I am plucked from obscurity and handed a part in a low budget film. On the first day I am handed my official film sweatshirt, which I pull on quickly in the hope that it will stop anyone from noticing that I am not a real actor. The director seems pleased with me, and keeps saying, “Yes, yes,” enthusiastically. I play the part of a teenager who is kidnapped by a bad magician and a femme fatale and hidden under a big pile of cardboard. “Act sad,” the director tells me. I recite the lyrics to Bat Out Of Hell over and over again in a tiny monotone until my bones are shaking and my eyes are big. “Yes, yes,” the director sings his praises. “Like a small child lost in a giant shoe factory.” Under the pile of cardboard it is quiet and nice and I spend a pleasant day ‘acting.’ The bad magician occasionally lifts the cardboard to snarl at me, whilst the femme fatale brings me pizza. When I leave for the day, the director pats me on the back, “A star!” he exclaims. That night I sleep proudly in my official film sweatshirt. When I return the next morning for the second day of filming there is no sign of the director or any of the other actors. I wander around the set which seems to have been deleted and replaced with a factory manufacturing giant shoes. I begin to make my own film in my head, an experimental piece of bewildering proportions, all tiny eyes and outsized shoes and everything quiet and nice and going on forever buried deep in cardboard.