Sign of the Times?

Caffe Nero used to stock free copies of the day's newspapers for its
customers.
No longer.
From this morning they sell copies of the Times at the till.

I bought a bed warmer on saturday

No, not a cute cuddly human one - a repro copper warming pan, like this one:

http://www.antiques-atlas.com/antiques/Metalware/Copper_Warming_Pan.php

In the 17th-19th these devices were used to warm the bed before entering - the copper pan was loaded with a small shovelful of embers,
closed and slid between the sheets to make them toasty.

The one I bought was probably made in the 1960s or 70s, when there was quite a vogue for "antique" copper in the suburbs. It was only £5 in
a charity shop, and I am keen to try it out when I next sleep in the Stone Caravan. Last year I used rubber hot water bottles - (one at
each end) but they can make the bed feel clammy and humid.

This leads me to recall the going to bed routine, during the months when the sun set at 4 o'clock, icicles hung from the walls of the kitchen,
and frost crusted the inside of the bedroom window.

Morning - pulls back bedding and open windows to air bed.
Early evening - Close windows.
About 30 mins before going to bed - make two hot water bottles in the kitchen, carry upstairs, light gas lamp and gas heater in bedroom hang
pyjamas or night dress on chair to warm, remake bed.
Bedtime - floss and brush teeth. Make warm drink. Carry drink, book and wind-up radio upstairs.

BRACE YERSELF!

This is the tough bit - even with the gas heater!
Change in to night clothes FAST!
Pull on cardigan and woolly hat, leap into bed.
Snuggle deep into the mattress topper, duvet and eiderdown.
Drift off to sleep, listening to the owl or Radio 3.
Bliss. Seriously good snugly sleep for 8-9 hours.

Anyway - I saw this warming pan in a shop window opposite a railway station while I was trying to kill time between trains, and made an impulse buy. So, if you saw a woman carrying a 3 foot warming pan on a beach walk in Saturday afternoon - that was me.

Woot! I think I did it...

I may of course be counting chickens - but thanks to NicNac's excellent
suggestion last night I identified the 3 points in the 3rd act where my
protagonists actions did not add up - and found as I did so that I could
redo the maths and make the sums come out.

I still have to ease the new section into the script I already have, but
it might just be possible that I have finally got a film on my hands.

I'm actually a bit lightheaded - must be the lack of sleep, certainly
not the first inch of house red at 2.30 a glass that I am celebrating
with...

As you can probably tell from the price I'm in a *proper cafe* - in a
booth with red vinyl seating, and it's very drinkable accompaniment to a
dish of liver, sage, mash and savoy cabbage, freshly cooked, and all for
less than the cost of the medium popcorn bucket at the cinema next door.

Cheers!

As I struggle to untangle the *exact* same knot in the narrative which defeated me 8 months ago...

... I muse that writing a novel is like oil painting - adding and
removing layers of colour and form;

while writing a film is like sculpture, hacking away everything that
isn't a film, in the hope that there is something inside the dumb block
after all.

I've probably said that before, haven't I? last time I realised I was
absolutely stuck AGAIN.

It's horrifying how often I have been here, staring at the crapping
thing, unable to make that one little section of the story sing.

I went back to the first draft again this morning, to see how I did it
then, and, crap, they same section was a clutch of bullet points with a
note "go back to write later"

Crap.

I'm at the BFI, armed with a coffee and laptop

Just how would Sterling Cooper smell?

Trust me, as some one who has lived in 19th rural conditions, in
midwinter, with access to hot water and laundry a 2 mile hike away
cross-country, I know a little about the smell of the past*

And is there is one aspect of life in 1960 which the production team on
the utterly wonderful *Mad Men*
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mad_Men_%28TV_series%29>is unable to bring
us with the extraordinary detail that is lavished on the way the show
looks and sounds, it's the aroma of the Madison Ave offices.

Smell.

I don't just mean the haze of cigarette smoke, but also the human fug
which that generation took for granted.

