When London’s summer finally arrives, a shared joy spreads across the city. Moods are improved and people are friendlier and less hurried. Bars and pubs from Angel to Soho to Clapham have people spilling out of them onto the sidewalks and streets, taking the rare opportunity to enjoy a pint in the great outdoors.

When it gets too hot however, trouble begins. Bus rides become sticky and getting on the tube is like stepping into a high school weight room: stale heavy air tinged with the smell of fresh sweat. The city isn’t equipped for extreme heat – most flats don’t have air conditioning and even the cinemas and grocery stores can’t quite crank it up high enough to provide respite for the masses.

It was in these conditions that I set off for my first audition with the BBC: Crime Watch. I was told I’d be auditioning for the part of the victim and, as I have an American accent, I assumed either the vic was American too, or the role was non-speaking. I thought they’d just show me being shoved into a car or something – piece of cake. I can get shoved with the best of them.

I like to arrive at an audition the standard 15 minutes early. This gives me the chance to get a look at the script (often not provided in advance). If I get there too early, there’s a chance I’ll get called in before my appointment, negating the benefit of early arrival. So when I realized the Central line had “severe delays” due to God knows what weather-related excuse, I decided to jump in a taxi to White City.

I made it to the audition early as planned, only to find out that it was a group audition and everyone else was late due to the tube delays. Plus, they weren’t handing out scripts.

As I sat in the waiting area with nothing to do but delete old text messages from my mobile, in walked what I ascertained to be my competition: blonde hair, pale skin, similar height. She was a bit plump but that might have been a good for the part – you never know.

We had a friendly chat as we waited for the others to arrive. I found out she lived in Brighton and made the long trek to London very time she had an audition. I went to the water cooler for a drink and offered to get her one too. When I brought back our cups of water, she seemed more distant. Mental preparations for the audition, I assumed.

Then I sat down. In a puddle.

“Oh my God, this chair is wet!”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, I was just sitting here. It wasn’t wet before—”

“Well maybe you were only sitting on the edge.”

“I don’t think so…” I spied the half-empty cups on the table from the morning casting session. “Well good thing this skirt dries quickly.”

I knew it would because the last time I had worn it, I got soaked on my way to the Royal Albert Hall and had to stand under the bathroom dryer before the show so I wouldn’t be sitting in a puddle for two hours while trying to enjoy Romeo & Juliet as a ballet.

I moved to stand by the wall and madly flapped my skirt dry. “That fat Brighton bitch won’t get the better of me,” I thought.

Finally the two guys in my audition group turned up. As we walked into the audition room, I knew I would not get the part. With my modest Kenneth Cole heels on, I was about 5 inches taller than both of the guys. It’s not very victim-like, on TV anyway, to tower over your attacker.

At least I went into the audition with a dry skirt – and a clear conscience.