A Room of My Own

I've moved into my office which I'm sharing with Karen (a fantastic professional writer) and Julie (terrific actor). This is so exciting! I'm just off Hope Street in Liverpool which is an inspirational part of a great city. Just being here has let me finish a huge ghost story (it was going to be short but now it's novella sized) and I managed 2000 words a day. This would not happen at home, believe me.

Tomorrow I'm off to the London Screenwriter's Festival and am dong a Pitching Workshop first. I've been working on my ideas and kicking them into shape. They range from a SciFi politician who isn't quite like thing you've ever met to a Sitcom to a crime idea that I'm really hopeful about.

Unlock your creative beast and find a place your family can't pester you!

A Second Helping of Cat

I'm revving up for my sabbatical year starting (effectively and after some arduous exam marking and an Italian holiday) in five weeks time. Excitement is building although I shall have to be careful with my pennies.

Anyway I'm using brilliant advice from a Script Angel course yesterday to review all the stuff I've already written so I can improve it and develop my portfolio.

In the meanwhile - hope you enjoy some more Shakespeare's Cat.

As he walked through the town Will wondered if the rest of Stratford was convinced he was a cat thief. No-one met his eye. Surely they knew him better than that! What if they sided with the Miller and the cats were gone for good. In truth they needed flour more than plays, for what is a town without bread? He stopped for a moment, then remembered the look in Susanna's eyes then placed one unwilling for in front of the other. His affairs were in good stead and the house belonged to his wife's family so a roof would still be theirs. In the heavens above a skylark poured out it's heart in liquid notes, long grasses rustled in the breeze. Will ran his hand through it and felt the sharp slice of the grass blade. Even apparent softness could mount an attack when thus provoked. He sighed and turned into the lane leading to the mill.

There was a rustle in the hedgerow and the kittens popped out. Tabitha opened her tiny, pink mouth and squeaked. Why had the Miller abandoned them? But never mind - his problem was solved. Will scooped the kits into his jacket. Behind him came a sharp scratch of stone and then a substantial, rectangular shadow. He turned slowly and held the jacket behind his back as he did so.

'Will Shakespeare,' the Miller's eyes looked like chips of blue Roman glass embedded in flesh.

'Good morrow Millar, how goes it?' Will held out his hand. The Miller's grasp was such that the flesh between his fingers almost welded together and his bones were tensed ready to crack.

'What brings you here?' asked the Miller. The word cats hung in the air between them, but the Miller hadn't actually turned violent. Perhaps the Miller had made a mistake. Only a fool would remind him.

'A stroll to greet my good neighbour,' purred Will. 'It is good to see you in such fine fettle.' He felt the kittens struggle in the jacket. Time to make an exit. 'I shall leave you in piece to grind your corn.' He walked backwards hoping the struggling cats would remain unseen.

'Since it has been so long, come and share a flagon of ale with me,' said the Miller. The Roman blue of his eyes glinted.

'Alas, I have a play to write,' murmured Will tightening his hands on the squeaking parcel.

'So short a visit to enquire about my health?' said the Miller.

'Inspiration is upon me.' Will took a couple of steps backwards. The Miller put a hand of a size that could enfold a shovel upon his shoulder.

'Let us fill our cups and drink to each other neighbour.' From behind them came the sound of childish laughter. The Miller glanced over his shoulder then looked back at Will. 'Your children are well I trust?'

'As full of whims and fancies as every youth should be.'

'Your son is becoming very proficient with a bow and arrow, I hear. But not so attentive with his lessons.'

Will gawped for a moment. Hamnett was skipping school to poach? He sincerely hoped that was not the case. And to be told by the Miller, a man who could not read or write! How little he knew his own son. 'In that case good Mr Miller, I must decline your kind offer and deal with my errant schoolboy. I wish you good day.' Will walked away, not daring to rush but trying to make his feet arrows of firm resolve. As soon as he turned from the lane he dashed home and deposited the kittens into their owner’s laps. Anne kissed him but Will asked for Hamnett.

'Still in the schoolroom love.'

'Then I shall greet our young fellow fresh from his studies.'

Will entered the schoolhouse through the porch. The classroom door was open a crack. Smiling to himself he leaned forward and peeped through. Not a pupil in sight. A small movement caught his eye. The master's face was buried deep within the local tavern wench. Lord. Will felt anger tinged with envy. Still, a man has a duty, and that tavern wench was betrothed to another, so he rapped firmly on the door. He heard a pause, curses and redistribution of clothing, then the schoolmaster bade him enter.

