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The kids had homework over the holidays to design a poster on the theme of hope.
This is Phoebe's effort, as always, beautifully drawn with a great eye for colour. But the examples of hope she chooses blew me away a bit. I find it quite unsettling and am not sure if she's saying hope is positive or the last refuge of the foolish. Is it hopeful or hopeless? Like all great art it leaves me unsure. Hopeful surely. But then again... Every example is both. How did this come out of the brain of my little baby?
Hope is just the last petal gripping to the flower
Hope is just a dying tree praying for life
Hope is just a broken heart waiting to get fixed
Hope is just the last vegetable waiting on your plate
Fucking Hell (that was me, not Phoebe).
A bit of humour to end on with the carrot. Or is it? My mind is blown. Like Paul McCartney writing Hey Jude Phoebe questioned me as to whether the word gripping was the right one. I told her it was the best thing in it. Like John Lennon I said "You're not changing that." (I do love that McCartney's story of Lennon's contribution to the song is telling him that it's perfect already ["the movement you need is on your shoulder" was the part that Paul thought needed a rewrite]. It says a lot about both men. But I am happy to be the John Lennon in this collaboration, having usually been the Paul McCartney in the past (in status and perception, not in talent I would add).
I love how quickly she's gained a command of words. I know everyone thinks their own kid is a genius and that most people are wrong about that. But I am right.
I know all parents say that, but they are all wrong. My kid actually is a genius. Yours isn't, so get over yourself.
Regardless, it's really beautiful. What's she trying to say? I don't know if I should be moved or despondent. Don't underestimate the swirling universe that is a 10-year-old's brain.
A man came round early to fix our internet. I love him. Also, for once, the fault was not mine.
I played proper tennis this afternoon for the first time in years. Aside from the odd knock up on holidays and soft tennis with Phoebe at Center Parcs I haven't picked up a tennis bat for ages. I can't even remember all the rules or what you call stuff. It's been so long in fact that the grip on both my tennis racquets had perished and as I gripped my chosen weapon it was almost sticking to my hand and turned it ink black. It made me wonder if I could be cancelled for some kind of hate crime.
I was playing another comedy writer who lives in Hitchin, who is similarly out of practice and we were seeing if we might be a compatible match, which I think we proved to be. I am still off my food and snotty and was feeling knackered within the first couple of minutes, but I found the old (very minor) skills returning and we managed to play for 50 minutes. It was a casual set that I comfortably won. Not that that matters. I don't care about winning and losing since having cancer. All I care about is crushing my younger opponent into the ground and proving I am the greater man.
I associate tennis with dating in the noughties and for any single people out there with hand eye coordination I am happy to tell you that tennis, for some reason, always seemed to be a good date for me. So much so that there was a part of me that was disappointed when today's opponent didn't seem to want to kiss afterwards. But we've agreed to play again in a couple of weeks, so maybe then. Fingers crossed.
Perhaps he was just worried that I would leave a black hand mark on his shorts like in some kind of Benny Hill sketch and our forbidden love would be revealed to the world.
I put up this month's unproduced script for Paid subscribers on Substack - there are a few more scripts that I haven't put up, but not sure I've got them in a format that is readable any more. This script was my only real time working in a Writers' Room (that bit was actually good fun) but ultimately a bit of a scarring experience, that amongst other scarring experiences, was almost (and possibly actually) enough to make me give up on scriptwriting. It was a little bit harrowing reliving it. I don't think I was treated as well as I could be, but ultimately it wasn't a good fit for me and as with most things my downfall was my own fault.
Funnily enough today I sent in a few script ideas that I've been working on. Hope over experience, but let's take one more spin of the wheel.
Hope is just an ageing writer thinking this time he might get something off the ground.
