Dame Judi Dench személy
Dame Judith Olivia Dench (Egyesült Királyság, Anglia, York, 1934. december 9. –) Oscar-, Golden Globe- és BAFTA-díjas angol színésznő.
Idézetek
God, all those months of seeing Kelsey’s pictures and hearing about her travels, and I had been raging with jealousy. And now it was my turn.
I wanted to mind the gap at the tube station and eat fish and chips and try to make the Queen’s guards laugh. I wanted to see Big Ben and the Globe and the London Bridge and Dame Judi Dench. Or Maggie Smith. Or Alan Rickman. Or Sir Ian McKellen. Or anybody famous and British, really.
Holy crap. This was really happening.
And I wasn’t just a tourist. I was visiting with someone who’d grown up in the city. With my fiancé.
Take that, world.
“Of course I’ll help,” I tell her.
“That would be wonderful,” she says, obviously having expected no less. “I thought the job would suit you, what with your talents.”
“Talents?” Now she’s lost me.
“Didn’t you used to work in television . . . or something?”
Ah, she’s been listening to gossip.
“Well, not exactly. Radio, mostly. Although I did a bit of work on Spitting Image .”
“The puppet show?” She manages to make it sound like the crack-addicts-money-launderers-and-pedophiles show.
I smile. “Yes, that’s right.”
“What sort of costumes did you do for that?”
Oh, I see. She thinks I made outfits for latex puppets.
“I can’t sew to save my life,” I say. “I did voices.”
I let it hang there for a moment, but I quickly realize she isn’t about to say, “Wow, how interesting!” or “My God, what a gift!” or, actually, anything at all. She has this dead look on her face, as if she’s been pumped with a gallon of Botox and has absolutely no control over her
facial muscles.
“Voices,” she echoes eventually, for the sake of something to say.
I laugh awkwardly. “I know. Silly thing to be good at, isn’t it?”
Now, in the normal world, say, meeting friends of friends in a pub, this snippet of info would be the perfect icebreaker. Tedious small talk would be discarded as they threw names at me, trying to think of some-one I wouldn’t be able to mimic. Madonna, Marilyn Monroe, Mickey Mouse, Marge Simpson, Marlene Dietrich, even. And that’s just the M’s. Like I said, silly talent, but what can I say? It’s my gift.
Cassie, though, isn’t going to ask me to do my squeaky Janet Jackson or even my posh Judi Dench, not in a million years. No, that would be to admit that she gives a damn. Which she doesn’t.
“Hats,” she tosses at me as she walks off. “I’ll give you a list of how many and what types.”
“Whatever …you stuck-up witch,” I want to say but, obviously, don’t.