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.

Tuesday

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.

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.