In the very first episode Don Draper arrives in the office after
spending the night with Midge, and cracks open a freshly laundered shirt
to wear - over his undershirt (or as we Brits would say, his vest). No
quick spray of deodorant first. In fact, the launch of the first
aerosol by Right Guard one of Draper's accounts. "Space Age", the guys
say doubtfully, clearly a little perplexed at the point of the product.
Don knows better - this will be bought by women in the hope that men
will use it, and he sends them out to think again.

But the women aren't going to smell much fresher, try as they might.
Those eye-popping busts and Joan's luscious curves are created by
layers of nylon and rubber - the bullet bra and roll on girdle. Now,
these aren't as uncomfortable as the wonderbra generation may think. I
know, I'm wearing a set right now, suspenders at all. But they aren't
machine washable - they need hand washing in the sink at the end of the
week, and in a Manhattan summer must function like a personal sauna. The
stockings get rinsed out every evening to dry overnight.

In fact, very little of what the women of Sterling Cooper wear is
machine washable. Out in the suburbs Betty Draper may have a mechanical
aid, that rinses as it "relaxes", but apartment dwellers like Peggy and
Joan would consider a shared machine in the basement of the block a
luxury. Most will send out sheets, towels and shirts to professional
laundries (back to that stack of shirts in Don's office), and wash the
rest in the sink.

Plus, well, to put it as delicately as I can, the sanitary products of
the day did not have wings, leak-proof barriers and polyacrylate gel
cores "to lock moisture away".

And then there is the hair. No morning shower and blow dry in 1960. No
hand held dryers. Drying at home is n evening long process. Guys wash
weekly and use scented brilliantine to hold their locks in place. Joan
and Betty visit a salon once a week for a "set", and rely on hairspray
and sleeping in scarves, turbans, rollers and nets to keep the curls in
place. If their hair gets a little greasy between visits, there's
always talcum powder to soak it up.

In short - the human zoo that is Sterling Cooper must have a remarkably
heady aroma of pure animal musk in its atmosphere, under those perpetual
curlicues of tobacco smoke.

Which may well explain the extraordinarily high-level of sexual activity
among the office population.

* Woodsmoke and damp wool

Things this country mouse loves

Sounds - the wind in the pine-copse below the house; the spring behind
it; the scurry of very small animals; pheasants caught roosting in the
twilit woods, raptors mewing; conversation; silence, sheep; the fire,
fluttering;

Smells - deep dark cold smells of winter earth and frost, woodsmoke and
soot, the timber pile in the sunshine, line-dried clothes, snow

Tastes - anything cooked on my own fire.

Sights - open skies, horizon to horizon; the milky way caught in the
trees at midnight, the toad that lives in the woodpile, the view framed
by tiny windows at dawn, randy old Leicester rams, the changing oakwood,
lambs chasing baby rabbits, frost flowers, foxes at twilight, snow.

Touch - lying in the bracken in October sunshine, cold spring water,
wind and rain, toddlers sleeping draped over a shoulder or knee.

Interesting - is this a turning in the road for the mobile phone

I am working updating a contact list for a client, and I have just
noticed something odd.

A sudden slew of business cards for executives which omit the mobile
phone number.

For the past few years people have tended to give their mobile number
more and more as a primary contact number. Now it is disappearing again.

What's driving the change?

Is it status?
The more junior an exe the more likely he or she is to list every
possible number where they can be reached.
The more senior the executive the more likely he or she is to have a PA
to field their calls through a landline

Or quality?
Complaints about phone coverage have soared in recent months, as people
discover that all the features imaginable on a phone won't help if the
network coverage is crappy. Newer phone seem to cut off calls much
sooner, and investment in masts seems to have been slow than anticipated.

Or just a choice?
Maybe it really isn't that conducive to good work to be available to
take and make calls 24/7.

It maybe a quirk - but it's odd that I should notice it, and then flick
to the BBC business site to discover that Ryanair have approved mobile
phone use on one of their routes.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/7900941.stm

This is my new motto -

"/If the only way to enjoy a book is not to know what happens next,
*it's not a good book*/*.*"

Lightening in a bottle?

