Monday morning, 9am
I’m eating porridge with local gooseberry jam at a hotel in Cornwall. The building reclines along a cliff top and outside the huge dining room windows, golden meets silver meets blue. With filming in the can yesterday (a day spent on the beach and in a traditional fish and chip shop- not overly shabby) , today we’re free to putter slowly through the Cornish countryside to our next location. The landscape is awash with gold, as it always seems to be in Cornwall, and the air swirls with magic. The quiet clinking of silver forks is the peaceful soundtrack to my morning. I’m wondering whether the strong sense I have that I’ll live here one day (Cornwall, not the hotel- though that wouldn’t be too bad) is intuition or just wishful thinking.
Tuesday morning, 9am
I’m thrashing sweatily on the hard bed of a Holiday Inn, right on the A12 where the traffic roar seeps through the walls and fights with the drip-drip of the air con. I’m in the unremittingly vile Romford in Essex (sorry, but it’s true). I’ve had three hours sleep because, after driving for eight hours and swearing/creeping our way round the M25, I was struck down with the UTI attack from hell and had to summon my colleague from her uncomfortable bed at 1am so she could drive me to the hospital. We spent 2 hours there, highlights of which included me attempting to carry a large carboard bowl of wee through the reception in a dignified fashion. I was supposed to be at a (different) hospital an hour ago, to film a birth, and the only silver lining to the tiresome cloud that is Tuesday is that my producer has found cover for me and at least I can go home- though home is 4-5 hours away- instead of spending more hours in a hospital, waiting.
Such is the light and shade of my job (and my unpredictable bladder).