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Diary of a Naked Pensioner

When a TV director promises ‘everything will be pixilated out’ you can almost guarantee they want you in your birthday suit, finds Erminette, our intrepid film extra

I decided, in my late fifties, to try to improve my cash flow by taking on work as an extra or SA (supporting artiste) as we are sometimes called.

I enrolled with various agencies and rapidly established that I was prepared to ‘do nude’. No one, I reasoned, was going to ask a woman of my age to do anything – well – rude.

Actually I was fairly sure that no one would be likely to ask a woman of my age to do anything in that line at all. I was simply registering my willingness to take any work available.

Later, lying stark naked with arms outstretched to form the brow-bone of a skull made up of a group of naked ladies I was to revise that opinion a little.

“It’s all right” the director of the pop video said breezily, “it’s going out before the watershed. We’ll pixilate out anything the viewers shouldn’t see.”

“Just pixilate my face,” I moaned faintly. “Just my face.” But pixilated or not, I knew that someone was going to see this, and recognise me, they always do. (Oddly enough they never ever see me when I am fully dressed, with lines, as an actress).

And at least I do not so far have the problem suffered by one lady I worked with. She had no problem about her grandchildren seeing her naked on film, but she really didn’t want them to see
her without her teeth.

I have come to recognise the formula and the embarrassed tone) which tells me they are going to ask if I’ll do a nude scene. “Are you up for...” they begin hesitantly.

But recently I was rather thrown by what followed, because it sounded like “Jew baiting”. I was just about to exclaim “Certainly not!” when the caller elucidated – not quite enough because I then thought a scene in the mikvah was somehow involved, but we finally worked it out. “Dew bathing”.

The Victorians used to roll naked in the dewy grass, gaining all sorts of notional health benefits, and a documentary on the growth of the suburbs was going to include a scene depicting this. Oh – “OK” I said. “We’ll put you forward then,” they said.

The next week I was on the train to Letchworth to film the scene. We (- a gentleman, from the same agency, was also involved - were picked up from the station and taken to a delightful little farm.

We waited around for a while (filming always involves a lot of waiting around. Make sure you have a good thick book, and some knitting is my advice) then got out of our clothes and into our robes (I have a stout towelling item purchased from Oxfam for five pounds, and a bargain if I ever bought one).

So. We were standing, robed and waiting, when round the corner rolled two coaches. Two large coaches filled with small children. Apparently it was the kind of farm that did school visits.

We set out for the distant field where the scene was to take place and prepared to roll. I was a little distracted, as every moment I was wondering if sixty-something moppets were going to come down the path and be traumatised for life (“My Kylie-Jordan sobbed for hours…”).

But no children appeared on the horizon. It was quite warm and by no means unpleasant. After a couple of takes we were done. “You were very good,” I was kindly assured.

“I must,” I said, “have looked like a beached whale with hair.” There was a pause as honesty fought with courtesy. Then – “But a very sensual whale…” came the reply.

“Anyway, the viewers won’t see anything. It’s going out before the watershed so we’ll just pixilate everything out…”

This article was created: 19 July 2006.
This article was last edited: 7 November 2006.

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