It’s been a listless couple of weeks for me, getting up late, struggling to do anything useful, wondering if that distance wailing noise is the fat lady singing.
I took some photos of London landmarks in order to make a videomatic of the sequence in which the world stops turning, but the difficulty of achieving the collapsing effects in any worthwhile way has led me to put it off again and again. I reckon sandcastles are the best way to go, but since I don’t have a sandpit, that doesn’t really get me anywhere. I think I might just steal shots from other films.
To add to my general malaise, I’ve been kicking myself over a missed opportunity. Lately I’ve been camera operating for Musical Mad TV, which involves the presenters and I going to West End shows for free, then interviewing the cast at the swanky parties afterwards. (Good work if you can get it, which you can’t, because I got it first. Nah, nah, na-nah, nah!) Last week we covered Spamalot, the Monty Python musical. On our way through the party, Tim – one of the presenters – quite literally bumped into a guy coming up the stairs. Apologies were exchanged and we went on our way. Tim had no idea who he’d just collided with until I told him, simultaneously cursing my own failure to engage the guy in conversation; it was Terry Gilliam.