A beard? In four weeks? Are you crazy?

Being an extra, as I think I've mentioned before, means having patience, having the ability to follow simple directions and being able to be on time. Those that know me will be able to confirm that these are not traits that lend themselves to me easily.

Patience is a virtue, apparently, and one that I struggle with from time to time. In the case of being on set, patience is needed because most of your time is spent sitting around reading or chatting. That kind of patience I can do. Very well. It's the other kind I struggle with; the stupidity of others, other people being stupid, that sort of thing.

The simple directions problem is not that I struggle to understand them. I just don't like being told what to do. If I'm thinking I might fancy, say, some pasta for tea, and just as I'm about to start someone says "why don't you have some pasta for tea?" my natural reaction would be to have some rice. I'm not saying it's a good thing, or that it's something I wouldn't change if I could, but I it is true.

Now, bad timekeeping. Mostly I get away with it, which is lucky. It's not that I'm purposely being rude, and these days I do make a supreme effort to be on time - especially if it involves some other people and an immovable event (such as a football match or picking up my wife from the station), but my inherent laziness still plays havoc with my time keeping.

And so it proved a couple of weeks ago when I got the standard call from the agency ("Have you had a haircut?" "No" "Great, can you...") and had a costume fitting booked later that week in that London.

Having managed to book cheap train tickets the day before, I knew I had to be at the station for the 10.30am train. I'd already dropped Mrs Wendell at the station at 7.00am that morning, and returned home to do a bit of work. However, what I actually did was sit down with my breakfast in front of the BBC news and fall asleep. I woke at 10.00am, wasted a few seconds wondering where I was and then reality hit. As I showered, dressed and panicked, all seemingly at the same time, I was also muttering about having to spend another £30 quid to buy tickets, as the cheap ones are, of course, non-refundable. It's a good 25 minute walk to the station, and with the time at 10.15, it wasn't looking good. So, instead of running and getting all hot and testy, I walked, reasoning that as I just wasn't going to get the 10.30, there was no need to rush. As I sauntered into the station at 10.38, I looked up at the screen to see the word 'delayed' next to each and every train, and upon reaching the platform, stepped onto the waiting 10.30 - which promptly pulled away about 30 seconds later.

Of course, the fact that the train is leaving late means that it will arrive late. It cuts my time the other end, and I need to find the appointed building in North London by 12.30. I emerge from the tube station onto the Hollaway Road, establish which direction I need to be walking (by, of course, walking the wrong way initially) and having found the building I walk through the door at 12.25.

The lady behind the reception looks up and says "Ah, you must be Stephen. Just go through and see Lee." As an extra you get used to people not knowing your name, which is totally understandable when there are 300 extras on one set, so when someone knows who you are, it's quite nice. I'm ushered through to a dressing room and two guys are there handing me various bits of clothing to try on. Two ladies come through to check the costume. A discussion ensues about whether the corduroy jacket is in keeping with the period, and after a few different jackets are tried the lady with the American accent declares that she is happy and I'm led through to another room to have pictures taken. While this is happening, another person has a good look at my hair, and says it might need to be trimmed a little bit at the back - is that alright? - and can I grow a beard in four weeks? I tell her I haven't managed to grow a beard in 40 years, and she laughs. She takes a cutting of my hair so they can make my beard to match, telling me that I have 10% gray...

After about 45 minutes Lee tells me I'm all done and I can go and get changed. Yet another person gathers together the costumes bits and hangs them all on a couple of hangers, pinning them with a label which has my name written on it. He puts them on a hanger across the room, next to other costumes with similar labels, some of which have names I recognise.

Having signed and countersigned some forms which tell the agency how much to pay me, I'm outside, following a cheery goodbye from the lady at reception, and walking (the wrong way initially) back to the tube station. Just as I get to the station, my phone rings and it's the agency, telling me that there is now an additional day's shooting on this job, four days after the one I already know about. I tell them that's fine, and head down into the tube station and towards my usual destination when I'm at a loose end in London, The Tate Modern.

When I get home, I decide to google the name of the American Lady who seemed to make the final decisions at my fitting. I remember her name because it is unusual, the kind of name that means she either grew up in a commune, or at least wished she had. When her name comes up on the international movie database, I find out that she has three oscars for costume design.

Three days later the initial day's shoot is cancelled, and a different date is added. I decide not to worry about booking tickets just yet...