Despite my feeling like absolute crap, we’ve made very good progress in the edit suite today. Louise, the editor, is an incredibly hard worker, and it always feels like we’re on top of things when she’s around. She’s consistently in work before me, and I have to force her to leave at the end of a day. She’s brilliant company and fabulously gullible. I’ve already managed to convince her that our blind cast member, Christine, fell into the Tyne just after filming her sequence on the Shields Ferry, and been rescued by an 80 year-old woman. I’ve also told that the ferret that disco dances at Tyne Mouth station is actually animatronic! I’m not sure where these surreal flights of fancy come from in my head. I once convinced her that a building across the road was 2-dimensional, and that a 20 year-old girl in a film was really an 8 year-old boy who simply liked dressing up in his mother’s clothes. Gullibility issues aside, she’s an immensely talented editor with exceptional judgement. She keeps me in line (both online and offline) and we spend long periods of time literally doubled-over laughing.
Without wishing to sound too much like a stuck record, I feel horrid. At the moment I can feel the cold sitting rather heavily on my chest; a sensation I’m not particularly used to. On top of the heavy lungs, there’s a tickly cough, a sore throat and my voice has dropped an octave. I feel like I’ve been well and truly pinched and punched to celebrate the start of March! I’m hoping another night’s sleep will begin a process of recovery, although I’m certainly not looking forward to my journey into Old Street tomorrow morning.
Commuting in the direction of the City of London is hell on a stick in the early mornings. The tubes are rammed to the rafters with people feeling depressed and edgy. It’s obvious from their faces alone just how many of them hate the jobs they do. Add to all this misery the fact that there doesn’t seem to have been a day of sunshine this year, and it’s little wonder that everyone seems so blinkin’ depressed!
Friday 1st of March, 1661, and Pepys dined on fish. Was it tradition in those days to eat fish on a Friday, or was this simply another attempt to be a good Christian during Lent? After lunch he walked into London and saw Philip Massinger’s The Bondman acted in a theatre somewhere near the Temple. His last thoughts of the day were about the King’s impending coronation. People all over the City were setting up scaffolds to watch the associated parades and Pepys was wondering just how much money he’d have to lay out to join the pomp and ceremony of the society event of a generation. Royal wedding anyone?
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Monday, 28 February 2011
Mind the doors
I just got stuck in a tube train door! I reached the platform at Old Street Station, and seeing it was the right sort of train, made a bit of a dash for it. It trapped me in a painful metal and rubber embrace and refused to let go until several fellow passengers had got hold of my shoulders and dragged me into the carriage. Unfortunately my editor, Louise was left on the platform and now I l don't have anyone to talk to on my way home! When I say "talk to", read "share my embarrassment"!
My cold is now approaching ferocious. I haven't been this wiped out by an illness for some years. Today was our first session editing Metro The Musical and at about three o'clock, I was feeling so lousy that I broke all my own guidelines on treating diseases, and rushed to Superdrug to dose myself to the rafters with Lemsip. Sadly, it doesn't seem to have done any good.
The cold wasn't helped by my not sleeping a wink last night. Or was it that my cold actually prevented me from sleeping? I've entered a vicious circle! A million things were darting through my mind...
I'm very sad to report that within the last two weeks, two of my close friends have had miscarriages. It's terribly upsetting, but I suppose the older we get, and the longer people leave it before trying for children, the more likely these sorts of things are to happen. I suppose it's better to have no child than a child born with terrible problems or birth defects. They say that a woman can become incredibly fertile following a miscarriage, but it's no consolation. I'm so bitterly upset for them both and hope with time, there'll be better news and beautiful babies will be born.
Pepys walked from Redriffe (or Rotherhithe) to Deptford 350 years ago on this date, and rewarded himself with a plate of meat. His vows for lent had lasted precisely 24 hours! What a surprise!
He went to a candle auction. The Navy was selling off a load of its old stock, and this method was deemed most likely to make a decent amount. A pin was driven through a candle and bidding continued until the candle burnt down to the place where the pin had been. The person who'd placed the most recent bid, won... Pepys was amused at how much people were paying for what was essentially old tat!
More rumours were circulating about the King, and whether or not he'd secretly married, or at the least got himself engaged. There was also talk that a navy fleet had been assembled and was about to head south, but no one knew why. It seems bizarre to me that Pepys himself was in the dark on this front, but there were wheels within wheels within 17th Century politics!
