So around about 3 o clock yesterday afternoon I accepted that I wasn't going to finish my script in time, even if I could find some magic elves who were prepared to work overnight in return for an acorn cup full of beer it still wasn't practically going to happen. I made a half-hearted attempt to get stuff done this morning in time for my 2.30 meeting at the BBC, but it didn't make much difference. I have at least got to a position with it where I can see where it might go and that it might be achievable, but there is a long way to go yet and you can't rush these things.
I went in to meet Armando who is attached to the project, but who didn't directly commission it and we had a good chat about it. We agreed that I would try and write a scene a day for the next two weeks -even if I was just writing rubbish that made no sense and then if in a fortnight's time I hadn't got anywhere with it he would lock me in a room in the BBC and not let me out until I had finished my work.
Thus he becomes like a tutor waiting for an essay initially and then if that doesn't work a kind of jailer (or gaoler for any UK readers). Perhaps if that doesn't work I should agree that he can sell me into white slavery and I have to work as his ho (or whore for any UK readers) until the work is done. From tutor to prison warden to pimp. I have always considered Armando a combination of all three of these things.
The heavy cloak of failure that has hung around me all week was finally flung aside. Passing deadlines is an almost euphoric feeling, which I suppose comes from accepting the truth after attempting to kid yourself for so long. It gives you a kind of perverse power over the world. You can set artificial constraints on me, but I will only do this job when I am good and ready. Sometimes writing flows easily and prodigiously like and other times (increasingly as I get older) my brain is constipated and however much I strain only the occasional rabbit pellet of an idea will pop out.
I was in Whitstable tonight, but arrived tired and hungry so headed out to try and find some food. Given that it was 8pm on a Friday night the high street was eerily quiet and not many places were open. I found a fish and chip shop and asked for cod and chips. The man behind the counter seemed confused, almost like this was the last thing he had expected to happen to him. There was a lenghty pause. "It'll take 20 minutes," he told me.
Twenty minutes? For fish and chips? In a fish and chip shop? It was Friday night, you'd think a fish and chip shop man might be prepared for people treating themselves to a meal from his shop after a long working week, but the way he was looking at me seemed to suggest I was the weird one for expecting such a thing. Like he was thinking, "Do you know what time it is mate? It's three minutes past eight. Everyone in Whitstable will be asleep by now. I was just about to shut up shop. Don't come here with your fancy London ways."
Whitstable is not just a sleepy boring seaside town though - they have a computer shop. In Whitstable! Imagine that!
It's called "AD 3000" which is an exciting name. I did a bit at the start of the act where I said, "You've got a computer shop! In Whitstable! Incredible. AD 3000, what a brilliant name. I went in there and said to the bloke "Great shop" and he said "Yeah AD 3000!" and I said, "Yeah, futuristic. AD 3000"
And he said, "That's right AD 3000" and I said "Can I buy a computer?" and he said "AD 3000" and I said, "Yeah I know what the shop is called mate. I want a computer." And he said "AD 3000. That's when the first computer will arrive in Whitstable. We'll send you a letter when we get them."
"Can't you ring me?"
"No, we don't get phones til AD 3300. There's a shop next door for pre orders".
And so on.