Master Bagnall still had his back to the door when he walked in, but the tavern wench fixed him with a saucy eye. 'Just providing the master with some refreshment. Tis thirsty work teaching all those boys.'

'Speaking of boys, where is Hamnett? Surely these are still hours of learning.'

Bagnall tried to meet Will's eye but the art of focusing was beyond him. Presumably refreshment had been day long. 'Dismissed a little early so they may study their texts in peace.'

'Then maybe we should have recompense for study at home is free.'

'Please sir, would you like to sample my ale?' Without waiting for a reply she filled a tankard to the brim. The foam on top looked most inviting and the day was warm. Will drained it quickly. 'Another?' That too was swiftly dispatched.

'Is my son a worthy student?'

'Not bad, not bad.' It was doubtful if Bagnall could actually remember which one was Hamnett.

'His Latin requires attention. Otherwise how will he understand the great works of the Romans?'

'The Romans!  Dammit, yes of course, the Romans!  Apologies,' he added for the benefit of the tavern wench.

'No offence taken,' she smiled, flashing a dimple. Then she gathered up her empty jugs and walked to the door with Will. He took another look round, remembering the hours spent learning of Ovid, Horace and, of course, the very useful Plautus (thank you Plautus). And , if he wasn’t mistaken, Plautus might also hold the key to the mystery of the kittens.

By the door the pretty tavern wench held out her hand. Will sighed and handed her a penny.

'They say you write plays. Might you ever have a part for me?' Will considered for a moment.

'Alas, only men tread the boards. But who knows, one day there may be a call for the ladies.'

'When there is will you let me know?'

'Certainly, for what is a play without a tavern?' Will winked and the wench flashed her dimple again. Then he proceeded home with a certain swagger.

Anne was admiring a fine brace of wood pigeons when he arrived home. A gift from Hamnett who claimed they were a gift from the local farmer.

'Fine and plumptious aren't they?'  Will nodded and grinned. Anne looked up sharply. 'You've been to the tavern.'

'Nay, to the school room.'

Anne snorted. 'Where there is ale aplenty?' He shifted his feet and decided it was best not to explain.

'Hamnett, I see you are providing for the family now. Must have been a cracking days work with your quill.' His son had the grace to blush. Still tender, thought Will.

'The farmer...' Hamnett tried to explain.

'Oh the farmer! What a generous fellow. Did your whole class receive a brace of game birds?'

'No.' Hamnett was squirming.

'Just you? And,' he spied the bow and arrow in the corner. 'Is archery now on the curriculum?' Luckily Anne was in the pantry so she couldn't hear this exchange. Hamnett fidgeted and hung his head. 'Well boy, I'm waiting.'

'We were bored. So Falstaff went to the tavern at lunchtime and paid the girl to come round. We know he likes her. And the ale.'

'So you played hooky?'

Hamnett nodded. 'But look at these. You should have seen my shot. I took both with one arrow. Only one arrow! The others could scarce believe it. I can hardly myself.'

Will smiled in memory of his own exploits in the Forest of Arden. 'Take care my son. The Lord does not take kindly to poaching.'

'People say you...'

'Take care about what others say. Maybe tis true and maybe not. But best not repeated incase hostile ears serve to increase its broadcast.' A flash of understanding passed between the two. Anne did not need to know.

'How is my play coming on Daddy?'

Will nodded. 'I shall have it finished by the end of this week. I can see it all before me.' And he could.

The girls burst into the kitchen. 'Elizabeth and Mary are coming here in a minute. They say they've got a surprise for us.' For a horrible moment Will thought he meant the Queen but then the panic subsided. As soon as the knock sounded Susanna rushed to open the door. Elizabeth and Mary stood on the threshold holding kitten, one white, one tabby and both wearing purple ribbon about their furry necks.

'What is this?' Anne advanced towards them. The two girls stepped backwards.

'Only our kittens, Blanche and Tabitha.' Will ran upstairs and snatched the kittens from the bed. They were deliciously warm and heavy with sleep. Then he bounded downstairs. Everyone gasped.

'I have solved our mystery,' said Will. 'Two litters, one of white kittens all called Blanche; and the other of tabbies all called Tabitha. Given purple ribbons are all the rage in town and we have a perfect comedy of errors. Best buy some different ribbon or call a kitten by any other name.

'Well done Will,' Anne gave her husband a lingering kiss. Will returned it fine and hearty hoping her goodwill could be banked for later.

 And now to his new play of mistaken identity, farce and reunion. It was easy when you knew the plot.

