Dressed For Comfort, Not Speed

Wednesday, 24th September

I left the house dressed to thrill, stretch black leather Jitrois skirt, fitted Matthew Williamson black jacket, and matching turquoise Jimmy Choo stilettos and Wayfarers.  A lot of effort for a 30 minute meeting, but worth it as it turns out.  Rob, Nicola (not just an agent, but the managing director of the company) and I bandied some thoughts about cancer, and medical TV in general.

I mentioned my book, and Nicola's eyes lit up.  In no time at all we were talking about potential advances, pr tours and what-not.  She wants to see the first 4,000 words as soon as possible.  Amazing.  By the time I got home, she had copied me into an email to the Editor-in-Chief of a large publishing house, pitching a book she hasn't yet even seen.  Doubly amazing.  She even slightly changed the title and added a sub-title, so it's now called, Tits Up - at least when you're bald you can't have a bad hair day.

Absolutely fizzing with excitement over this.  The easy part is writing the ruddy thing, the hard part is getting it to sell.  Nicola also seemed fairly keen on me as a co-presenter with Rob.  Watch this space.

Troy was having a drink over the road with Dan, early evening.  I joined them briefly, and Troy went home to cook the beef fillets.  I finished up my wine and excused myself, explaining to Dan, 'I had better go home to help, the steaks are too high to risk.'

Thursday, 25th September

Today I am dressed for comfort rather than speed.  Thursday is always a long day for me, as I am going to be clambering on and off a boat in the Thames later, I decided this was not the day for killer heels.  Mr Moore had some unpleasant news today: yesterday his friend Richard took the car out, having been drinking all night, and shortly found himself being airlifted into the Royal London for spinal surgery.  I just hope that (a) no-one else was involved, and (b) that this proves to be the wake up call that he so badly needs.  After all this is the man who thought it was appropriate to make my mother a balloon man with a gigantic penis.  The look on her face was priceless.

I had a phone call from Nicola mid-morning, but missed it because I was with one of the only three patients I have today.  Damn, damn, damn.  I tried to call her back, but she was in a meeting.  She wanted to speak to me about the book.  I realised that, because I didn't have my reading glasses on me last night, I sent the 4,000 to a non-existent email address.  Rats!  And not in a Marrakech way.  Sent it again this morning to the correct address, along with some random writing, a media biog, and a photo.  I need to send another photo but I want to photoshop it first.

My phone just rang, a private number, and conked out due to lack of signal.  Double rats.  I caved in and rang Nicola at the office.  Her first call had been intended to say that she was a bit disappointed with the sombre tone, which in keeping with what we had discussed yesterday. That was a piece I had written for The Telegraph, sombre indeed, it wasn't even in drama-queen-Daily-Mail speak.

Fortunately the correct piece hit the ground running, and she has already sent it to a pair of agents at William Morris.  Nicola has also spoken to her editor friend, who says she will do anything to help.  I can't believe this is all happening so fast.  She's advised me not to write any more for the time being, and to wait to see what sort of a steer the agents want to give it.  It needs more of a grab apparently, so a small rewrite, to start with me looking at the screen, and going 'Fuck!  That wasn't there last year.'

Just as she was going to ring off, she had one last, throw-away, line... 'Oh, I nearly forgot to say, I pitched you for a TV series this morning.'

Wow!