for months) to meeting seventy new and exciting people in a weekend, in intensive bursts, over thirteen hours of auditions.

You know what it does to you? It turns you into a machine. It’s just like when you play tetris for too long and you end up looking at buildings and thinking how they’d fit together. After auditions, I went to buy milk at the shops and thought the guy at the checkout counter did an excellent job of portraying himself and had very good diction.

By the way, if you did audition, thank you. You were all very professional and generous with your time and your performing, not to mention kind to us in our small sauna and it was a pleasure to see so many new faces. If you’re going to audition in the next week, yay for you - we’re past half way through. I’ll tell you one thing for sure: auditions are exhausting but they are SO much more fun than sitting in a room by yourself writing.

But then, sometimes, so is tax. And data entry. And parking fines.

Fifteen hours of auditions later.

Can you die of a talent overdose?

Looking for an audition venue should be easy. All that’s required is:

1. A top temp of 25 degrees

2. Enough room to gesticulate

3. Running water

4. A toilet

5. Somewhere nearby for coffee

6. No booking fee Is that really too much to ask?

Apparently it is.

I first started a theatre company with a group of like-minded friends when I was at Melbourne Uni. Like-minded, in this context, means “pissed off”.

We were pissed off because we had all auditioned for theatre shows or attempted in some way to be involved in theatre during our first year of university and, despite each of being shockingly gifted, nobody was interested in us.

I remember turning up to an audition, being asked whether I went to one of the residential colleges and if I knew “Bigsie”, and then when I said I was unacquainted with Bigsie’s work, I was told I probably wouldn’t get in since they were “mostly casting our friends”.

That show, which I saw later in the year, was about as good as you’d expect it to be. There was an in-joke involving the sheer hilarity of a man wearing a dress that lasted for approximately two hours and the man next to me wolf whistled every time a particular girl arrived on stage, due to the fact that she was wearing what appeared to be a postage stamp.

This triggered my asking at Melbourne Uni what it took to start a theatre company. We started one, we advertised auditions for everyone, regardless of race colour and creed, and we had 260 people turn up.

Since that day, I have had a rather different view of auditions. Here are five things I’ve learned:

1. The people who are auditioning you already like you when you walk in the door. Seeing actors work is invariably a privilege.

2. The people who are auditioning you have a headache. If they repeat themselves, forgive them.

3. Some people can act their pants off but not be right for a role.

4. If you can’t commit to a show, it is absolutely CRUCIAL that you tell the people holding the auditions BEFORE they work day after agonising day thinking through every possibly combination of performers. There should be legislation in relation to this vital issue and I plan to start a lobby group.

5. 100 does not go into three. I’m sure I was right about the cronyism of the play I auditioned for in first year, but I think upon mature reflection it was a teensy bit dramatic to scowl at the director every time I saw him in the union building. Although he did wear a pretentious hat and call everybody “babe”.

Otherwise, if you have a question, ask it. If you want to do something a different way, give it a burl. If you see the people who auditioned you after the auditions, please be nice to them, even if they are wearing pretentious hats. Or torn old tracksuit pants and T shirts they’ve had since year seven. As the case may be.

Nobody tends to care as much about these things as I do, but these are the things I’ve learned. Headaches, tracksuit pants, and the mathematics of auditions. All good things to know.