It's gone - the creative roll that ended with the software crash in
Sunday has evaporated, and so far I haven't managed to pick up the
threads and start the whole thing moving again.

It's not utterly miserable, because I do at least remember that it is
possible to do, that there was a story coming from somewhere and ending
up on the page.

I do wonder if somehow I (or some ID like me lurking within) didn't
*create* the crash to bring my progress stuttering to a close, just as I
was building up momentum to deal with the most difficult re-write, the
scenes which has brought me to a standstill before.

Certainly that may have conditioned the way I responded, the frozen
shock, the hours spent putting it all together again.

It's even a bit reassuring to know that I have come up against the core
difficulty, the scene, the actions that I don't want to look at, don't
want to describe. Now I know what they are, and how far part of me might
be willing to go to turn aside from them.

Honestly though - where does story come from?

Because it's not from a rational place. No amount of plotting and theme
weaving and character exploration is going to move things along as fast
or as well as the sheer flow of story from brainstem to screen via
finger tips. All those rational things have their place in the process,
as does just turning up to do the work, day after day, week after week,
even if no work gets done, or the work is done and then nestles down in
the waste paper basket to raise dust-babies two days later.

Two weeks ago I had nothing. All those hours of typing, all that
plotting and replotting, all that "turning up" - and nothing. Nada. No
words. No story. Enough to make you want to throw the laptop off the
Jubilee Bridge then follow it.

Then from nowhere, 4 whole days when the whole thing, from A to B,
starts to unfurl in the mind, and there is no part of it you cannot look
at without seeing the through line, and the words to complete it.

It will come back (nothing is more certain) but I am still foxed as to
the circumstances in which it arose, and so how to go about recreating
the conditions which will make its return more likely.

Just got the script back to the state it was in at 4.30pm on Sunday

Every element of every section of the raw text version I had open on
Sunday has now been tagged, so now I have to let go, and start picking
up again where I left off.

Note: For anyone unfamiliar with screenplay format two days (i.e. 7
hours fitted around the "work that pays the bills") might seem a bit
epic, but every element - every scene location, scene description,
character name, "wryly", dialogue etc, has to be be tagged with the
correct format, margins etc. Screenplay software, like Celtx, Final
Draft, Movie Magic etc, adds this pretty much intuitively as you type -
although corrections still have to made manually.

But the tags aren't generally compatible between software packages, or
between the software and word.

Ironically, one of the reasons I swapped from Final Draft to Celtx in
the first place was that FD makes retagging so onerous - there are no
keyboard shortcuts for retagging - every line has to be selected, and
then an element tag selected for it by mouse. This is unbelievably
clunky, and bad news for anyone using a mouse - the only shortcut is the
one to RSI and wrist straps

So, the chastened return to Final Draft involved scrolling through 70
pages of pasted script, identifying and retagging 1000 separate
elements with 6 possible tags, and manually removing 3000 unwanted
carriage returns generated by the process.

I suppose I could have left it to do later - but without the tags it's
virtually impossible to navigate a 90 page script, find notes, swap
scenes, calculate time schemes etc.

Industry Standard Screenplay Software - Expensive and Neanderthal.

For example - lots of the features you and I might take for granted in
Word, like highlighting text you need to revise - well, go whistle for
it.

Which is all well and dandy when FD was first released back in the
1990s, but I'm using the most recent upgrade, at a horrendous cost -
and in the UK the price is double what the US pays, even for a
downloaded version - WTH! - I can only install it on two machines before
the key runs out, and in terms of usability it's like being flung in the
era of DOS and Locoscript. (Actually, I wrote my first script in
Locoscript on an Amstrad PCW in 1993, and the shortcuts were easier to use).

That's why I'm heartbroken that Celtx, my new squeeze, let me down.

Now, let's see if I can pick up where I left off.

What was this sodding story about again?

Anyone?

15 years on - but better late than never

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/7894763.stm

At last - mobile phone makers have signed up to a universal re-charger
format.