My cold is now approaching ferocious. I haven't been this wiped out by an illness for some years. Today was our first session editing Metro The Musical and at about three o'clock, I was feeling so lousy that I broke all my own guidelines on treating diseases, and rushed to Superdrug to dose myself to the rafters with Lemsip. Sadly, it doesn't seem to have done any good.
The cold wasn't helped by my not sleeping a wink last night. Or was it that my cold actually prevented me from sleeping? I've entered a vicious circle! A million things were darting through my mind...
I'm very sad to report that within the last two weeks, two of my close friends have had miscarriages. It's terribly upsetting, but I suppose the older we get, and the longer people leave it before trying for children, the more likely these sorts of things are to happen. I suppose it's better to have no child than a child born with terrible problems or birth defects. They say that a woman can become incredibly fertile following a miscarriage, but it's no consolation. I'm so bitterly upset for them both and hope with time, there'll be better news and beautiful babies will be born.
Pepys walked from Redriffe (or Rotherhithe) to Deptford 350 years ago on this date, and rewarded himself with a plate of meat. His vows for lent had lasted precisely 24 hours! What a surprise!
He went to a candle auction. The Navy was selling off a load of its old stock, and this method was deemed most likely to make a decent amount. A pin was driven through a candle and bidding continued until the candle burnt down to the place where the pin had been. The person who'd placed the most recent bid, won... Pepys was amused at how much people were paying for what was essentially old tat!
More rumours were circulating about the King, and whether or not he'd secretly married, or at the least got himself engaged. There was also talk that a navy fleet had been assembled and was about to head south, but no one knew why. It seems bizarre to me that Pepys himself was in the dark on this front, but there were wheels within wheels within 17th Century politics!
Sunday, 27 February 2011
When will we see the sun?
I'm feeling lousy. The cold has now taken hold! I'm snuffling and sneezing and have a terrible sore throat.
The BBC was forecasting a lovely sunny day today, and Nathan and I decided to go for a walk on the Heath, which became lunch in Muswell Hill as soon as we stepped out of the house and saw the depressing rain sheeting down.
I went to the gym this afternoon and pushed through the misery of the cold, but as the evening falls I'm beginning to regret having gone, as it's completely wiped me out!
I've come to brother Edward's to watch Dancing on Ice, whilst eating wraps. It's a particularly relaxing thing to do on a Sunday night and we took advantage of a few hours of dry weather before the show started, by going for a walk around Canary Wharf, which is eerily quiet on a Sunday afternoon.
February 27th, 1661, and Pepys observed the first day of lent with a lunch of fish. This year, he'd decided to go without meat for all 40 days. It'll be interesting to see how this card carrying carnivore manages! In fairness, Pepys himself didn't seem to be particularly convinced he'd be able to manage! Still, the thought was there!
The BBC was forecasting a lovely sunny day today, and Nathan and I decided to go for a walk on the Heath, which became lunch in Muswell Hill as soon as we stepped out of the house and saw the depressing rain sheeting down.
I went to the gym this afternoon and pushed through the misery of the cold, but as the evening falls I'm beginning to regret having gone, as it's completely wiped me out!
I've come to brother Edward's to watch Dancing on Ice, whilst eating wraps. It's a particularly relaxing thing to do on a Sunday night and we took advantage of a few hours of dry weather before the show started, by going for a walk around Canary Wharf, which is eerily quiet on a Sunday afternoon.
February 27th, 1661, and Pepys observed the first day of lent with a lunch of fish. This year, he'd decided to go without meat for all 40 days. It'll be interesting to see how this card carrying carnivore manages! In fairness, Pepys himself didn't seem to be particularly convinced he'd be able to manage! Still, the thought was there!
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Thumping R and B
Uselessly, I think I’m coming down with a cold. My throat feels all tickly and hot, my neck is aching, and I have a strong desire to disappear underneath a blanket. We were kept up last night by our downstairs neighbour, who seems to think it's appropriate to play thumping R and B music until the wee smalls. The house was literally shaking, and the bass lines were so repetitive, I just wanted to scream. It’s difficult to be angry with him, because we’ve not yet told him that his music comes straight up through the floor.
