Meetings today with 2 production companies to whom I’m pitching programmes ideas, and who want to work with me. That second bit is always helpful…So off to London I go, on the train.
London is a city I just love love love. It has an energy and buzz about that shakes me out of my smalltown fug, and brings me home believing ‘YES I CAN!’ It’s like twenty little villages all stuck together by an arterial network of never-ending coffee bars and bullshitting. They say you can walk from Oxford to Cambridge on land owned by Trinity College. Well, I reckon you can walk from Camden to Hammersmith never setting foot off land owned by Neros/Costa/Starbucks/Pret and their lovelier, independent cousins.
And people here move. Where I live, the average speed is just slower than it’s comfortable to shuffle along on your bottom at. It’s S-L-O-W. This is nice at times, like when you’re not hoping to get anything done before the next recession. But if you’re, you know, trying to get from A to B some times this year, F-A-S-T is a better speed. And in London people walk fast.
Sadly they do this while drinking their gazillion lattes and talking on the phone at the same time, which is exactly how I came to see a lady get hit full on my a double decker bus on Picadilly. I screamed. She had a lucky escape.
Meetings go well. Very well. I hear ‘OK, just so we’re clear we love you. We absolutely love you. You’re FAB.’ This is a very good thing to hear at a meeting with top TV execs. I feel mildly upbeat. But after 2 hours of brain storming and saying the words ‘concept, big picture and fuck’ (media people like to say ‘fuck’ a lot, which is probably why I ended up working there) we are yet to come up with what they like to call ‘The Vehicle’ for my supposed talents.
I tell them I’ll take any vehicle they can offer me – tricycle, tram, lorry…whatever. Just give me a bloody lift, eh?
We’ll see. These things take time. Just enough time, usually, for your ideas to get taken away and made into programmes by other, even more FAB, even more loved people. But that’s just me being bitter. When it happens to you once you cry. When it happens twice you tend to be a little more cautious about opening your mouth and then feeling pleased with yourself….Time will tell.
But that was this afternoon. This evening is 2 hours of novel-writing in a bar in Soho, being chatted up by a group of very persistent Australian rugby lads, and then it’s book lauch party time, for my good friend Jeremy Musson’s latest volume: Up and Down Stairs – The History of the Country House Servant is published by John Murray and is an absolutely delicious, corking, splendid book for Christmas. (That’s my free copy in the bag. Cheers love….) W1 is lit up like a Christmas tree, rich people are looking into shop windows on Bond Street going ‘Oh, but isn’t it GORGEOUS?’ and I’m just happily walking on by. Fast.
Shall update ye all if good news comes of these meetings. Lordy I hope it does…