WRAPPED

Whew! What a whirlwind THAT was. We arrived in Norfolk the day before the TV pilot shoot in a downpour carting an entire wardrobe of clothes, umbrellas, a laptop and half of Selfridge’s cupcake collection. Never did travel lightly.

The crew had already camped out in one of Gissing Hall’s public rooms. Cameras, lights, sound equipment and a zillion battery packs strewn across the space suddenly made it all seem very real and I almost lost my lunch in the midst of it.

I can’t say much about the process or the candidates, there being a surprise reveal element and all, but for two days we all worked like beavers in tree heaven. The sun and heat dealt their own surprise reveal and soon outdoor shots became more than a possibility. I can say that I’ve ruined a pair of Barneys NY heels in a walking shot across the moist carpet of grass into which I sank with each step forward. And when I tried to manoeuvre the pebbled driveway, well, not my finest moment.

By the end of the second day we were tipsy with weariness. The last shot should have been quick and easy, but Malcolm, whose coordination can sometimes be challenged when he’s overly tired, just had a bit of a problem. If you haven’t seen it already, here’s an outtake from the shoot.

The result of this experience, twenty-seven hours of tape, is stacked up in the editing room where I imagine some kind of magic will be performed. Until then, it’s happily back to writing, reading, reading, writing.

AND AWAY WE GO…

What if the zipper of my dress bursts open and breaks while I’m in Norfolk? Prepared for a disaster, I’ve packed EVERYTHING and hopefully they will allow us on the train.

I’ll be reading Elizabeth Eslami’s Bone Worship on the journey, and I’m taking two other books. I know, excessive, but I can’t bear the thought of being book-less. I’ve also packed Godiva chocolates and peanuts because who knows if the hotel is equipped for major stress eating.

I’m looking forward to meeting the Candidates. At the moment there are eleven people in the running who want to participate in the TV pilot. They must be whittled down to six and, as a result of our panel’s probing, there will be one winner. At least I hope that’s how the Candidate will feel after working with us - like a winner. You never know…

Our director is funny, I mean really funny, so I’m practicing a poker face, a “very interested in what you’re saying” face and an “I’m here to help” face. These I shall rely upon when I feel that little bubble of hysteria forming.

I’ve one more thing to pack – nerves of steel. Where can I buy them at this hour? Please send suggestions.

I don’t know if I’ll have an opportunity to tweet and blog, but perhaps I should actually focus on what I’m doing. Imagine that.

So here we go to create

SHOPPING

I’ve just completed a London shopping blitz. I needed to pull together three television friendly outfits on a budget. In hindsight, I should have offered a sacrifice of some kind to a couple of shops, maybe that would have helped. It’s a nasty old jungle out there and when an oasis is found, it must be cherished.

People used to pay me to shop with them. Call it what you will, but personal shopper is not my favorite. Stylist? No. My husband and I wrote a book about discovering your personal style, so I guess you could call me a former personal style finder. There’s a difference in all of these terms, but that’s another story. One thing for certain – it was much easier offering advice to a stranger than try to figure out what I needed.

I’d not been “out there” for a while. I don’t write in my pyjamas, but I hardly needed to follow fashion to sit at my desk. Whenever I left the cave I relied upon good quality clothes that have been loyal to me. They’ve remained pretty current and withstood the fluctuations in my weight. Television clothing is a different animal, different from any other “special occasion” clothing. You have to think about a lot of things, some of which remain a mystery for the time being, like how certain colors look in the light, or which patterns strobe.

First, I pulled out clothes from my closet and began trying on possible contenders. I constantly reminded myself that this is a pilot, not a broadcast, so I should go light on purchases and try to make what I have work. But then again, a pilot is an audition, or a job interview, so it still has to be right. No pressure there.

Lesson 1: Cheap is cheap.

I rarely get away with cheap clothing. Some people can if they have the right body shape, or if the occasion is casual and the way they come across is not important, or if the item is simple, say, a black turtleneck, even though it won’t last very long. This is disposable clothing. Still, I gave it a shot.

Question 1: Good god women - how do you do it? Oxford Street on a Saturday morning – this is the front line.

I braved an institutionally large store that sells cheap clothing, all of which hung off the racks like hunting spoil. I felt I’d somehow wandered onto a football pitch. Suicide sounded more cheerful. Walked in, walked out.

I bought stockings and a belt that day at John Lewis. Not exciting, but necessary. Had a grand time talking to a surprisingly helpful sales assistant about denier. Customer service in London? Ha! It happens when I least expect it, and I NEVER expect it. I moved on to another interesting conversation with a woman in the ladies room where we spoke between gags. This is 2010 JL. Please do something about your loos before people die in there.