We ended up sleeping in the attic; a typically British way of solving a problem. The rain was sheeting it down onto the windows in the roof. It's a sound I love when I'm tucked up in a warm bed, but poor Nathan, whose a very light sleeper, found the whole experience incredibly traumatic. We could still hear the music two floors below, and the sound of traffic on the A1 is also pretty loud up there.
At about 8am, he suggested we went back downstairs, but almost as soon as we'd settled in our own bed, the music started again! Not only does our neighbour have dreadful taste in music, he’s also a robot who doesn’t need to sleep! Gah! As I write this, I can still hear the music thumping away downstairs. Maybe he's doing a dance marathon for Comic Relief!
How sad is it that on a Saturday night, I’m sitting at home all alone? Nathan is working, and is heading out afterwards. But the idea of going to a club fills me with abject horror; I get very claustrophobic, and am like an old lady when it comes to protecting my ears from loud noises. I guess I'm a bit of a recluse outside my work environment. I never used to be, but I've developed a hatred of crowds, and standing up for long periods of time.
Tuesday 26th February 1661 was Shrove Tuesday. Elizabeth was “indisposed” in bed (no doubt suffering with her period), so Pepys went to Mrs Turner’s house, and found her making fritters for a group of friends, which included a tall, attractive women who'd recently appeared in London from the country. It’s quite wonderful to think the tradition of eating pancakes on this date goes back at least 350 years and Pepys described these particular fritters as the best he’d eaten in his life.
He glanced out of the window at one point and noticed a group of people throwing sticks at a tethered cock. That's a cock of the male chicken variety before anyone sniggers like a school boy. It was a weird and rather cruel Shrove Tuesday custom, with origins that I can't begin to understand.
Pepys was then taken to look at the harpsichon that had been made for Mrs Turner’s precocious 9-year-old daughter, Theophilia.
Pepys got home to find his wife and Valentine together. He insisted on referrinng to Martha Batten as his Valentine, which strikes me as bizarre, and probably freaked the poor girl. I hate to reveal the last line of the diary entry; which was censored by the prudish Victorians who first published the work: “I went to bed where (God forgive me) I did please myself by strength of fancy with the young country Segnora that was at dinner with us today.” Let your imaginations fly people...
We ended up sleeping in the attic; a typically British way of solving a problem. The rain was sheeting it down onto the windows in the roof. It's a sound I love when I'm tucked up in a warm bed, but poor Nathan, whose a very light sleeper, found the whole experience incredibly traumatic. We could still hear the music two floors below, and the sound of traffic on the A1 is also pretty loud up there.
At about 8am, he suggested we went back downstairs, but almost as soon as we'd settled in our own bed, the music started again! Not only does our neighbour have dreadful taste in music, he’s also a robot who doesn’t need to sleep! Gah! As I write this, I can still hear the music thumping away downstairs. Maybe he's doing a dance marathon for Comic Relief!
How sad is it that on a Saturday night, I’m sitting at home all alone? Nathan is working, and is heading out afterwards. But the idea of going to a club fills me with abject horror; I get very claustrophobic, and am like an old lady when it comes to protecting my ears from loud noises. I guess I'm a bit of a recluse outside my work environment. I never used to be, but I've developed a hatred of crowds, and standing up for long periods of time.
Tuesday 26th February 1661 was Shrove Tuesday. Elizabeth was “indisposed” in bed (no doubt suffering with her period), so Pepys went to Mrs Turner’s house, and found her making fritters for a group of friends, which included a tall, attractive women who'd recently appeared in London from the country. It’s quite wonderful to think the tradition of eating pancakes on this date goes back at least 350 years and Pepys described these particular fritters as the best he’d eaten in his life.
He glanced out of the window at one point and noticed a group of people throwing sticks at a tethered cock. That's a cock of the male chicken variety before anyone sniggers like a school boy. It was a weird and rather cruel Shrove Tuesday custom, with origins that I can't begin to understand.
Pepys was then taken to look at the harpsichon that had been made for Mrs Turner’s precocious 9-year-old daughter, Theophilia.
Pepys got home to find his wife and Valentine together. He insisted on referrinng to Martha Batten as his Valentine, which strikes me as bizarre, and probably freaked the poor girl. I hate to reveal the last line of the diary entry; which was censored by the prudish Victorians who first published the work: “I went to bed where (God forgive me) I did please myself by strength of fancy with the young country Segnora that was at dinner with us today.” Let your imaginations fly people...
