I've been stuck in here for over an hour. The barman keeps giving me these looks, like he thinks he's seen me before, on a police wanted poster. But I daren't move. I know they're out there somewhere, looking for me. How did I get myself into this?

Twelve years in the business, the consummate pro, but without a sniff of a part in months. Then, a few weeks ago, my luck changed. Looking through The Stage one morning, I came across an intriguing ad.

"Actor/singer required," it said, "thirty-five to forty-five, slim build, five feet four or shorter, for Diego Macwhirter's Death of a Singing Salesman , a musical adaptation of the Arthur Miller play."

Now, I didn't know Macwhirter personally, but I was familiar with his body of work - he's very experimental - and I thought, Why not? You fit the bill, and isn't it exactly the sort of work you should be putting yourself up for? So I sent in my CV, was called for an audition, and Diego offered me the part on the spot.

That same week I was approached by the Martin Luther King Drop-In, my local Community Centre. Would I like to play the lead in An Inspector Calls . The Priestly classic? A real back-to-grass-roots production this, to be staged for the residents at the nearby Bon Accord nursing home. I never forget that admiration is a two-way street. I've known only too well the love of a live theatre audience. But along with that goes responsibility to those who put you up there. So naturally I was delighted to answer the call.

The old folks at the Bon Accord turned out to be a demanding audience with real attention-span issues. Unpredictable, too. In the middle of my big speech in Act Three one elderly lady stood up in the front row, waving her arms about and shouting, "What's he on about?" How would Olivier have handled that one? I wonder.

Her outburst was met with a stunned silence. Not so much from the audience. More on my part, really. After a while, though, she sat back down.

Ever the trouper, I took a deep breath and tried to cue myself back into role. But before I could speak, from near the foot of the makeshift stage came a loud fart. It transpired that Bruce, the home's much-loved, 18-year-old black Labrador, had stirred from his slumbers.

I had a knee-jerk reaction. I glanced down at the old canine and said, "Oh, yes, everyone's a critic." But he wasn't prepared to leave things there. Easing himself up onto his haunches, he treated us to a lengthy howl before clambering up onto the stage, where he proceeded to snap away at my ankles.

I don't deny I may have kicked out, though in self-defence. But it was like lighting the blue touchpaper. The whole audience - around twelve in total - rose from their seats and approached the stage. One of them grabbed me in a head-lock, while I was jabbed with an assortment of sticks and Zimmer frames, and clubbed with some kind of solid-rubber surgical appliance.

Well, if all my years' experience have taught me anything, it's the need to cut one's losses with a less than appreciative crowd. So I freed myself from the octogenarian's surprisingly powerful grip - I wonder what drugs they're on in there? - and made an almighty dash stage left.

My ordeal, though, was far from over. On leaving the Bon Accord, I turned to see the audience in pursuit. So I beat a hasty retreat on foot towards the town centre, still in full costume: trilby, trenchcoat and false moustache, and took refuge in a pub called The Dog and Duck, in whose Snug Bar I now lie low.

Wait. I'd recognise those geriatric wheezings anywhere. And the sonorous bark of the black-eyed Bruce. They could be in here any second. I'll have to make a break for it now. I need to be getting home. Tomorrow's a big day: the first rehearsal of Death of a Singing Salesman . My chance to get a faltering career back on track.

True, I had hoped for the part of Willy Loman, the salesman. Though Diego says he sees me in a different role. I'll admit, I had misgivings, but he talked me round. It's inspired, really, I suppose. Very original. He wants me to play the suitcase.