The problem with having a regime (which I currently do) that attempts in some way to emulate those infuriatingly prolific writers who get up early in the morning, run a couple of hundred ks, go to the market where they know everyone's first name, do the gardening, visit the infirm and then return to their desks by seven with a fresh page and clear mind... is that SOME THINGS CAN'T HAPPEN.

You can't:

- expect not to forget your keys when you are busy packing a pre-made lunch into your bag, putting the washing on, and saying thanks and farewell to the German man in your shower (fixing the tiles). (Fixing the tiles is not a euphemism).

- expect to be able to read or watch films or see your friends. Ever. Several of mine are not speaking to me, which is a shame but does cut down on the list of people I need to get back to about things.

- avoid far ranging and un-premediated fits of white hot fury in relation to very small things such as where something is and why it isn't where you thought it might be, drivers who don't indicate, or indeed anything at all for instance air. Today, I stopped riding my bicycle in the middle of the street in order to shout at a small particle of a leaf which had blown into my eye.

This had better be a good script I'm writing, I tell you what.

PS. And I bought Alan Bennett's new book and everything. And it looks lovely. And it feels lovely in your hands. And then you fall asleep and wake up at 7am with a German man in your loungeroom asking if he can take his tools upstairs. Take them anywhere you like, you say through your explosion of slept-on hair. You're not Alan Bennett, so why should I mind?