Friday, 25 February 2011
Happy wedding, Fiona
I went to Hoxton today to pick up some copies of the rushes, which have times codes burnt into them. The time codes enable me to do what’s known as a "paper edit", which involves going through all the footage very slowly to make a list of the shots, or parts of shots that I want to use in the final film. It’s an adrenaline-fueled process; usually because I've forgotten how many takes I did of each shot. Sometimes, I'll decide I've reached the final take, and then go into a panic because there's something weird going on in the background. It's astonishing how your eye can be drawn to someone in a massive crowd scene, not looking at the camera, or looking a bit gormless. Fortunately, there's always been another take so far, so I'm still a happy bunny...
Because I was in Hoxton, I was able to meet up with Philippa and my goddaughter, Deia. We sat in a bar called “Kick” which is lined with table football games. It’s got enormous windows which face St Leonard’s Church (The bells of Shoreditch) and it's a lovely place to sit and while away the hours, whilst the uber-cool Hoxton set wriggle past with their weird hair-dos and unwashed jeans. It also turns out to be a very good place to eat. We had a bowl of soup each, which had a delicious smoky taste, and beautiful Parmesan-infused croutons. Deia was particularly good company, although Philippa tells me she’s being quite naughty at the moment. Those terrible twos...
We went home via an impressive field of crocuses behind the church. Two large dogs were going a bit loopy, running through the flowers, whilst seemingly trying to tear each others' throats out. You could see the heads of scores of delicate croci shooting into the air, as eight enormous paws jumped all over them and ripped them apart. It was a hideous massacre. Philippa had to ask the owners to get the dogs away. That said, I’m never sure I particularly like crocuses. It's something I may have inherited from my Mum, who told me today that she thinks a garden filled with the flowers looks like a baize-covered table that someone has thrown Quality Streets all over. She’s absolutely right, of course.
I worked very hard at the gym, and was rewarded by an instructor, who saw me running on the treadmill and asked me to join an “invite only” training session, which he described as a form of boot camp. It seemed to involve a great deal of weight-lifting, which is something I’ve not done before, so I told him I’d go to his Monday session, which is much more based around cardio vascular work. I hope it's a different crowd, however. I saw these testosterone-pumped men filing into the studio, and recognised at least three homophobes from banter in the changing rooms.
I ended my session with a swim, and had a terrible argument with a silly woman in the pool, who decided to swim in the same lane as me – backstroke. She got nearer and nearer, completely oblivious, until I was forced to re-route. In an attempt to avoid a collision with her, I brushed past a woman in another lane, and as I returned, the backstroker was standing in the pool, shrieking at me that I shouldn’t have kicked her friend. I explained that I hadn’t meant to kick her friend, but that if she’d have checked behind her before deciding to swim backstroke, and stuck to the rules of the pool, which are to swim in anti-clockwise circles, I wouldn’t have had to swim off course and therefore wouldn't have kicked her friend. “Well you have to apologise for kicking her anyway” she said, in a "I'm-in-this-pool-at-3pm-on-a-week-day-because-hubby-earns-packets-of-dosh" accent. “No, YOU apologise to her" I said "for swimming dangerously and putting her in a position where she got kicked... and whilst you're at it, apologise to me for shouting.” It was clear from her response that she's used to getting her way with men. Silly cow.
So, as I write this, Fiona is tying the knot in Santa Fe. It’s such a strange thought, and I really wish I were there. I'm trying to imagine what Santa Fe looks like, and what the weather's like at this time of year...
350 years ago, Pepys and Sir William Penn went all the way to Westminster to visit Lord Sandwich. Sadly, they found him taking “physic” and he would not see them. Pepys, instead, went with his old acquaintance, Peter Llewellyn, to William Symons’ house, but found him out, but his wife Margaret in, who fed them nettle porridge. My stomach is turning at the thought, but Pepys claimed it was very good. Llewellyn was full of tall stories; how his mate had once pretended to be a doctor, and managed to get an unwitting lady to reveal all sorts of personal information about herself. He even administered medicine to her, which strikes me as about as low as it gets; not that medicine in those days did anything particularly useful.