I really wanted to be shopping in Shoreditch, or Hoxton, perhaps at one of those Steampunk shops, just to relieve the uninspiring boredom of the generic high street, but alas, I didn’t have the luxury of time…so…

On my way out of Debenhams (second and last visit) I was accosted by Perfume Man. What is this - Bloomingdale’s 1985? When I said ‘no thank you’ to his aggressive behavior I heard him make a comment to his colleagues who then burst into laughter. I stopped in my tracks and found the floor manager. I hope Perfume Man didn’t need that job.

A black and white rococo patterned skirt had my name all over it. Didn’t notice the crinoline until I got home because of the dimly lit dressing stall - stall, not room. I like it, but there’s a chance I may resemble a Christmas tree on TV. Must find baubles for neck. The skirt is also missing a poodle. Maybe I should consider this outfit for the evening shots and someone can light me up.

Ahh, Bond Street. Bless.

A bright red sequined t-shirt, very much on sale, at DKNY spoke to me. It was an intuitive buy that paid off, and I shall pair it with a skirt I bought in LA about three years ago. Eight ball in the right pocket. Great service, sizes for real human beings, sustenance, a lovely bathroom and I didn’t have to walk six miles. Now we’re shopping.

If Bill Cunningham of the New York Times says we must have a cardigan, then I am with cardigan. Although I can’t help but think that it was Mrs. Obama who originated this trend during the election and our darling Bill is commenting a bit late. Either way, I’ll wear it over a few scattered polka dots and call it an outfit.

Lesson 2: You may have to try on a lot of frogs.

I popped into Jigsaw – five times. What is WRONG with me? I changed lanes a dozen times trying to piece something together, and as I worked through not a little anxiety, I bought a blouse and returned it. Ultimately, there was something mean (my husband’s word) about the clothing. But in fairness to them, it just wasn’t right for telly.

Holy prêt-à-porter. It took a mountain of clothing and patches of six days to find three little ole items. Did I do something wrong? Lost my touch? Too picky? I don’t think so. Shopping is hard work. I found myself weeding though enough schmatas in enough retail space to equal all the Queen’s backyards.

Question 2: Why?

Fit. Fit. Fit. If I let him, my husband would walk around the shops with a tape measure. As it is, he waits until he gets home. But, he’s right. If you lined up every size medium t-shirt in a shop, each one would fit differently. I‘ve seen it a gazillion times. Ghastly, isn’t it?

Every top designer has a different idea of sizing. So does every manufacturer in China. I once thought that if I just had the boyish hips, long legs and arms of a lanky girl, that every item of clothing I could ever wish to wear would fit perfectly. It’s not true. When I worked with women with that very body shape, I quickly discovered that they’re not all perfect mannequins. Many complained about their long waists. Some disliked their short waists. A few thought their limbs were too long; others wanted desperately to be curvy. They perceived their issues of equal value to women who are short, overweight or otherwise hard to fit. Everyone has to work to obtain a great fit, granted, some harder than others. But fit it must.

Okay, I could continue, but frankly, I’m exhausted. I’d much rather hear what you have to say.

OUR REALLY BIG SHOW

It’s as if I’ve been on a long-ish drinking binge and have woken to the harsh light of “what have I gotten myself into”. We have shoot dates: June 2, 3.

We have a show title.

And here’s where we’ll be roughing it.

The veil has lifted; time to stop this verbal lollygagging and seriously wrap my head around the task at hand. Our candidates need guidance to convince their families, friends, or colleagues that their life-changing moment has arrived, they know what they’re doing and they can handle it.

I confess here and now that I have rolled my eyes at TV shows similar to The Pitch, but I’ve also remained glued to the sofa foregoing a comfort break to see the reveal. Is this instant karma?

So, to use a Southern expression, I’m as nervous as a whore in church. I’ll be thinking on my feet and hoping that I won’t sound as if I’ve overdosed on idiot pills. These are people’s lives we’re talking about. Their stories are real and they’re willing to share them, warts and all. Surprisingly, in this age of baring all just to grab that fifteen minutes, our producer and director found it quite a challenge to find people who didn’t mind opening up and revealing details about their lives. Candidates mysteriously disappeared, others, when it came down to the wire, couldn’t commit to dates.