The Accidental Upstart Crow (Or Shakespeare's Cat as I call it what I like)

In Liverpool they showed excerpts from Shakespeare's 37 plays at a number of venues on the St George's Day weekend. I loved them and it inspired this short story in tribute. I decided to make it funny, give him a plot to solve and include his family life with the ritual humiliations of being a writer.  A couple of weeks later and David Mitchell and co showed up on BBC2 with Upstart Crow. Guess what? Yup. A story about Will's domestic life...yada, yada.yada. Anyway this is the first half of my version. Hope you like it.

Shakespeare's Cat

'Away with you, foul animal,' snarled Will. He snatched his quill away as the cat tried to paw it. They glared at each other. Will had to get the script finished by the end of a fortnight. The Queen was coming to watch this wretched play at the end of the month. And now that animal of the devil was treating his quill as a plaything. 'Anne,' he called, 'Annie, can you remove this cat from here? Now.' Answer came there none.

He tried to grab the cat but it spun faster than a prize-fighter and got it's strike in first. Blood trickled from neat tiger stripes on the back of his hand. Will raised an arm. The cat's ears went back. It turned and leapt through the window but not before it had knocked the ink all over his work.

'Vile creature.' Will hurled the dripping manuscript into the bin. He had a fortnight, a fortnight to get this right. And the Queen didn't accept failure kindly.

'Daddy,' Hamnett stood by his shoulder. 'You promised me we'd go fishing.'

Will sighed.  'Not today lad. I've got a play to write.'

Hamnett sighed and leant against his father. The quill slipped.

'Go and play with your sister,' he suggested.

'She's boring. And you said people should keep their promises.'

'True, that's absolutely true. And, as soon as I've finished this Act I will.'

'What's it about?' Will breathed out slowly. He knew Hamnett wasn't deliberately trying to annoy him but he hated explaining his plots to people. They always sounded ridiculous to him and people always said oh, as if they thought it was a waste of time too. Or they asked him where he got his ideas from. Will stayed silent and hoped his son would get bored. Instead he started to swing on the back of his chair.

'Stop that now. Anne! Anne!'

'Mummy's gone to the bakers.'

'Hamnett, I've got to get on with my work. This play's bad enough as it is.'

'Write one for me Daddy.'

'What?'

'I want a play with twins in it.'

Shakespeare considered this request. 'With a boy and girl who...'

'Not a girl twin. I want a boy twin,' Hamnett paused, ' A brother I could go fishing with.' Will winced. Little sod, he was cranking up the guilt. 'Write it for me Daddy, promise.'

'If you promise to play with your sister.'

'Judith only wants to play dolls with Susanna.' Hamnett tripped out of the room. Will butted his forehead against the desk. He was a bloody idiot.

Anne came in later. Will was about to snap when he noticed her fine dark eyes were looking inwards. She smiled faintly but sorrow ate at the corners of her mouth.

'Pray love, what is the matter?' Will caught her gently by the wrist. Anne blinked rapidly and took a deep breath.

'It's Edward, the baker's son. He died during the night of a fever. No-one had any idea.' They both looked down at the floor then they looked through the window at Hamnett playing with his sisters and their cats. They were twirling some string which the cats attacked with glee. Will and Anne stood side by side listening to the children laughing as they tried to whisk the string away, but the paws of the tabby and white cats were too fast. In his mind Will saw Edward, a stocky little boy with tow coloured hair playing with Hamnett. It was a few days ago. Just a few days past. Anne gently removed her hand and went out. Will sat down again and grasped his quill. It was to be a play about twins. And loss.

The girls bought some purple ribbon for the cats. It was all the rage in the town. Will smiled and rolled his eyes at the conceit. How long would it last round those necks. Then he sat back in his chair, what was going to happen to those twins?  Two hours later he still had no idea when the white kitten leapt through the window with a lamb chop in its mouth.

Will gave chase but the cat shot into the cellar and hid behind some boxes. That must be someone's supper, but, unless it was the Fletcher who would eat anything, the they would need to find something else. Bloody animal. Will turned the key in the lock. Blanche the white kitten could damn well stay there in disgrace.

He sat down and tried again. Then Susannah knocked on the door. Ink dripped onto the paper. Will had been doodling.

'Daddy, Mistress Midden is here,' her voice dropped to a whisper. 'She looks like a pudding full of sour plums.'

'Where's your mother?'

'With the baker's family.'

