Petulant, abstruse and otiose

I recently attended one of her theatrical performances in the West End. Afterward, a friend was able to get me backstage to meet her in her dressing room. I'll never think of her the same way again.

We walk in, and the place is a mess: papers and folders scattered about, a half eaten sandwich sitting on her make-up table, braziers draped over mirrors.

Dame Judi sat in the middle of her room, clad in a half open bathrobe, her stockinged legs splayed apart with masculine authority. She was hurriedly filing her nails while barking out drill-sergeant-type orders in her stentorian voice to the pandemonium swirling about her:

"Tell that bastard that if he wants to retain two functioning nuts, he bloody well better have that rewrite to me before noon tomorrow..." and "I realize you do so avidly await the day my dead body's pushing bloody daisies, but until then, Lynette dear, you've got one massive bitch on your hands!"

In the ten minutes my friend and I stood there waiting for our autographs, she never once looked up at us. Just shout, shout, file, shout. Finally, my friend coaxed me on the shoulder and I knew it was time to leave.

Very disappointed.