The dreaded move looms as more boxes were ordered today. The boss is moving house and I’ve been sorting the office. All the filing cabinet draws are packed away and I got a crisp twenty for doing the bookshelves all afternoon. Katie decided to walk all over the receipts I was sorting as my final task of the day. She really chooses her moments. Wadges of car insurance invoices and Groucho Club bills (not tax deductible) swept under the desk and stuck in my Uma Thurman hair cut. She glared at me indignantly and strutted off without looking apologetic. I hate sharing my working space with a menopausal dog. You are constantly under supervision. She has particularly piercing eyes, which are usually partly hidden under her terrier fringe so that you’re never quite sure when she’s looking at you. At my interview she jumped up onto my lap – evidently spotting a likely victim to torture and licked my hands. The boss’s partner in crime commented that this was the final test… if the dog liked me. Katie is clearly the real boss and needs to be brought down a notch or two. I will leave paw prints on the Cannes ticket as evidence.
I got home today and thumbed through my Robert McKee copy of Story and then a few directors handbooks. I always find, no matter how mundane my day as an intern may have been, I always finish feeling inspired. I made notes on the Indiana Jones trilogy and worked on some research questions for my first feature film. Unfortunately I seem to have chosen a subject I know nothing about – kidney research. It’s true what they say about changing the script to lower the budget, or making it less convoluted to appeal more to the masses. Don’t quite know what they say, but I’m sure its something wise like, don’t write a film about complex medical procedures you know nothing about and have difficulty understanding even when told. Well, McKee would have said it – maybe I should book in for one of his courses and try and ask him in person. I would probably get distracted by his eyebrows and embarrass myself by forgetting to turn the Dictaphone on.
Tuesday 13 May 2008
Monday 5 May 2008
Wednesday
I got up today and noticed the red wine stain has not lifted from the floor. The salt it took to soak up the majority was enough to cause a light stroke. I think the alcohol has mixed with the sodium and is poisoning me from its patch on the floor just under my bed. I’m sure I don’t usually dream about goats.
I selected a particularly lavishing office outfit and set off to work.
I have been an intern now for two months with a freelance scriptwriter and producer of films. An internship is a very comfortable position with which to observe a very complex world. I have been very lucky to land myself one where, although my tea making skills are very well appreciated, I get to do things like… walk the dog, and sit in on meetings. The business meetings are my favourites.
Today is my seventh. We walked up to the Royal Overseas League, me trailing slightly behind the boss, and found a corner of the cocktail bar. They do awful tea and half the members look frazzled.
The meeting started and finished smoothly enough, not like my last where there was an uncomfortable mis-understanding about Rombouts coffee filters. Thinking the amount looked rather stingy, I put another on to drip with disastarous results as a successful Indian producer proceeded to rock in his chair from a caffeine overdose, and eventually began to make short exclamations that made him sound like a mad man.
On the walk home later that day I cranked up the ipod so that the beats of Beyonce and the long-lost chants of Supergrass egg me on home down the hill from Highgate to Crouch End. It’s always shorter on the way back of course and I have been tempted to invest in some roller blades to make it even shorter. As it gets warmer and sunnier, the glamorous hotchpotch of experimental architecture, so popular in certain parts of North London gives way to a backdrop of hazy views and an even hazier Gherkin, just visible on the city’s horizon. The nostalgia this gives me makes me reflect that I have found my place in the media world; no sweaty hip offices in the back-end of Kentish Town or worse, Whitechapel. No melee of young office runners to contend with or males to be distracted by. Although there is something about coffee those media-ites with never tire of.
I selected a particularly lavishing office outfit and set off to work.
I have been an intern now for two months with a freelance scriptwriter and producer of films. An internship is a very comfortable position with which to observe a very complex world. I have been very lucky to land myself one where, although my tea making skills are very well appreciated, I get to do things like… walk the dog, and sit in on meetings. The business meetings are my favourites.
Today is my seventh. We walked up to the Royal Overseas League, me trailing slightly behind the boss, and found a corner of the cocktail bar. They do awful tea and half the members look frazzled.
The meeting started and finished smoothly enough, not like my last where there was an uncomfortable mis-understanding about Rombouts coffee filters. Thinking the amount looked rather stingy, I put another on to drip with disastarous results as a successful Indian producer proceeded to rock in his chair from a caffeine overdose, and eventually began to make short exclamations that made him sound like a mad man.
On the walk home later that day I cranked up the ipod so that the beats of Beyonce and the long-lost chants of Supergrass egg me on home down the hill from Highgate to Crouch End. It’s always shorter on the way back of course and I have been tempted to invest in some roller blades to make it even shorter. As it gets warmer and sunnier, the glamorous hotchpotch of experimental architecture, so popular in certain parts of North London gives way to a backdrop of hazy views and an even hazier Gherkin, just visible on the city’s horizon. The nostalgia this gives me makes me reflect that I have found my place in the media world; no sweaty hip offices in the back-end of Kentish Town or worse, Whitechapel. No melee of young office runners to contend with or males to be distracted by. Although there is something about coffee those media-ites with never tire of.
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