How many obsolete chargers are lurking in your house?
How many different chargers do your family and visitors have to juggle?

Writer's Nightmare - Celtx? Are you out there?

There are few things that freeze the blood more than staring at a
screen, willing the errant pixels to appear as your stomach makes a
greasy slide down into the abyss and a mixture of bile and blind panic
rises in the throat.

Yes, at approx 5.40pm yesterday I lost a week's work. Not just any
week, but the most productive and satisfying 4 days work in over a year.

Scene 12 - 42. Gone. And apparently - despite CELTX's claim to be saving
my file every 5 minutes, and at least 3 manual saves and reboots in that
3 days - no retrievable copy.

Now, luckily, completely fortuitously 5 minutes earlier I had done a
word count, by copypasten in word.
Because when I hit the next 1000 words I had promised myself a biscuit.

So I had the whole raw text sitting in an unsaved open document.

But - what the hell CELTX? Guess whose software I will not be trusting
again?
How come you saved all my new characters names in the Master Catalogue,
all the new scene locations etc - but not the effing script itself?
Huh?

Back to Final Draft.

It will take *hours* to rebuild that sodding script.

I love weather

All of it. Sun, wind, snow, sleet, ice, rain, force 10 gales
(particularly when I'm the one at the helm at middle watch) and the
curiously oily swell of dead calm.

Just as well I live in the middle of this particular island on the edge
of the Atlantic, then. We might not get all the available weather
(although the odd tornado is not unknown) but we certainly great a
wonderful variety.
Every.
Day.

We should be grateful - moaning about the weather seems to have cheered
every one up. Forget the international credit drought and and worry
about the national salt shortage instead!

Today is sleety, my nose is runny and my shoes are full of icy slush.
The fat wet flakes hit the river with a constant hiss like a passing of
a swarm of stealth hornets.

Hand me a steaming coffee someone, I need to thaw!

I have been sadly misled... It's not a 300 year old cottage at all

... it's an 800 year old watch tower.

Or so the oldest members of the landlord's family claim.

Their ancestors built a lookout on a convenient rock within in sight of
their Pele Tower, to guard their sheep from various Scots, Neighbours
and other Marauders.

Hence the square plan of the cottage, the 3 foot thick walls, lack of
ground floor windows, etc, etc.

Yesterday morning nine lovely people with spades braved the sub zero
temperatures to clear the ditch between the house and the fell, and so
divert the river that had started lapping against the door since this
summer's relentless rain.

The running water had changed the local fauna - I have a mink in
residence somewhere, which has eaten all the mice.

And an owl.

Happy New Year!

O they so Cute! (Darling little Octopus alert)

I have a great affection for octopussies - so I was intrigued to read of
their "living ancestor"

And then I saw the pictures.

Oh my word - CUTE!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/7715741.stm

(no subject)

I am working for a chartered surveyor this month. I like my boss, he is
a intelligent hard-working gentle-man. Very English. Very prep school.

But....

Talk about two cultures!

We have been trying for two weeks to wrangle a password reset out of O2, and for days he couldn't convince the operator he was who he said
he was, so he was locked out of his own mail account.

I made an off-hand comment about needing a Kafka to do full justice to the situation.

And he said...

- A what?

- A writer?

- Why?

- What did he write?

- What's that got to do with my blackberry?

(no subject)

The Stone Caravan has survived the summer with surprising little damage.

It was the first time I had been back since June, and I was braced for
disaster.

The ditch above the cottage must have overwhelmed by the summer rain;
there is a stream running through the lean-to loo, and out under the
front door – the porch is three to four inches thick with mud – but
none of this found it's way into the house.

The swallows raised their family and left. I can tell exactly which
doors and chairs they most enjoyed perching on. They left little
poopy wiggly signatures underneath!

They also left a huge birdy midden on the stairs right under the nest….

And a vacant nest of course. Which is now on the mantelpiece – it's a
work of art.