Because I was in Hoxton, I was able to meet up with Philippa and my goddaughter, Deia. We sat in a bar called “Kick” which is lined with table football games. It’s got enormous windows which face St Leonard’s Church (The bells of Shoreditch) and it's a lovely place to sit and while away the hours, whilst the uber-cool Hoxton set wriggle past with their weird hair-dos and unwashed jeans. It also turns out to be a very good place to eat. We had a bowl of soup each, which had a delicious smoky taste, and beautiful Parmesan-infused croutons. Deia was particularly good company, although Philippa tells me she’s being quite naughty at the moment. Those terrible twos...
We went home via an impressive field of crocuses behind the church. Two large dogs were going a bit loopy, running through the flowers, whilst seemingly trying to tear each others' throats out. You could see the heads of scores of delicate croci shooting into the air, as eight enormous paws jumped all over them and ripped them apart. It was a hideous massacre. Philippa had to ask the owners to get the dogs away. That said, I’m never sure I particularly like crocuses. It's something I may have inherited from my Mum, who told me today that she thinks a garden filled with the flowers looks like a baize-covered table that someone has thrown Quality Streets all over. She’s absolutely right, of course.
Quality Street or Crocus?
I worked very hard at the gym, and was rewarded by an instructor, who saw me running on the treadmill and asked me to join an “invite only” training session, which he described as a form of boot camp. It seemed to involve a great deal of weight-lifting, which is something I’ve not done before, so I told him I’d go to his Monday session, which is much more based around cardio vascular work. I hope it's a different crowd, however. I saw these testosterone-pumped men filing into the studio, and recognised at least three homophobes from banter in the changing rooms.
I ended my session with a swim, and had a terrible argument with a silly woman in the pool, who decided to swim in the same lane as me – backstroke. She got nearer and nearer, completely oblivious, until I was forced to re-route. In an attempt to avoid a collision with her, I brushed past a woman in another lane, and as I returned, the backstroker was standing in the pool, shrieking at me that I shouldn’t have kicked her friend. I explained that I hadn’t meant to kick her friend, but that if she’d have checked behind her before deciding to swim backstroke, and stuck to the rules of the pool, which are to swim in anti-clockwise circles, I wouldn’t have had to swim off course and therefore wouldn't have kicked her friend. “Well you have to apologise for kicking her anyway” she said, in a "I'm-in-this-pool-at-3pm-on-a-week-day-because-hubby-earns-packets-of-dosh" accent. “No, YOU apologise to her" I said "for swimming dangerously and putting her in a position where she got kicked... and whilst you're at it, apologise to me for shouting.” It was clear from her response that she's used to getting her way with men. Silly cow.
So, as I write this, Fiona is tying the knot in Santa Fe. It’s such a strange thought, and I really wish I were there. I'm trying to imagine what Santa Fe looks like, and what the weather's like at this time of year...
350 years ago, Pepys and Sir William Penn went all the way to Westminster to visit Lord Sandwich. Sadly, they found him taking “physic” and he would not see them. Pepys, instead, went with his old acquaintance, Peter Llewellyn, to William Symons’ house, but found him out, but his wife Margaret in, who fed them nettle porridge. My stomach is turning at the thought, but Pepys claimed it was very good. Llewellyn was full of tall stories; how his mate had once pretended to be a doctor, and managed to get an unwitting lady to reveal all sorts of personal information about herself. He even administered medicine to her, which strikes me as about as low as it gets; not that medicine in those days did anything particularly useful.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Another 30-foot freefall
I've spent the day doing very little. I woke up late, had a lovely bath, a lazy breakfast, and a nice cuddle; in fact, all the things I’ve not been able to do over the last few weeks. I went to the gym, and discovered that I'm now five kilos lighter than I was at the start of the year, which I’m obviously chuffed to bits about. I certainly feel a great deal fitter; really alive, in fact...
It's somewhat ironic, therefore, that I had to go home via the doctors, to talk about the fact that my voice is still cutting in and out. The tablets obviously didn't work. I was seen by a some kind of locum, who genuinely didn't seem to care about my problem. She begrudgingly told me she'd refer me to an ENT specialist, and that if I hadn't heard from anyone in 3 weeks, I should give her another call.
