About

I've been on wheels since I was six, when my grandfather traded a neighbour two jars of honey for a pair of quad skates three sizes too big. Twenty years later I still arrive at castings on inline skates: partly because Riga tram schedules are a work of fiction, mostly because nobody forgets the girl who rolled into the lobby, stopped on a coin, and handed over her comp card before the lift crowd had pressed a button. Casting directors call me 'the skates one'. It's on my invoice footer now.

People think 'commercial energy' means smiling on cue. What it actually means is hitting a chalk mark at fifteen kilometres an hour with a bubble-gum bubble at maximum inflation, forty takes in a row, while a lighting assistant reparks the sun. I can repeat a hair-flip until the wind cooperates, laugh on the seventeenth take like it's the first, and paddle a kayak backwards out of frame without dropping the smile. Fast looks easy. Easy is the job.

Every job gets its own mixtape: one cassette, recorded the night before, played on a Walkman older than I am. Side A is for the drive out, Side B is for the wrap. I don't reuse tapes; the shoebox under my bed is basically my CV in chrome and hiss. Summers I barely see a ceiling: Riga gives you nine golden weeks a year and I intend to be outdoors, mid-stride, for every one of them.