How Not to Write a Script for the BBC

I have been trying to write a script for the BBC. Not that they actually asked me to. They generally asked the world to. So, seeing as I am in and of the world I thought ‘I can do that.’

I appear to be somewhat wrong. It’s going to be 36 pages long. I’ve written 30 pages. Page 31 is tricky. I thought of jumping straight to page 36 but a leap of six pages seems dangerous to body and possibly sanity.

It’s called writer’s block I think. I’m attempting to cure it by some serious research. This is what I’m doing:

Checking my emails to see if anyone has emailed me pages 31-36.

Reading my google iPage to see if Wikihow offers pages 31-36 or my horoscope predicts that I will soon write the aforementioned pages.

Looking at the Radio Times page to see if there’s anything good on the TV that I could be watching that might tell me about pages 31-36.

Checking my emails to see if anyone has emailed me pages 31-36.

Seeing the random ways people have found my blog. This turns out quite interesting. Most people, as usual, want to know how to tell if a man fancies them. Others have wondered about shoes, g-spots (I wonder about those too), sausages (I’m sure I never mentioned them), tents, grey, and how to stop someone fancying you. I actually know the answer to that – fancy them.

Checking my emails to see if anyone has emailed me pages 31-36.

Looking on Facebook to see if anyone knows what’s on pages 31-36.

Writing a blog post about why I haven’t written pages 31-36.

Googling ‘pages 31-36’. I’ve found:
Dancewear,
Preventative Cardiology (I assume that’s like not fancying anyone ever),
Stimulus-driven Attentional Capture (I guess that’s trying to make someone fancy you by prodding them with electricity),
Cornelius C. Platter’s diary (anyone with a name like that should have their diaries eaten alive),
Resonant Tunneling and Coulomb Oscillations (probably what to do once someone does actually fancy you)
and
The Final Report on the Durability of Precast Segmental Bridges (more than likely a straightforward guide to keeping a man fancying you).

But essentially what I’ve discovered is that everyone else has managed to get way past page 31. It’s just me.

I’m thinking now that if instead of having writer’s block I had some other condition like writer’s bloke then I wouldn’t be spending Saturday evening not writing pages 31-36 but could be having an interesting conversation, sex, or bickering.

So please, would someone email me either pages 31-36 or a writer’s bloke.

Oh, the script is called ‘The Tomatoes of Forgetfulness’. This probably explains the problem.

The One with the Not-Dead Bird

There’s a bird. In the house. Not dead. There are cats. In the house. Also not dead. This is a problem.

It all began one bright spring day. We were feeling bright and spring-like and so were the cats. One of them (and I’ll mention no names so as to protect the innocent) caught a bird and brought it into the house.

Actually it all began before this particular bright spring day, it started in the dead (and this word will be coming up again soon) of winter. When I decided in my wisdom (which is what I like to call my disturbed mind) that what our house really needed were some nice fluffy, innocent, cute loveable man/baby substitutes. But just like real life (this isn’t real life, this is my life) the men/babies turned out to be not fluffy, innocent, cute and only sometimes loveable. They turned out to be hair-droppers, furniture-defacers and hardened killers.

In days of yore when I had a man and babies I spent many a wonderful hour/life dealing with delights such as –
Live nappies
Lively mud on surfaces
Mud on live people
Underfoot Barbie accessories
Living physics experiments
Mostly alive man
and
Underwear

Now I have man/baby substitutes I deal with such delights as-
Dead mice
Dead shrews
Dead worms
Dead birds
Dead fluffy toys
And
Deadly fear
of dead things.

But the thing about dead things is that they are static.

There’s a bird in the house. Not dead. Not static. There are cats in the house. Also not dead or static. I have isolated the two genres with a cunning use of doors, shut cat-flaps, rope and chewing gum.

I’ve left what doors I have left (after isolating the cats) open. I’m hoping the bird will leave of its own volition.

At the moment it is in the hall saying
‘meep meep meep meep tweet’.