Mistress Midden squeezed through the doorway and plonked her ample parts on a wooden chair that was already complaining about the arrangement. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and glared round. 'This the place you do your writing? Tis like a tart's tickle box. Not a place for proper man's work.'

'And how are Mr Midden's cows my good lady. I hear he has some prize specimens.'

'That he has,' she replied. 'Has the queen ever watched some of your Nancy plays?'

'Many a time. Some folk even think she likes them. Now, what can I do for you good lady?'

Mistress Midden examined the room with great care. Will reckoned she had a much better valuation of the contents than he had. 'It's about your cat. The white one.'

'Blanche?'

'Is that what you call her?' Mrs Midden spat neatly into the fireplace. There was a brief sizzle then she turned back. 'Blasted animal, pardon my French, chased a mouse into the creamery. It drowned in the vat of milk. Now I want recompense.'

'For the vat of milk.'

'No. For the time spend squeezing the milk out of its fur.'

Will blinked rapidly and prayed Anne bought the butter from elsewhere. A smile played about his lips, 'Did you squeeze it in the Low Countries? It might have swallowed some milk.'

Mistress Midden's eyes rounded. 'I did not sir,' she said. 'But next time I shall make sure I do. In the meantime your cat...'

Will thought carefully. 'When was this?

'Not twenty minutes ago,' came the reply.

Will blinked again.'it cannot be Blanche for she is locked in the cellar for these last two hours. And besides,' he added, 'she wears a purple ribbon.'

'I know,' Mistress Midden plonked a cream drenched bow on the table. Will examined it then rose and went to the cellar. Blanche popped out immediately and ran into the garden.

'Can't be my cat,' said Will.

'They can escape from anywhere,' declared the lady. She held out her hand. Will handed over a penny then watched Mistress Midden waddle back to her prize cows. Blanche still had her ribbon on. Will put his head on one side. Now there was a pretty mystery. Then he scratched his head and returned to his labours.

It was four of the clock when he raised his head again. Anne was talking to one of the neighbours - the blacksmith unless he was mistaken. Her head was on one side and she was smiling and running her purse strings through her fingers. Meanwhile the Blacksmith stood feet astride and was grinning.  The two of them looked most friendly. A pox on your house Smith, though Will. He wished he had time to come out and break up the happy union by his gate.

Susanna scampered down the path and ran across the lawn. Tabitha was sunning herself in the garden; the sunlight gave her thin kittenish coat a rich tawny glow. Susanna picked her up and cuddled her. Will watched through the window and smiled. Then Hamnett and his friend ran past and pulled the kitten's tail. Wailing ensued. Will closed the window and rubbed the end of his quill on his chin. Inspiration was a long way off. He sighed. It needed to strike soon.

After supper he strolled by the river with Anne, leaving the three children behind with his in-laws. One of the few times he was grateful they all lived together. The sun's soft rays warmed his head and he finally felt his shoulders relax. Anne smiled tucked her arm through his, swans sailed past like miniature galleons and all was right with the world. Tabitha popped out of the undergrowth. Will darted forward to grab the little cat, fearful she might fall into the river. But the tiny tabby arched her back and hissed as if he was a perfect stranger. Anne reached out but a petite paw slapped her hand in warning.

'Tabitha,' a female voice called. It was not Susannah's. The kitten ran eagerly away without a backward glance. Will and Anne widened their eyes and winced. Why had Susannah's beloved pet deserted her?

'The fickleness of cats is no less than the fickleness of women,' muttered Will. Anne glared at him and they walked home briskly, his wife leading the way. But when they peeped into the girl's bedroom both kittens were curled blissfully at the end of the bed. A mystery.

'Not so fickle then,' Anne looked smug. Will crept downstairs to try and make progress with his play.

The morning passed. Will shunted a comma round a sentence and sucked his quill. By eleven o'clock he decided to go for a walk. As he was passing the church the priest called out to him. Will turned his feet and walked into the stone coolness of The Holy Trinity church. Vicar Halford gestured towards the font with a long boney hand. Will was puzzled, there were no christenings planned in the family.

'William, we encountered a slight problem at the font.' Vicar Halford paused and balanced on one leg for a moment. This habit plus his elongated figure had promoted the nickname of Heron by the locals. A giggle was suppressed. Will arranged his features into an expression of concern. 'We were baptising an infant when your kitten Blanche leapt up and started to drink from the font. She consumed a considerable amount of holy water,  blasphemous creature. We were most aggrieved.' Will nodded but wondered what on earth the vicar expected him to do about it. Then he reached for his purse and handed the vicar a penny. 'Most kind,' returned the vicar. 'By the way, I went to see the Spanish Tragedy when I was last in town - a most wondrous entertainment. The crowd gave a standing ovation.'