My initial fear and worry about what I will look like on the big bad screen has shifted. Will I be able to do a good job – this is the question that haunts my sleep. And will I have the stamina for god’s sake? There was something sobering about facing the shooting schedule our director wove into the fabric of hilarious emails. Laughing all the way to basically two days of working flat out for twelve hours or more each day. We’re even having dinner on camera, horror of horrors. Will it resemble Come Dine With Me without the cooking? Will we bicker about who will stay, who will go, who wins the record contract or performs for the Queen?

Our lovely director’s latest words, “Thank you for embracing the making of the pilot with no immediate reward.” Are you kidding? I’m a writer. Reward? We don’t need no stinking reward!

Well, on second thought…

STEP RIGHT UP

It’s Britain’s Got Talent meets Dragons' Den, tinged with a little Jerry Springer, so seems the current description of the TV pilot that’s in the works. Production is squeaking along and, as predicted, the shoot dates have been changed twice since my last post. I’m going to be blacklisted from my hair salon.

A venue in Norwich has been chosen. Road trip! If the private plane doesn’t pan out, I’ve chosen Plan B.

Seems there’s a little trouble brewing in Norwich. I’m told our candidates - people who’d like a little help with a life changing issue - are, umm, unusual.

It’s come to this: Normal people just won’t do for TV. Wonder what that says about me. One of the candidates has an ambition to be a Johnny Depp look alike. (I resist the urge to insert photo.) Surely, either you are a Johnny Depp look alike, or you aren’t. Am I correct here? I’m told he’s the spitting image, especially when he’s donned full Jack Sparrow regalia. So why does he need help from our panel? Is it a business plan he’s after? Or would he like hair and clothing advice à la Mr. Depp? Guess I’ll find out later.

Our producer and director have pulled a few more quirky people out of the barrel.

Quirky, in this case, also means unreliable, a bit flaky and highly volatile. At the moment we are unsure of shoot dates. Apparently pinning down two consecutive days, attempting to collect the candidates' questionnaires and wrangling a commitment from them has been a nightmare. I’m wondering if I should be concerned for my safety. Might they throw chairs and other objects? There are no plans to have therapists standing in the wings, so I suggest we borrow a couple from the Jeremy Kyle show. Insurance anyone?

Boy oh boy.

SO, WHAT’S IT LIKE TO BE IN A PILOT AIMED AT BRITISH TV?

I don’t know, but I’m going to find out very soon. My husband and I will be heading to the north of England for a two-day shoot. How far north – I’m uncertain, but I don’t think nosebleeds are a worry.

We’re going to be on a panel that helps people with 'personal challenges'. I think it’s a great idea and the “helpful” bit pulled me in. Television isn’t easy. It’s not easy to create a show, almost impossible to sell a show, and damn hard to be in one. I had a brush with a few shows in the States and it’s gruelling; it takes every ounce of focus and sucks your energy like a newborn. It can also be incredibly FUN. And I‘m not in the habit of turning down interesting opportunities, so here I go.

The pilot won’t be scripted. The “candidates” are unknown to the panel until they walk into the room, so there’s no homework. This means that the most important thing for me to do during the shoot is be fully present and listen well. I’m the only female on the panel and the only American. A few BBC America shows sometimes use subtitles because the various British accents aren’t always understood. I’ve lived in London for five years this go round and sometimes I can’t understand people either. Gosh, wonder if that will be a problem up north. (Wipes brow.)

The shoot is in a couple of weeks, if we stay on schedule. This gives me an enormous amount of time to

When I first heard that it was a go, all I could think about was…well… ME!

There’s nothing like a TV camera honing in on every flaw to get your panties in a twist. My brain screamed at me. Here’s what it said:

It’s too late for a face-lift!

Go to the gym every day for the rest of your life!

Cut out the sugar!

Make three hundred hair and manicure appointments!

Eat only raw food for a month.

Shop, shop, shop for the perfect outfit.

Did I think about the concept for the show? Noooo. Did I think that I might need to brush up on a few presentation skills? Of course not.

Vanity, thy name is Kate.

Shakespeare never wrote that, by the way, the real quote is, ‘Frailty thy name is woman.’ but I just can’t go there.

Progress thus far:

I’m still eating sugar, but only on the weekends. Does that count?

I’ve been to the gym, but not every day. Goal too high.

My yoga classes are going well, the two I’ve had so far.

There will be no face-lift, Botox, liposuction, or laser eye lifts. Yet.

Teeth are sore from whitening.

I haven’t been shopping yet, but I’ve thought a lot about it.

Hair appointments have been changed three times due to ever changing shoot dates.