There is black mould on 3 walls – I think this is due to using a
casein based paint – the next time I will use a pure lime putty, as
that is naturally fungicidal.

And there is dust everywhere.

For some 15 minutes I just wandered around, unsure where to begin.
Had the caravan defeated me?

But 90 minutes later – the stairs were clear and worst of the rooms
was de-birdied and almost de-dusted, and I realised how little damage
had actually been done. It's all superficial.

No more work can be done this winter – it's just too damp and
impossible to get machinery up there.

I can only hope for a dry-ish spring summer, to dig out the ditches,
pin the wall and repaint the plaster.

Recasting as a writing tool

Bit of a discovery here.

At the moment I am juggling three writing projects -

- the Big Screenplay: locked in the kitchen drawer for the elves to
edit...,

- the TV Script: one hour pilot - I'm trying to get a full draft done
my November 1, but a nasty cold virus ate my homework and I'm two
weeks behind schedule)

- and a silly Spy Novella: just for fun - no redeeming features
whatsoever... or so I thought.

Yesterday I was squaring up to one of the story lines in the TV
script, in which the protagonist is caught and roughed up by a local
gangster.

I couldn't concentrate (the last hangover from the cold I suspect) and
my imagination wanted to play in the sandbox, with my spies ...

So "What if....

....I recast the TV script with a favourite character from the sandbox?

Suddenly instead of a generic 30 something gangster I have a good-
looking, sweet-talking, almost twinkly 70 year-old sadist, who is
still handy with a straight-razor.

The scene sprang back into focus and started to write itself. The
Pensionable Psycho has a history and a voice.

I'm now adding "recasting" to the tool-kit, to get me over similar
writing road blocks in the future

(no subject)

Apologies for the long silence - it started as short silence (while I
raced to a deadline) then became a longer silence because I had no
idea what to say that was worth writing, let alone worth reading.

And how the world has changed - certainties melting away hour by
hour. The biggest nationalisation since the war. The Bankruptcy of
an entire nation whose only assets seem to be cod, sulphurous springs
and Bjork.

I tried to find a working cashpoint yesterday morning (on my way to
pick up a Visa from the Russian Embassy for my current boss) and every
machine along High Street Kensington was out of commission. For a few
moments I wondered if that was the end - if the entire retail banking
industry had finally collapsed, and the cash in demand from a hole in
the wall was about to become a distant memory to amazing our
grandchildren with - like Anderson shelters, green grocers and
deference to the Royal Family.

If a financial crash can shake our world view so entirely (despite the
warnings of the past years that something was seriously awry) how much
more devastating would be the Ecological Crash, which may already be
taking place. There is plenty of unquantified toxic debt lurking in
the ecosystem, ready to explode in our faces... Soon Iceland may be
left with just the smelly springs and Bjork.

In other news: the speculative Blitz TV pilot I was writing winds on.

(no subject)

Strange old week.

The Holiday Monday was dark and cold. I went out, looking for a quiet
place to write, and encountered N - . She's 40, a writer, from my part of the world,
and she was sitting in a puddle of her own shit and piss on the steps
of an abandoned magistrate's court, shaking and unable to stand. She
has MS, can barely walk and is doubly incontinent. Her bag was
scattered around her. She had left her flat, without her coat,
ostensibly to shop, but I suspect to escape a sense of entrapment;
she had just got a restraining order against an ex-boyfriend.

All this came out as we sat on the nearest bench. Over the next hour
we walked slowly from seat to seat along the road, stopping to rest,
and smoke, and talk. Shoppers looked askance. Not hostile, just
troubled. A Big Issue seller - South American refugee - ran up and
gave her a big hug. They chattered for a few minutes about their
disabilities before parting.

N - didn't want to go home, and I had a train to catch, so in the end
I left her outside a pub, drinking soda water and smoking. She had a
taxi-card, to call for a disabled taxi home, and cash to pay, so it
wasn't strictly an abandonment. I just couldn't stay any longer,
because I'm a coward.

Just a reminder to grab every minute, experience, encounter that one can, while one can.