'Good, good,' said Will. Bloody Thomas Kyd and his overblown potboiler.

'Of course, I haven't seen any one your plays,' said the vicar. 'I've always thought, if I wasn't a man of the cloth, that I might write one. Afunny one. Or a thundering good yarn.

'Why not,' agreed Will, 'anyone can toss off a few lines, and why, there's a play.' He gave the vicar a swift bow and left the church.  A few little figures scuttled in between the graves; Hamnett and his friends with their fishing rods. Well it was a fine day to be casting a fly in the river. Will's heart ached. Hamnett had given up asking his father. Every time he returned home the boy had changed so much. He has progressed from the first stage to the second stage in between one breath and another, or so it seemed .

The house was in uproar when he returned. Susanna and Judith were weeping, Anne's hair was slipping from her wimple and her cheeks were flushed. For a moment Will stood and admired her disarray.

'Will, the Miller has only come and stolen our cats.'

'Thank heaven we are rid of those creature,' cried Will, 'they are the enemies of my time and my craft.' His womenfolk glared at him.

'William Shakespeare,' spat his wife, 'you live too long in the world of make believe. These are your own real daughters whose hearts are broken not some mimsy invention who wafts about the stage wailing.'

'He's taken our pets,' Susanna's chin shook as she battled with her tears. 'He says they belong to his girls. But I love my Tabby and I want her back. Blanche too.'

'You've got to confront him and get them back,' demanded Anne, 'even if you've got to fight him.'

The Millar was the height of two barrels and the width of three. When he was drunk he'd punched a shire horse and knocked it to its knees. Even his own shadow was scared of him. Will swallowed.

'Seeing as they are the cause of much ado perhaps we should buy a differently striped pair?' The chorus of disapproval told him otherwise.

'Wish me luck,' he said to Anne and then he tenderly kissed his daughters. Then, placing a cap on his locks he walked over towards the mill.

To be continued.

Back From The Dead with Ringo and some Wacky Bhajis.

I've been writing like a crazy (and writing crazy stuff). This is for a the Hope Comedy Playwriting Award which is held annually and has just closed.

My entry is about Ringo Starr who doesn't want to be a Beatle any more; but his butler's life depends on it. The inspiration is when Ringo decided he wouldn't sign anything and I wondered what he did want. So I paired him with Sanjeev his butler, who makes wicked bhajis and is hiding a secret, then I forced Ringo to send a doppelganger out to impersonate him on tour (he's fed up with playing Beatle tunes). Finally I got Sanjeev into trouble with the local gangsteress, sent Ringo off to find him and let it rip.

The adventure is huge fun, quite surreal and has you wondering who is who. On my way I discovered I can write funny lyrics for songs.  For a quick sample:

Don't ask me to sign stuff
Don't send me your songs
Or ask me for posters
That will hang in your johns.

Even if it doesn't go far in this competition I am going to polish this baby because I love it.  Then it's going out on the prowl in search of a stage and some actors! Be warned.

The Coffee Shop Don Story

Finally decided to discover the art of blogging, even though it does feel like shouting in a vacuum.
On Friday at Wirral Writers we were sharing our Christmas stories, an annual event that always yield some lovely little gems. I got a really nice response to my story The Coffee Shop Don. It is kind of a Christmas truce but the soldiers involved don't normally have a cenotaph. I like the characters enough in this to think about developing them. See what you think...

The Coffee Shop Don

The Coffee Shop Don sits in the window of Rosa's Cafe sipping his heavily sugared double expresso. A small biscotti perches on the edge of the saucer. These days he has to dunk them. Back in his heyday his teeth were fearless, for Rosa's biscotti are harder than the concrete that built the Marylebone flyover. But his dunking is discrete, the Don has a reputation to maintain.

The Coffee Shop Don's seat faces down the Edgware Road, never towards Kilburn and the Irish. A wise old head knows facing the wrong way at the wrong time means trouble. As a child in the backstreets of Istanbul he learned the value of that lesson. He thoughtfully feels the scar just above his temple. Nearly. His father, with eyes darker than the expresso, dealt with his attackers.

'Pick your friends carefully,' his father told him, 'But pick your enemies with even greater care.'

When he sent his young son to London he wept. The Don still remembers the tickle of his father's moustache on his cheek, the smell of sweat mixed with tobacco from tiny black cigarettes.