"Three weeks?" I looked puzzled. She nodded, "and it will obviously be a great deal more time before you’re actually seen by anyone." I thought for a moment, and then spoke; "but what if there's something badly wrong?" "You mean like cancer?" she said, sarcastically; "you don't look like you've got cancer!” “Well, I’m sure if everyone with cancer looked like they had the disease, far fewer people would actually die from it” I said, as politely as I could. She thought for a moment about my statement. “Well, I'm certainly not prepared to put you on a fast track. Your voice doesn't sound too bad to me. Has anyone else noticed this change?" There was a stunned silence as I played with a paper weight on her table. "I sing," I said, "and I can't generate any sound in my falsetto, which means something is wrong." She shrugged. “Well, let’s see what the specialist has to say...” I nearly called her a silly turd, but instead said thank you, and left with my tail between my legs feeling like I’d somehow wasted her precious time...
I don't know... It’s typical NHS, I suppose. I could have sat with a bus conductor for 5 minutes and found out more about my general health!
On my way back from the doctors, I managed to drop my iPhone off the edge of the stairwell which leads up to our front door. Just as my keys had done the other week, it did a 30 foot freefall onto concrete. Bizarrely, it seems to have survived... Although no doubt, I'll wake up tomorrow to a blank screen, and be forced to eat my words!
Fiona gets married in Santa Fe tomorrow. It feels very bizarre and slightly upsetting not to be there. I shall be drinking her and Paul’s health at 10pm our time, and would encourage anyone reading this blog who also knows her to raise a toast as well.
The 24th February 1661, and Pepys went to church... Twice. The first time, he heard a sermon made by Mr Mills about the evils of getting drunk, which Pepys felt as excellent as any he'd heard in his life. Praise indeed. He was obviously in a good mood, no doubt brought on by his Valentine, Martha Batten, wearing the gloves he'd given her to church.
It's somewhat ironic, therefore, that I had to go home via the doctors, to talk about the fact that my voice is still cutting in and out. The tablets obviously didn't work. I was seen by a some kind of locum, who genuinely didn't seem to care about my problem. She begrudgingly told me she'd refer me to an ENT specialist, and that if I hadn't heard from anyone in 3 weeks, I should give her another call.
"Three weeks?" I looked puzzled. She nodded, "and it will obviously be a great deal more time before you’re actually seen by anyone." I thought for a moment, and then spoke; "but what if there's something badly wrong?" "You mean like cancer?" she said, sarcastically; "you don't look like you've got cancer!” “Well, I’m sure if everyone with cancer looked like they had the disease, far fewer people would actually die from it” I said, as politely as I could. She thought for a moment about my statement. “Well, I'm certainly not prepared to put you on a fast track. Your voice doesn't sound too bad to me. Has anyone else noticed this change?" There was a stunned silence as I played with a paper weight on her table. "I sing," I said, "and I can't generate any sound in my falsetto, which means something is wrong." She shrugged. “Well, let’s see what the specialist has to say...” I nearly called her a silly turd, but instead said thank you, and left with my tail between my legs feeling like I’d somehow wasted her precious time...
I don't know... It’s typical NHS, I suppose. I could have sat with a bus conductor for 5 minutes and found out more about my general health!
On my way back from the doctors, I managed to drop my iPhone off the edge of the stairwell which leads up to our front door. Just as my keys had done the other week, it did a 30 foot freefall onto concrete. Bizarrely, it seems to have survived... Although no doubt, I'll wake up tomorrow to a blank screen, and be forced to eat my words!
Fiona gets married in Santa Fe tomorrow. It feels very bizarre and slightly upsetting not to be there. I shall be drinking her and Paul’s health at 10pm our time, and would encourage anyone reading this blog who also knows her to raise a toast as well.
The 24th February 1661, and Pepys went to church... Twice. The first time, he heard a sermon made by Mr Mills about the evils of getting drunk, which Pepys felt as excellent as any he'd heard in his life. Praise indeed. He was obviously in a good mood, no doubt brought on by his Valentine, Martha Batten, wearing the gloves he'd given her to church.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Train station terror!
It can surely only be a bad thing that the staff at the Travelodge in Newcastle have started to address me by name! This morning, when I asked them to book me a taxi to the station, the man behind the desk said; “of course, Mr Till... And we'll see you next time.” I was horrified. Obviously, it's very kind of him to learn my name, but the fact that he's bothered to do so can only mean I’m now officially part of the furniture; like the two old ladies in Fawlty Towers. When I was making my film about the A1, I came across a toothless couple who'd stayed at a Travelodge in Grantham 22 years ago, and lived there ever since! They seemed utterly content with their lot, but surely there can’t be anything more soul-destroying. What have they done with their belongings? And why didn't they choose a nicer location than a travelodge by the side of the A1? Read about the true horror here
I'm now on my way home. I’m having to travel via Leeds, which adds a couple of hours to my journey time. It's a long, rather dull story, but the vastly condensed version is that I got lumbered with a pair of non-exchangeable tickets; one from Newcastle to Leeds and one from Leeds to London, and there didn’t seem to be anything that anyone could do to exchange them! I wouldn't mind, if the teenaged lad opposite me could stop himself from farting the most disgusting smells into the carriage!
