I jumped into a taxi without eating breakfast. I loathe taking taxis. I think they're wasteful and decadent in the extreme, but I literally couldn't think of another way to get across London fast enough.
The taxi snaked its way through terrible North London traffic. Twatty drivers seemed to appear on almost every otherwise empty stretch; learner drivers, women with steering wheels too big for their little hands. All the time I felt lightheaded due to a combination of nervousness and lack of food. Nightmare!
I finally reached the BBC just 20 minutes into the meeting, and everything went swimmingly; five of us in London, and dear Helen, on her own, up in Newcastle. I felt a genuine twinge of longing to be up there with her. I adore working at the BBC in Newcastle. I imagined how lovely the little Heath opposite the BBC building up there must look in the sunshine and immediately started to think of ideas which might get me back up there working with the team again.
The six of us discussed Tales of the White City and how we might promote it both to people on the estate and to a wider audience, with any luck on the telly.
After the meeting we went to Phoenix School to play our film to community leaders on the estate so that they could give us their feedback. It's always quite a frightening moment. I tried to focus on enjoying the film, but kept looking around in the darkened space to see if anyone was laughing, smiling, or wiping tears from their eyes...
As it happened, I needn't have worried. The first person to speak afterwards dissolved into floods of tears before he could get a sentence out. That kind of response genuinely makes things seem worthwhile. If you can move just one person, you're doing well.
We went for a quick drink afterwards and then I was off, bouncing my way from Shepherd's Bush to Clapham Junction on the hottest day of the year on the most crowded train I've ever been on with the rudest people in the world to keep me company. A young black women sucked her teeth at anyone who remotely entered her body space and another bloke informed me that my entire body weight was leaning against his shoulder. Plainly a physical impossibility, but I couldn't think of anything suitably acerbic to spit at him, so I just grinned inanely and hoped he'd think I was a lunatic.l before asking if he'd rather my entire body weight leant on his head!
In other news, I am presently troubled by a sore throat on the right hand side which I've had for about eight weeks on and off. It flared up again yesterday in the form of a more glandular ache. Part of me wonders if it's all due to stress and my body urging me not to put myself through the hell of a project like White City again... But how quickly we forget. Just as a woman forgets the pain of childbirth the moment she sees a beautiful baby lying on her stomach, I forgot the physical and mental torment and prolonged periods of stress which are generated by my children. And if anyone dares to Mommyjack this blog by suggesting that writing a Requiem isn't as emotionally and physically draining but ultimately rewarding as childbirth, I'll be very angry indeed!
I saw a wonderful play tonight; a haunting, wistful one-man show about the Christmas Truce which was beautifully written and acted by one Alex Gwyther, a fellow World War One nut. We chatted to each other in the bar afterwards and at one point he looked me in the eye and I could have sworn we'd both somehow travelled 100 years and back in a split second.
After the play, we went for food with a whole crowd of people including Jim Zalles, Julie Clare, Tim and a few of Jim's wonderful friends.
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