Wednesday

Having come home from the Screenwriters Festival to find I missed my mate Tony B at Marxist Fest I have been in a distinctly bad mood all week. The hangover I acquired on Saturday that is still festering behind my eyeballs probably didn't help. The whole of Sunday was written off and Monday morning was a bit dodgy as well, although the boss only seemed to notice something was up when I started laughing hysterically to myself every-time the internet everywhere stick dropped the connection. 

I've been reminiscing over the glory days when we were in production; the Epsom Derby where I got to flash a press pass under people's noses and carry fake blood and gaffer tape in around in my handbag without raising any eyebrows. Our trip to Morpeth and a rather awkward meal with the suffragette's relatives and admirers where I got too drunk and scared everyone with my red-wine-teeth and got into trouble for flirting with the taxi-driver. The marathon run up a spiral staircase in Victoria Tower and chasing people with the suffragette's sash telling them they'll be haunted if they touch it (if anyone that works in the Houses of Parliament happens to be reading this - I'm joking.... we're not meant to touch it without gloves).  

Wednesday

Having taken a few days off from the Suffragette, I've made a trip to the Cotswolds to attend the Screenwriters Festival. Last night a marquee of delighted delegates perched entranced on the edge of their seats (myself included) as Mike Leigh sat in conversation with Simon Relph. He wowed the crowd with very long and elaborate answers, although they weren't as 'hippy-dippy' as the question a particular American woman asked that had absolutely no coherence at all - we all tried to contain our laughter, as after ten minutes she still hadn't come to her point. He shed a lot of light on his methods but didn't feed the hungry ears the answer we all wanted to hear: how can we be like you? I became distracted by Mike's beard and felt the usual pangs of beard envy set in. Looking behind me sneakily, I regarded the wide-eyed mob and wondered if perhaps (seeing the lack of beards generally) that this was the reason for his wondrous powers. I am now considering going against the advise my brother gave to me when I was five and in fact start shaving to encourage stubble to grow on my chin. Everyone respects a man with a beard - Richard Branson, Alan Sugar, Brian Blessed... Having your face partially covered shows you are wise and weathered, and is the only mark of a writer that excludes you from the ugly rule.

Today, having attended the first lecture with Julian Fellowes, I now sit on a bench at The Manor on the Lake contemplating the point of all this. Most of what Julian said brought me firmly down to earth with statements that I knew were true, but didn't like to be told all the same. My particular favourites include You are never safe until you are standing on set,' and, on being part of the British Film Industry - 'It's like making a cake with lead in it.' Beards aside, not only are we writers meant to be ugly and have no personalities (old jokes I know, but it's true), we are also stupid enough to have chosen a profession that will most likely never get us anywhere. At the tender age of 23, and having not actually written my spec script yet, I am feeling panicked at the thought of diving into this career. At least my nervous twitch hasn't returned. And, on an even more positive note, I haven't found any flea bites from my stay in the YMCA last night.