I had a terrible scare at Newcastle Station. I’m carrying about ten heavy bags on this journey, one of which holds the rushes for the entire shoot. I have to deliver them to the edit suit this afternoon. There are no copies, and if the tapes go missing, we’ll have to reshoot everything! There was a great deal of faffage at the station as I tried to pick up my two separate single tickets, with their two separate 8-digit reference numbers; one of which wasn’t recognised by the machine...
In the hell of wondering from ticket machine to ticket machine, and eventually to a lady behind a counter, I managed to leave the rushes somewhere. I can't imagine how I managed to leave them behind, but I only realised after walking through the ticket barriers at the station. I couldn’t get the words out to the man in uniform. “I need to go back through..." I stammered, "I’ve left something... The rushes... I need to get back through...” He started to ask questions. “Where are these rushes?” He spoke slowly and calmly, as though I were having some form of psychotic episode. I assume he was using all the skills he’d learnt on the “preventing religious fanatics from detonating hand grenades” course that East Coast Mainline had sent him on recently.
I didn’t have the time to engage with him. I imagined a security team had already moved in to detonate the suspicious package that I’d left... wherever I’d left it. I kept looking down at the pile of luggage I’d hauled through the barriers, in the hope that the missing bag would miraculously appear. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. A primeval scream formed in the pit of my stomach, surged up into my throat and burst out of my mouth; “Please help me!”
It seemed to do the trick. He jumped out of his skin and immediately opened the barriers. I ran back into the ticket office, depositing pieces of luggage as I blustered through an entrance hall, which was filled with people who'd deliberately positioned themselves in spots which created the mother of all assault courses. I imagined myself in Matrix-style slow motion, leaping metres into the air, and running up the sides of walls.
I found the bag... exactly where I’d left it, on the ticket counter. The woman smiled at me, nonchalantly. I felt like a tit.
People like me should never be trusted with such important jobs. I am, after all, a great believer in the self-fulfilling prophecy. A week ago, as I tried to open the door to our flat, I thought; “wouldn’t it be awful if I dropped my keys, and they fell 30 feet off the edge of this stairwell?” A second later, I dropped my keys, and watched as they plummeted 30 feet into a muddy puddle in my neighbour’s courtyard. Retrieving them was, as predicted, awful.
This morning, as I struggled to the airport, I wondered how awful it would be if I left the rushes somewhere.
The expectation that I’ll do something as stupid as this, often leads to what Nathan and I refer to as “I had a bag” moments. These are those adrenaline-soaked, second-long episodes, when you decide you’re one bag lighter than you were when you set out at the start of a day. They’re often caused by some long-forgotten creative decanting and consolidating, necessitated by the demise of a plastic bag.
February 23rd 1661 was Pepys’ 28th Birthday. This fact seems to have had little impact on his day, which he spent working, visiting steelyards, talking about investing money in light houses, and doing business over several glasses of wine.
He went to Whitehall Chapel and heard the rehearsal for an anthem which composer Henry Cooke had written for a choir of children. Pepys described the music as brave. His favourite word. It was a cultural day for Pepys, who went home via the Salisbury Court Theatre where he saw The Changeling; revived after 20 years, and still, in Pepys' mind, as good as it was. He added an interesting comment, however, which reflects the ever-changing face of 17th Century society. “I see the gallants do begin to be tyred with the vanity and pride of the theatre actors who are indeed grown very proud and rich.” Speaking of pride and vanity, Pepys also wrote that he was now considered an important enough figure to stand for Parliament. He decided that it wasn't for him just yet; unsurprisingly due to the cost of such an enterprise. He didn't seem to be at all worried by the concept of failing, however, for he added, “I am sure I could well obtain it.” He was beginning to feel invincible. His final line is worth quoting in full:
“This is now 28 years that I am born. And blessed be God, in a state of full content, and great hopes to be a happy man in all respects, both to myself and friends.” Aww, bless.