This is progress. Earlier it was entirely silent. Then it was only saying ‘meep meep meep meep’. ‘Tweet’, I feel is a good sign. A sign of recovery. A sign of new life and perhaps a will to leave the premises of its own free will.

So meanwhile I wait. I cannot open any doors for fear the man/baby substitutes will meet the not-dead bird. I cannot close any doors for fear the not-dead bird will not meander home with an extra ‘tweet’ on it’s lips but will decide to stay and turn into a dead thing. I have a deadly fear of dead things. My deadly fear of dead things has left me in a live-bird in the house situation.

Help.
Meep meep meep meep tweet?

How I’ve Found my Perfect Career

I’ve finally found my perfect career. Well paid, interesting, high-flying.
This is what I’m going to be:
An astronaut.

Don’t think I’ve gone into this without any research. Or much research. Or a passing piece of research. No, I’ve dug trivially into the ESA (European Space Agency for you non-astronaut types) website to discover if I’m properly qualified for the job.

This is what they specified:

Youth – between the ages of 27 and 37. Is that youth? Still some people say I look as young as 38 which is very near 37. My mental age is in single digits as is my emotional age. So, when averaged out I’m about 27.5757. Perfect.

Experience - They must have experienced Real Life – I believe my life has been as genuine as the next space woman’s.

Scientifically Minded – I am the Relationship Physicist after all. They suggest that a degree in science might be a boon. Well I have a degree in miscellany which is surely better. And my daughter will have a degree in physics so that must count.

Patience – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have patience but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism.

Bravery – anyone who has waited this long for Mr Right has proven that not only do they have bravery but they also have idealism, unrealistic expectations and excessive optimism and extraordinary bravery.

Prepared for strange lifestyle – Already there.

Psychologically sound – Well, I sound psychological.

I have written the covering letter for the application:

Dear ESA,
I want to be an astronaut because I believe I will be ideally suited to being an astronaut. The suit will be ideal to cover any unfortunate bumps that exist on my body. The weightlessness will ideally cover my usual lack of balance. The long hours stuck in a confined space with only a few young, experienced, scientifically minded, patient, brave, prepared and sane astronauts will ideally be ideal for my idea of an idealised life.

The applications open 19 May, mine will be first on their spacemat.

How Not to Talk to the Birds – Or Mother’s Day Revisited

Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed. I am a mother so it was my day.

The sun was shining, God was in her usual abode, all was as right in the world as it ever is.

I was conducting a scientific experiment. For it is the duty of us mothers to discover things and thus pass wisdom unto our offspring, the world, the scientific community in general and anyone who would care to listen (that anyone is yet to be discovered).

It was an experiment in linguistics and biology. To settle a question long questioned (well since the other night). A question that effects us all in our day-to-day dealings with the natural world.

This was the question:

Can we talk to birds?

The sub-questions were –

If so, should we talk in English, Welsh or Bird? (we take as a given that I am addressing Welsh Birds) (Obviously if I was addressing birds of another denomination the corresponding denominative would apply)

And should we find ourselves actually communicating, what are the favourite topics that birds like to discuss?

And why?

And wherefore?

Never mind the whys and wherefores we must also ask is talking to birds morally correct.

This is what happened:

I went into the garden to find a bird. I detected a singular lack of feathered creatures. Almost simultaneously I noticed a plethora of furred friends. I am a scientist. I can recognise cause and effect when they are purring around my ankles.

I sent Cause and Effect back indoors with a sharp word or two about interfering with cutting edge science.

I sat and tweeted and said ‘hello birds’ and ‘bora da Robin/Blue Tit/Sparrow/etc’ (I didn’t know the Welsh for ‘bird’).

And this is what I discovered:

Birds never speak English.

If birds speak Welsh they do it in a heavy Bird accent.

They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds.

They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds because they are bored of talking about the bloody cat problem.

I never answered the wherefore problem. No one ever has.

And finally yes, it is morally correct to talk to birds as long as your six-year-old neighbour doesn’t see you. Because when she does see you it leads her to believe that you are very brave and should now rescue her from a plague of wasps (3) that are infesting her play house.

Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed us talking to the birds.