'Remember we are soldiers,' he implored as he patted the firm, proud cheek of his scion. 'We are soldiers in the war against the rich. But we have our honour and our codes. The rich man only has his greed. So fight bravely in these foreign lands.'

His son did not cry, he was too afraid. So he hugged his mother as if he was going to the souk and leapt aboard the truck. He didn't open his eyes until they'd left Turkey.

The Don arrived in England on Christmas Day, the day the border guards are careless.  He remembers the poor Lebanese family that took him in; the cold; the smell of cabbage; the green parks and incurious white faces. His letters home told of lowly place in the organisation, the errands, and then promotion as figures moved, some to prison, some to eternity. He remembers his parent's pride, the bragging and backslapping when he came to visit.

His father's enemy turned out to be those tiny, black cigarettes.

The Coffee Shop Don orders another double expresso and waits. He has the infinite patience of the oriental. All come to him. They sit and he listens to their woes. He says very little, deploying silence like a marksman. Eventually they pay, after the tears and begging. After they leave the Don orders an expresso and a biscotti. His hand never shakes as he lifts the tiny cup, even when the news is bad.

On the Edgeware Road a few Christmas lights gleam, but they are hopelessly out-blinged by the gold in the jewellers. Arabic writing scrolls elegantly above the English signs. Red buses and black taxis remind him this is not Istanbul. A lack of drunks on Christmas Eve tell him this is not quite England. Further down the Edgeware Road the Irish of Kilburn will stumble from the pub to Midnight Mass.

The door of the coffee shop swings open and a flock of women in black hijabs enter, tempted by the swirling creamy confections for a late night treat. Behind them is a man in a black leather jacket and hair as dark as the Don's used to be. He stands opposite the Don, and offers a pale hand in salutation. Eyes of Irish blue meet eyes of faded brown. The Don inclines his head, the Irishman sits. A parcel slides towards the Don. He smells it. Tobacco. He slides one back in return. The Irishman smells pastries scented with honey and almonds. Eyes meet again.  Twenty four hours. The number is not spoken but the eyes soften on both sides of the table. Then both men lift their tiny cups and sip, biscotti perched on the edge of the saucer.

Too Busy Writing to Write

Ever since I started my screenwriting course I have been too busy trying to keep up with it to update you. A few weeks in and we are starting to get to know each other. Emma, in her twenties, has embarked on a feature film about a kidnapped child; Kenny has a hilarious script about a hoodie sent back to 1911 by a computer profficient school mate who hates him. The other scripts are really interesting too.

We read (workshop) each others scripts and comment on them - hugely useful. In the second week I took in my first 10 pages of Granny's Little Helper and they loved it. Great premise they thought and really good visuals. I need to beef up Alex some more to make him even naughtier. I already have some serious plans for that boy!

On top of that I have to write a 10 minute short film and a 60 minute family drama serial that could fill the Saturday night spot currently taken by Doctor Who and Merlin. I managed to write a 10 minute short and workshopped it last Tuesday. It is a revenge story and no-one there could guess the end. However my husband worked out the teacher must have done it. I am still not quite happy with it but the suggestions were very helpful. Then I finally realised what I needed in it when I watched the Review Show and they discussed the Coen brothers latest film - True Grit (it ins't a cowboy though!).

As for the 60 minute script I have finally come up with an idea I like and should have legs. It is about a man from the future who has has his old memories erased and is sent back into the past with new ones to carry out a task he is unaware of. But others realise if he is allowed to perform it he will change the course of history disasterously so they need to prevent him. They send him to the present day, a time he has no knowledge of, but have they hidden him well enough? And what else was he programmed to do?

Manic But Good

Talk about only having spare nanoseconds. This week was wall-to-wall with meetings after school, a lovely anniversary dinner and a trip to Snowdonia.
Yesterday we went to Llyn Ogwen to spy out our new silver/gold practice route for Easter. Gorgeous place but it was cold! The little streams runnning down the mountain were fringed with icicles -all beautifully clear . They looked like exotic glass flowers. Sadly it was too slippery on the rocks to cross over the top of the ridge to the Devil's Kitchen. Let's hope by Easter it will be a little warmer.
I began my Screenwriting course at LJMU on Tuesday and got an immediate pay-off. In my script Granny's Little Helper I had wondered how to show Alex's cheeky character. Margie suggested he might want to impersonate his Dad while he was away. Although I will use a small element of that, it did trigger a great idea for a crazy website he and his friends can create in his Dad's name. Simon Cowell will be sick he didn't think of this one!