Fretting over manicure - manicurist drew blood twice last time.

Have begged on bended knee for a professional makeup artist for the shoot. No answer yet. Men!

There’s talk of hitching a ride to the shoot in a private plane. I thought the director was joking, or testing my gullibility, but it seems he has a friend…

It’s exactly the kind of plane that would not do well soaring through volcanic ash.

I’ll tweet and blog about the process as we get closer, but I may be too nervous to hit the keys correctly. Of course this could all go belly up in a split second. If it goes well, after the pilot is edited and the director destroys all footage that makes me look like Minnie Pearl or a man in drag, the syndicators and broadcasters will have a look see. I’ll go back to my desk and continue to plot my novel, which is coming along very slowly these days. I’ve been a bit distracted.

THE HOUSE IN WHITECHAPEL

600 words. He had an image of a young woman. She walked into a room in a country house in England carrying a bunch of wildflowers. Outside, in the garden, is a young man. The woman is conflicted; she wants to talk to him and she doesn’t. Ian McEwan wrote 600 words about this image and let it brew for months. Then he wrote ATONEMENT. I love a bit of insight into an author’s process. He tells this beautifully in his BBC interview, which you can see here if you have the BBC iPlayer.

I viewed a Grade II listed Georgian house in Walden Street, Whitechapel in London a year or so ago. The row of terraced houses sit behind the hospital where John Merrick’s bones reside, you may remember him as The Elephant Man. The façades of the houses were admittedly a little bleak looking. This area where Jack the Ripper owned the streets for a time is not an area in which I would normally look at property, but I ran across photos of the interior and felt compelled to see it. The estate agent graciously left me alone to roam three floors of the painstakingly restored house. The restoration was so complete, and so bewitchingly sympathetic that I felt goose bumps walking through it. The rooms inspired a piece of flash fiction.

Mrs. Jenkins arrived at No. 6 Walden Street, her arms laden with packages. Thanks to her servant Emmie, she purchased a new pair of boots, a bonnet and a fine piece of meat from Smithfield’s.

Mrs. Jenkins’s housekeeping money afforded her two servants, but she chose to keep the money and double Emmie’s workload for the same wages – a pittance. She was certain that Emmie was grateful to have a job at all, and good heavens, she was no tyrant. Certainly not! Hadn’t she given Emmie the room in the eaves rather than the floor of the damp wash house at the rear of the property? She might have sent her to the cellar to rest among the potatoes and the occasional rat.

Mrs. Jenkins was well aware that Emmie could not stand up straight in the room without bumping her head on the wooden beams that ran across the ceiling. On rainy nights, of which there were many, Emmie slept with the air of damp clothing that hung from the beams; the overflow from the small stone wash house ate her oxygen. When Emmie crossed the few steps from the door to the bed, she brushed against Mrs. Jenkins’s large pantaloons and Mr. Jenkins’s shirttails. Chilled from her employer’s wet laundry, she shivered on a thin sheet.

It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon. Mrs. Jenkins relished this hour of the day. Emmie was out on errands and Mr. Jenkins was yet to arrive home smelling of iron, timidly awaiting his tea like a bad dog and begging for the use of her ear for his never ending monologue of the day’s events. The only reason she married Charles Jenkins was to live in this house. It wasn’t as spacious as she would have liked, still, not one of her friends could boast as many rooms and floors as she.

Everyday at this time she climbed the stairs to her husband’s sitting room where she rummaged through every drawer, every paper and every cabinet shelf. Inspection was complete after she checked under the cushions and rug. There would be no secrets. Then she climbed up the last flight where the steps suddenly narrowed and wound around like a tightly coiled snake. Emmie had rubbed the wooden stairs just this morning with polish and her sweat.

Today Mrs. Jenkins found a farthing coin tucked among Emmie’s undergarments. She almost fainted with outrage. How had the waif managed to save it? She spoke aloud in her distress: “Good God in heaven - I must be paying her too much! No, no, there goes my generous nature again. How did the girl manage to steal it?’ She quickly slipped the coin in her pocket. Mrs. Jenkins had no idea that a month ago, on Emmie’s day off, for she was only allowed one day off a month, her uncle had surprised her with the coin.

Mrs. Jenkins turned from the girl’s attic bedroom and began to make her way down. It must have been the marriage of her slippery new boots to the freshly polished wooden steps, for Mrs. Jenkins lost her footing and fell down three flights. The last thing she heard was the crack of her skull against the wall. The last thing she saw was the coin as it rolled across the bottom step.