There is a message on the answering machine in my New York apartment. It is from Estelle, my theatrical agent, a whirlwind of a Jewish lady, with wisps of hair flying everywhere, who talks on three mobile phones simultaneously. Click... Hello Sohrab you have an audition with Woody Allen tomorrow at 2 pm, it's a British part so wear a suit and talk fancy like you normally do (pant pant) Don't screw up now I'm counting on you Honey gotta go bye... click.

I toy with the possibility of accessorising my solitary Armani suit with a bowler hat, monacle and silver-knobbed cane, but regretfully discard the idea, primarily because I don't have any of them, and am broke. I present myself at the stipulated address the next afternoon, feeling rather dapper, the impeccable fall of my trousers slightly impared by knocking knees.

Another hopeful in the waiting room, a kindly, whitehaired grandmotherly soul, pats my knee comfortingly. ``Be prepared, dear. He israther erratic. He makes spot decisions, and often pretends to be on the phone while you audition. He's just very shy.''

My turn comes, and I proceed into the inner sanctum with that dentist-chair feeling in the pit of my stomach. The room is pitch-black, the only visible objects being a chair and a dim bulb over it. A pair of black-rimmed spectacles materialise in front of me and a timid quaver says: ``Hi, read these three lines.'' A piece of paper is hurriedly thrust into my hands and the eyes vanish into the gloom. I sit down and read them in my best haw-haw accent, a faceless voice says ``Thanks'', and I am out of there in under twenty seconds. Well, that's that, I decide. One more rejection to add to my long list.

Then comes the you-gottit call from Estelle in the evening. I am going to be a part of a 1920's comedy called ``Bullets over Broadway,'' in a three-member scene with the two lead actors of the film -- Dianne West and John Cusack. (Dianne subsequently got the Oscar for her marvelousperformance). Champagne. Calls to family and friends. Yay!

A flurry of activity over the next few days. A contract to be signed (minimum pay, but who cares!). Visits to the costume warehouse; no cheap imitations here, but genuine 1920's costumes altered to fit -- for authenticity. I sign an acknowledgment for five gold-and-onyx shirt buttons, and am even given original garters to hold up original silk socks. Why, I ask. The socks will never be seen... Mr Allen never settles for less than the minutest details, a shocked voice tells me.

D-Day arrives. I get my own (heated) trailor. I'm in make-up by 9 am. A consummate professional re-styles my hair to give it a George S. Kaufman-look, all the while giving me a fascinating commentary on his last shoot with Gerard Depardieu.

I am in my dinner jacket (and silk socks) by 9.15 am, and am lead onto the set by 9.30 am. We are shooting in a huge New York mansion on Riverside Drive, all stone and marble and chandeliers.

The Great Man himself, all pleasant andconfused and affable and scatty (just like his movie persona) introduces me to Dianne Wiest and John Cusack. We discuss the scene and decide to start with some improvisations. I am playing Dianne's British Theatrical Manager, and in this scene she is trying to persuade me to produce John's play on the West End.

I look around the room, dressed up for a lavish party, with scores of Extras decked out in (authentic!) costumes. Women in hats, feathers and jewels; men in tuxedos; waiters in tails and white gloves circulating champagne, and a piano player caressing old Jazz favourites. We start improvising, the cameras roll, and Dianne giggles incessantly at my on-the-spur-of-the-moment nonsense... ``Oh, I see young Tennessee over there...he's writing a piece of poppycock called `A Streetcar named something-or-the-other'. It'll never work -- I've told him to stick to Bedroom Farce...Oh, hello Eugene, are you still wasting your time On the Waterfront?''

Woody encourages us, and shoots three scenes (including ourown) and the entire party sequence in under two hours. He lives up to his reputation of being Hollywood's quickest director.

Two days later, I get am ominous call.. I am needed for a reshoot. I shake in my shoes for a week, convinced it is ``all my fault'. We are back on the set again, and the Mighty One asks us if we know why we are here. We exchange guilty glances and shuffle our feet like errant school children. ``He is playing British,'' says Woody, pointing at me. ``You are playing Americans. With all the improvisation I allowed, you started unconsciously copying his English accent. Thankfully, I caught it while reviewing the rushes.''

I heave a sigh of relief while they look suitably taken-aback.

But this time, alas, we are only allowed to shoot the scene as written, with minimal lines, due to the restrictions. And this new take is kept in the final film. All our wonderful improvisational work ends up on the cutting-room floor.

Before leaving, I got to thank Mr. Allen. I express my thanks andextend a hand to shake his -- he takes one horrified look at me, flees and hides behind a marble pillar.

Eccentric? That's putting it mildly. But surely permissible in such a Great Man. My last glimpse of him is reminiscent of the first: A pair of wild eyes, framed by black glasses, peering at me fearfully from behind a stately column....