WARNING: ANECDOTE. Set Ustinovometer to "Stun".
Was at the BBC yesterday for a meeting (kids TV show - I know, me, unleashed on innocent, impressionable minds, what were they thinking?), and when I was finished, someone was assigned to escort me out. If you've never been to the Beeb, their buildings occupy an area the size of Spain, with millions of corridors, staircases, lifts, walkways, alleys, and catacombs. It is impossible to find your way around, so people have to come and get you. They lead you on a 4 hour walk through various strange areas, until you get to the person you want to meet. If you're lucky, neither of you has died of old age. I mean, they've got a TARDIS in one corridor, why don't they keep that at reception, and use it to quickly transport people around? Probably an abuse of the power.
Anyway. The nice lady who was escorting me out asked me if I was a director, or writer, or what. I'm a writer, I replied wittily. "Ooh," she said, and genuinely meant this: "That must be exciting!" So I just laughed. Really loudly. Couldn't help it. Then I realised that was probably an incredibly rude thing to do, so I explained that well, yes, sometimes it was incredibly exciting, what with having things made, or going on set and meeting famous, attractive people, but that a lot of it involved doing nothing, waiting, or sitting inside, alone, tapping at a keyboard, which was why I laughed. I may not have made that clear enough though, because I was desperately scrambling to avoid seeming like a git. So if you're reading this, nice BBC temp lady who escorted the babbling idiot to the door yesterday: sorry about that.
And then I had another media ponce moment - before I left, I had to phone a man about the secret TV outline thing (which should soon be a secret TV script thing), so I was actually standing in the BBC reception, talking on the phone with a bloke about a telly "project". All I would have needed to complete the wanky picture was a cappuccino. You wait, I'll have a fucking goatee soon, or something.