So I’m standing in the Louvre and wondering how on earth I can begin to unravel my first response on seeing La Jaconda from the incredible tapestry of expectation, analysis, myth and mystique that has been woven across this most famous of paintings over the past two hundred years or so. Wondering even if I should bother, after all to reduce the piece to just a picture of a faintly amused Italian housewife by some rocks is almost to miss…
All of which previous ranting brings me back to the bar of the Old Oak Manor and four or five pints of (appropriately named) Directors’ bitter and a conversation with some old friends about a low-budget (£500k) comedy script that we could hopefully write in the space of a weekend. I hope you’re following this. Wednesday 4th July The hole has been repaired and so I spend the morning painting my ceiling. Also start listening to the new Frank Black…
It’s Sunday and it’s raining. Proper rain. The sort of rain I remember from childhood. People always say that when thinking back to their childhood the sun always seems to be shining, I generally remember rain. Long cold days with white skies and a persistent background crackle as the water bounces off the roof, the windows, or the sides of the car. It’s that sort of day now and I’m really having to fight hard not to pull my duvet…
Me just before the last screening of “Death of the Revolution”. SATURDAY. It is about six o’clock a week ago and I have just woken up with my face pressed against sharp synthetic fabric. Chris and I are on the train up to Edinburgh and my neck and shoulders are still in agony and the only half comfortable way of sleeping I’ve found is by leaning forward, my forehead against the headrest of the seat in front of me. I…
OK, I meant to do the accounts on Friday and pay Adam, Chris and Martin what’s owed to them, though of course Adam has already taken some money which means we probably don’t owe him anything. Must also get Adam to ring Malcolm our accountant and sort out his tax details. Anyway, Wednesday we had our first screening of the very rough cut of Panda with the funders, which was good despite Chris getting a bit cranky ‘cos he’s not…
Thursday morning and again I’m on the train, this time coming back from my girlfriend’s house. She’s been in Wales since the weekend and I’ve missed her hugely, she’s also just as busy as I am so I’m unlikely to see her again this week and am trying not to feel guilty about spending the morning with her… It’s tough though. I got a text from Quinny last night saying that we’ve lost our make-up artist and I still need…
My girlfriend is down in Wales and just as I’m making crap jokes about Mumbles there is a power cut and our conversation is cut dead. I had been writing an email to Melissa and listening to music when the phone had rung and now, in an instant, I am standing in silent darkness. It’s about ten o’clock and so I go to bed with a candle. Usually I sleep with the radio on, the dulcet tones of radio four…
This is the brilliant Andrew Wood, Moth Recorder for the Herts and Middlesex Butterfly Association, who, out of the kindness of his heart, took us on a mothing trip last night. For those of you who haven’t yet read the script of “Hallo Panda”, the short film that consumes my every waking moment, moths play an important scientific, poetic and narrative role in the film and we’ve been keen to get to meet some for a while. In the film…