I'm now on my way home. I’m having to travel via Leeds, which adds a couple of hours to my journey time. It's a long, rather dull story, but the vastly condensed version is that I got lumbered with a pair of non-exchangeable tickets; one from Newcastle to Leeds and one from Leeds to London, and there didn’t seem to be anything that anyone could do to exchange them! I wouldn't mind, if the teenaged lad opposite me could stop himself from farting the most disgusting smells into the carriage!
I had a terrible scare at Newcastle Station. I’m carrying about ten heavy bags on this journey, one of which holds the rushes for the entire shoot. I have to deliver them to the edit suit this afternoon. There are no copies, and if the tapes go missing, we’ll have to reshoot everything! There was a great deal of faffage at the station as I tried to pick up my two separate single tickets, with their two separate 8-digit reference numbers; one of which wasn’t recognised by the machine...
In the hell of wondering from ticket machine to ticket machine, and eventually to a lady behind a counter, I managed to leave the rushes somewhere. I can't imagine how I managed to leave them behind, but I only realised after walking through the ticket barriers at the station. I couldn’t get the words out to the man in uniform. “I need to go back through..." I stammered, "I’ve left something... The rushes... I need to get back through...” He started to ask questions. “Where are these rushes?” He spoke slowly and calmly, as though I were having some form of psychotic episode. I assume he was using all the skills he’d learnt on the “preventing religious fanatics from detonating hand grenades” course that East Coast Mainline had sent him on recently.
I didn’t have the time to engage with him. I imagined a security team had already moved in to detonate the suspicious package that I’d left... wherever I’d left it. I kept looking down at the pile of luggage I’d hauled through the barriers, in the hope that the missing bag would miraculously appear. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. A primeval scream formed in the pit of my stomach, surged up into my throat and burst out of my mouth; “Please help me!”
It seemed to do the trick. He jumped out of his skin and immediately opened the barriers. I ran back into the ticket office, depositing pieces of luggage as I blustered through an entrance hall, which was filled with people who'd deliberately positioned themselves in spots which created the mother of all assault courses. I imagined myself in Matrix-style slow motion, leaping metres into the air, and running up the sides of walls.
I found the bag... exactly where I’d left it, on the ticket counter. The woman smiled at me, nonchalantly. I felt like a tit.
People like me should never be trusted with such important jobs. I am, after all, a great believer in the self-fulfilling prophecy. A week ago, as I tried to open the door to our flat, I thought; “wouldn’t it be awful if I dropped my keys, and they fell 30 feet off the edge of this stairwell?” A second later, I dropped my keys, and watched as they plummeted 30 feet into a muddy puddle in my neighbour’s courtyard. Retrieving them was, as predicted, awful.
This morning, as I struggled to the airport, I wondered how awful it would be if I left the rushes somewhere.
The expectation that I’ll do something as stupid as this, often leads to what Nathan and I refer to as “I had a bag” moments. These are those adrenaline-soaked, second-long episodes, when you decide you’re one bag lighter than you were when you set out at the start of a day. They’re often caused by some long-forgotten creative decanting and consolidating, necessitated by the demise of a plastic bag.
February 23rd 1661 was Pepys’ 28th Birthday. This fact seems to have had little impact on his day, which he spent working, visiting steelyards, talking about investing money in light houses, and doing business over several glasses of wine.
He went to Whitehall Chapel and heard the rehearsal for an anthem which composer Henry Cooke had written for a choir of children. Pepys described the music as brave. His favourite word. It was a cultural day for Pepys, who went home via the Salisbury Court Theatre where he saw The Changeling; revived after 20 years, and still, in Pepys' mind, as good as it was. He added an interesting comment, however, which reflects the ever-changing face of 17th Century society. “I see the gallants do begin to be tyred with the vanity and pride of the theatre actors who are indeed grown very proud and rich.” Speaking of pride and vanity, Pepys also wrote that he was now considered an important enough figure to stand for Parliament. He decided that it wasn't for him just yet; unsurprisingly due to the cost of such an enterprise. He didn't seem to be at all worried by the concept of failing, however, for he added, “I am sure I could well obtain it.” He was beginning to feel invincible. His final line is worth quoting in full:
“This is now 28 years that I am born. And blessed be God, in a state of full content, and great hopes to be a happy man in all respects, both to myself and friends.” Aww, bless.
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