A hop, skip and a jump

Dear Mum,

Well, as hoped, Plymouth offered solitary confinement (with yourself and Grandma, of course) in which I had little excuse but to type furiously.

As a result, I’ve 28 pages of my first draft and two jaws of softly rotting teeth thanks to the quantities of fudge, Victoria sponge, cheesecake, chocolate éclairs and ice-cream that hobbling grandma (having just undergone a hip operation) determinedly pushed toward us.

Again thinking of Pippa presently being encumbered by that blasted student pest – The Dissertation – I nostalgically returned to that own stage in my life, when grudgingly typing about one’s chosen topic goes hand in hand with tucking into sweet treats.

It is not the student environment alone. Any computer based activity, such as an office job or typing a radio script, is not nearly as bearable, fulfilling or, I believe, successful without a plate of tasty morsels as a companion.

What I have written is a first draft. There are parts and speeches that I think really are quite good, and there are other pages that are twaddle and the only environment they would prove useful would be in Tom Stoppard’s toilet.

I haven’t yet reached the play’s conclusion.

I would imagine a lot of writers find the beginning and the end of their writing the most difficult bit. But writing an ending to my script is an unfeasible task.

I have no idea how to end it. I have a vibe I’d like to convey, but that’s it. (I doubt Shakespeare thought to himself “Now to end ‘Twelfth Night.’ I’ve no idea what to write but I do know I want it to have a lovely, loving, warm sort of feeling, with some happiness and some justice and some nice, contended feeling for the audience.”)

I enjoyed the three films we watched with Grandma, or ‘Silver Spice’ as I affectionately call her because she is far more glamorous and sophisticated than I am. Father of the Bride 2, 84 Charing Cross Road and Keeping Mum. As you and I carefully selected, nothing with unruly violence (Grandma tuts and sympathetically says “Oh dear” throughout), gratuitous swearing (words like that were not used forty years ago) or scenes of a sexual nature (because, well, it just makes for a wholly uncomfortable evening for everyone. See Warning: contains unsavoury material for more information).

The Father of the Bride films always seem to be aired when we’re in Plymouth.

I would like to live in 84 Charing Cross Road. A shop of maturing texts, showing the ageing symptoms of being thumbed by previous generations. Dropping literary quotes into my correspondence (I’m confident my friends wouldn’t enjoy this as much as I would). Typing playscripts at a typewriter. I think Helene Hanff and I would’ve been great friends.

And then there is Keeping Mum. Probably one of my favourite films. Partly because I do enjoy a typically British sense of humour. Partly because Maggie Smith is simply glorious. Watching three generations of women bury bodies in a pond with my own Mum and Grandma I wished I could produce a similarly genius screenplay.

I’m as likely to achieve this as I am as likely to resist polishing off the tube of mini eggs next to me (having just now consumed the last egg).