Inconceivable

interrupt it now. After all, if the ancient spirits have waited since the dawn of time for Sam and me to shag on top of a huge chalk knob then they can wait a bit longer. I told her I’d think about it for future reference. I’ve kept the train timetable, just in case. Not that it’ll be of any remote use in a month or two. These new railway companies keep changing them and they don’t even mean much in the first place.

I will say this, though. If this cycle doesn’t work (which statistically I know it won’t, although I can’t help feeling sort of hopeful), I might give Dorset a go. Sam and I could use a bit of a holiday and I do love him particularly at the moment. We had such a good time on Primrose Hill (until the arrival of the squirrel) that I think it would be fun to do a little tour of the fertile spots of Britain and shag on all of them.

Dear Sam

Rather an unpleasant day on the movie. We were back in the church hall near Goodge Street looking at men, and of course that complete fucking bastard Carl Phipps was reading for the part of Colin! I have to tell you that it was excruciating sitting there being quiet while the smug, philandering, wife-snogging rat was saying my lines. Honestly, it felt like he had Lucy’s tits in his hands all over again, but no I mustn’t dwell on that, it makes me bloody livid and I know that I’ve no right to get on my high horse. All the same, I wanted to punch him.

We were seeing the men one at a time instead of bringing in a crowd like we did for the women. This is because Ewan wants a “name” for the bloke and so they have to be handled a bit more carefully. Actually, I’ve begun to notice that there’s quite a lot of casual sexism in the film industry, which is surprising considering that they’re all supposed to be so right-on. It’s the old rules of the market. There are far fewer decent roles for women than there are for men and so even the talented women are more desperate, hence they can be paid less and treated worse.

Ewan was using the scene where Colin gets his sperm test results to hear the actors read, and I must say it was quite exciting to see the scene come to life. The little blue-haired PA was reading in the part of Rachel. She was wearing a pair of hipsters that hung so low you could almost see her bum, most distracting, particularly since she had a tattoo of a naked Chinese devil at the base of her spine. Girls these days, eh? Amazing.

“‘Forty-one per cent swimming in the wrong direction,’” she read out in that peculiarly depressed delivery that only people who “read in” can achieve.

Carl Phipps brushed her aside and addressed Ewan directly.

“I’ve got stupid sperm!” he shouted, far too loudly in my opinion. Anyone can shout. “The stuff’s been backing away up my dick all these years. What is it with sperm! It’s lazy, it’s sluggish, it’s got no idea where it’s going. It sounds like a pub full of blokes!”

Ewan laughed heartily, which was fair enough because it’s actually a bloody good line, but I thought the delivery was abysmal. Crap, absolute crap. A performance hewn from solid mahogany. Personally I thought that what with the disappearance of the rainforests it was ecologically unsound of him to produce such a wooden performance and I whispered as much to George.

“Actually, I thought it was pretty good,” said George. “The line’s a bit obvious, though. You don’t need to spoonfeed us the gags, you know. Trust the audience.”

I hadn’t really noticed before quite what a pompous arse George can be when he wants.

“Superb, Carl, absolutely superb,” Ewan was saying.

“Yes, and so good of you to agree to come in and read for us,” Justin added.

This was a reference to the fact that Carl is a star and hence should not really have to do such a mundane thing as actually audition for a part because we should all be aware of how brilliant he is anyway. As if the fact that he turned in a passable Tenant of Wildfell Hall should instantly alert the world to the fact that he’d be brilliant at playing a frustrated and infertile executive at the BBC.

“No actor is too big to read for a part, Ewan,” Carl crawled.

What a pretentious twat.

After the low snake had slithered off (no doubt pausing on his way out to try and shag the cleaning woman) we all gathered round to discuss his paltry efforts. I had expected an instant and resounding raspberry, and was bitterly disappointed when Ewan announced happily that he felt we’d found our Colin and everybody readily agreed. I was horrified and protested loudly. Normally I wouldn’t have had the guts, but this was personal.

“Oh no, hang on,” I said. “I mean, hang on! I completely disagree. He’s wrong for it. Totally wrong. I mean, everything he did was wrong for Colin.”

“How’s that, then?” Ewan enquired.

“Well, he was anal, uptight, repressed and terminally stiff.”

“Exactly,” said Ewan happily. “A completely convincing Englishman.”

Dear Penny

I’m writing this entry in my book with an extremely sore arse. Well not with my arse obviously, but you know what I mean. Sam, who has been very good up until now, made a bit of a mess of tonight’s injection and it really hurt. He didn’t mean to, I know, and he was really apologetic. I was telling him about the script we had in at the office about infertility and IVF. It’s called Inconceivable and is to be a co-production between the BBC and Above The Line Films. I’ve been feeling a bit bad about it ever since I heard, having stopped Sam from developing exactly the same idea. He told me not to worry about it, but I do worry. I mean I’ve always been on at Sam to search within himself for his writing and the one time he did, I banned it. What’s more, I actually think that it’s quite a good idea that they’re doing the film. Sam seemed surprised at this – eager, almost. I wonder whether he still harbours dreams of persuading me to change my mind. Not much point, I’d have thought, now that someone else has had the idea. Anyway, I’m not going to change my mind, I’m afraid.

Nonetheless, I do think it’s a good thing that the BBC are covering the subject. It’s important for people like us who are actually going through these things that the issues are brought out into the open and discussed. They need to be normalized so that infertile people don’t feel so marginalized. I do think that comedy can help with that. I know it’s not very fair to be saying all this, particularly to Sam, but then again it’s not really so strange. I like to see sex in a movie but I wouldn’t want my own sex life exposed on screen (not that it would make much of a movie, I’m afraid).

I explained to Sam that whereas I shall definitely go and see Inconceivable when it comes out I just couldn’t have borne for it to be based on our story directly. I mean it would all go just too deep. The pain and all.

Dear Sam

I got a bit of a shock tonight. I’d just been getting ready to give Lucy her nightly injection when she started talking about Inconceivable. I should have expected it, of course. I knew that the Phipps fucker was on Sheila’s books or how could he have stalked Lucy in the way he did. Nonetheless, it was still a shock. For a little while I was thrilled, actually, because Lucy was being very positive about the whole idea. She seems to think that bringing the subject of infertility into the realms of normality via the medium of comedy is a very empowering thing. I could not agree more, of course, especially if I win a BAFTA.

I was soon to be disappointed, though. She still hasn’t relented about her own privacy and I can see that it’ll be a little while before I can even think about telling her.

Anyway, I was just getting the needle ready for the plunge, having prepared my target on the outer, upper quarter of her bum as I have done every night for a week, when she brought up the subject of casting. She said that there’d been an offer put in on Carl Phipps to play the husband. I gritted my teeth and resolved to change the subject when she started to eulogize about the bastard. Saying that she thought he would be superb, being such a nice man and a truly sensitive actor and of course so good looking. I swear I did not mean to jab the needle in so clumsily, well obviously I didn’t, I’m not a thug. I just jerked involuntarily, hearing her being so nice about the snake. It brought back all the memories of what I’d read and shouldn’t have read and reminded me that although Lucy had maintained her honour she had done so reluctantly and that she still fancies him.

Anyway, I feel terrible now for being such a clod with the needle and have just brought her Horlicks and some toast in bed. God, she looks gorgeous, sitting there under the duvet cupping her mug in both hands. I resolve this