Inconceivable

could find comfort, just a little, because I do want a baby so very much and sometimes the feelings are so strong I don’t know what to do with them.

Dear Sam

Lucy got her period today. We’ve drained the dregs at the last-chance saloon and now it’s time to put our trust in the medical profession. Lucy asked me if I’d thought about praying and I said I hadn’t but I was happy to give it a go if she wanted me to. We must leave no avenue of opportunity unexplored. Who knows, it might work. It seems to me that the idea of an old man with a white beard sitting on a cloud dispensing goodwill doesn’t sound any more absurd than the bollocks most physicists talk. I mean really, every single bloke I know bought A Brief History of Time and not one of them, including me, understood a single word of it.

Why do we have such faith in scientists? When I was at school they told us that in days gone by simple folk believed the world was balanced on the back of a tortoise. How we laughed! “What a bunch of prats,” we said. Ho ho ho! Because we know better, don’t we? Apparently, according to Stephen Hawking and his pals there was this tiny lump of infinitely dense stuff the size of a cricketball, contained within which was the entire universe. Where this cricketball was and where it had come from are questions which apparently only stupid people ask. Anyway, one day the rock exploded and all the energy and stuff blasted out from the epicentre and formed into stars and galaxies which are still hurtling outwards to this very day.

Now why is that any more convincing than the tortoise?

They keep saying that if we spend another trillion or two on a new telescope they’ll be able to tell us exactly how the universe began. They keep telling us how close they are, saying things like, “When the universe was three seconds old, protons began to form…” Well maybe, but I think that a hundred years from now they’ll discover that the universe got farted out of the arse of a giant space elephant and school kids will all be laughing to think that anybody ever believed in the big bang theory.

Sometimes the self-righteousness of the scientific profession really gets on my nerves. They always seem to assume that science is sort of outside society, that what scientists do is pure and that it is other people who corrupt it. I saw a documentary about Einstein and Oppenheimer on the Discovery Channel the other day and it was going on about what simple, peaceful men they were and that during the war they sent a letter to President Truman pleading with him not to drop the bomb. They said that it was too big, too terrible and man had no right to unleash such a force. All I could think was what a couple of hypocrites! For years they’d struggled. For years they’d devoted their colossal brains to developing a bomb which the rest of us would have to spend our lives living in the shadow of, and then they reckon they can get out of their responsibilities by saying, “Please don’t drop it,” and go down in history as sad-eyed, white-haired old peacemakers.

I went in to see Nigel today. He’d rung me twice from Toronto sounding me out about directors and co- producers. He feels we need to bring some experienced film-making talent into the mix. He’s right, I think. I mean George and Trevor are great but what do they or I know about doing a distribution deal with a chain of movie houses in France? Besides which, Nigel feels that the budget will need to expand somewhat and put it outside the reach of the BBC alone. The reason for this is not because the film has got any more expensive but because Nigel feels it has such potential that we need to take it to a name director, someone with a proven track record. That of course means paying the going rate, which can run into a great deal of cash. It’s a fact that with most movies, particularly the Hollywood variety, a very large chunk of the vast budgets that are quoted so gloatingly in the press is actually spent on the wages of just a few individuals.

Anyway, as I say, Nigel wants to make this movie in partnership with another production company.

“We need someone with experience,” he said to me over the phone with the voices of Canadian TV execs crackling in the background, “but hip. We must remember at all times that we are positioning ourselves at the cutting edge.”

I knew what was coming and I wasn’t wrong. Today I had my second meeting with Justin, Petra and Ewan Proclaimer from Above The Line Productions.

I must say it was a very different affair this time. Petra actually smiled at me and Justin gripped my shoulder saying, “On the money, pal. Kickin’ ass.” Even Ewan stopped snarling and treated me with a degree of civility. It seems that he’s even hotter than he was when I met him at Claridge’s. He’s landed a three-picture deal to direct in Hollywood. I doubt any of these films will be the Aids and Heroin project he showed me. In fact he mentioned something about a sci-fi thing with Gary Oldham and Bruce Willis. Anyway, it seems he has a six-month “window” before he begins pre-production “across the big pond”, and he loves my script.

“I love romantic comedy,” he explained. “I’ve always liked romantic comedy but not shite romantic comedy. I like romantic comedy with edge, with bite, with bollocks! To me Macbeth is a romantic comedy, so’s Oedipus. I mean what could be more romantic than a man loving his ma so much he wants to shag her? And what could be more comical?”

Slightly worrying, but I let it go. After all, Ewan’s name attached to the project certainly ups the ante all round. And of course his timetable makes the whole thing even more urgent, which is fine by me. Every film I’ve ever heard of seems to have spent years in the planning and here I was taking shortcut after shortcut.

That brought us on to the script, with which there are still two problems – one little and one big. The little problem is that I haven’t given the story an end yet. I say this is a little problem because I’ve actually worked out two endings that would work dramatically, one happy and one sad. I haven’t been able to choose which one I want to go with yet. I suppose because Lucy and I are just starting IVF ourselves I don’t want to tempt fate.

The bigger problem remains the woman’s voice in the film. Everyone agrees that I haven’t got it right yet and that it’s crucial. It’s not a big thing, the story’s fine as are the jokes, it’s just a matter of tone and emotional emphasis. I have to try and find a way to make the female perspective more convincing. I’m trying. I’ve been trying for days but the more I try the more Rachel turns into a bloke.

Time’s running out. Petra and Justin are setting up auditions. Ewan is scouting for locations. I must find the woman’s voice.

Dear Penny

Picked up my first sackload of drugs from Spannerfield this morning. Me and a bunch of other women, all feeling a bit self-conscious. I have to sniff the first lot, which I’ll begin tonight. You sort of shove a pump up your nose and give it a blast. It doesn’t sound too difficult so far. Incidentally, although we’ll be paying Spannerfield for the process, Dr Cooper says that he’ll pay for the drugs. Apparently some local health authorities will fund fertility treatment and some won’t. Ours will, which is very lucky because the drugs cost literally hundreds of pounds! Life is such a lottery, it really is.

Sam’s going to Manchester for a night the day after tomorrow. It’s this huge charity concert for the Prince’s Trust he’s involved with. The BBC are broadcasting it and for some reason it’s fallen to Sam to represent them. I could go, of course, and normally I’d love to, but I’ve told Sam that I’m still feeling a little under the weather after the pingogram and I could really use a quiet week.

This is a lie!

My God, I can scarcely believe what I’m writing, but I’ve decided to see Carl. He rang me at work and asked me out to dinner and I said yes! Of course there’s no reason for me to feel guilty or anything, I’m just going to have a bite to eat with a friend. I’m not going to do anything with him, obviously! But nonetheless, I can’t say that my conscience isn’t troubling me a bit. Because let’s face it, I’m not going to tell Sam about it. Well, how can I? I can’t say to him, “Oh, by the way, while you’re away I’m going to have dinner with the dishiest man in England whom incidentally I have already snogged,” can I? Of course, I could say, “Oh, I’m having dinner with a friend,” but then he’d say, “What friend?” and I’d say, “Oh, you don’t know him,” and he’d say, “Him?” and I’d say, “Oh, for God’s sake, Sam, it’s not like that,” and he’d say, “Like what?” and… Oh well, before we knew it the Green-Eyed Monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on would be knocking at the door, suitcase in hand and planning a long stay.

Dear Self

I’m writing this in my room at the Britannia Hotel opposite Piccadilly bus station in Manchester, which is, I imagine, what Kremlin Palace must have looked like at the end of October 1917. Magnificent gilt, glittering crystal,