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).