Henny Penny And Turkey Lurkey

“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” cry my work colleagues. “What is it? What do you mean?” I asks, asks I. “We really need a favour,” they say, say they. “Urgently!”

Hmm, methinks I do detect the scent of a shift swap being requested. Methinks I would really like to get Sunday off to go on a course. “Of course,” I say, nonchalently, as if it is a mere trifle. “No worries. Whenever you like. I just need to work late on Sunday instead of during the day.”

So on Sunday I’m going on a one-day course with the Director’s Guild and will be learning more about working with actors. I cannot tell you how pleased this makes me. I am seriously going to have to play loud music and dance on the table once I’ve posted this. I have lurkeyed and hope the result is no turkeys.

“What of Henny Penny?” you asks, asks you. I’m tempted to say there is no Henny Penny and the sky isn’t falling. However my car is falling. Falling to pieces. And I lack pennies–of the henny variety or any other–to keep paying for it to be fixed. Last week I had the alternator and the cambelt replaced. This week, the radiator has sprung a leak. Good thing I get driven home by a chauffeur isn’t it?

“You cheeky bar steward!” I think I hear from the back (yes, you). At least, I think that’s what you said. And I nod, embarrassed because you are right. It is one of those job perks of working in television that I really do appreciate. If it’s any consolation, the hours suck.

Anyway, top thing is that tonight’s chauffeur wasn’t a complete loon racing down the white markings of the motorway, straddling two lanes and nodding off to sleep at the wheel. No. Nor did the car reek of aftershave in a vain attempt to mask the smell of BO where the driver had been sleeping in it for two days. Another bonus.

Tonight’s driver was James. James–yes, for real, “Take me home, James!”–asked about my car. “Ow is your car, doin’, for real, bruv?” he asks, asks he. I tell him. “It’s pants.”

Now the thing I find out is that James used to deal in cars before he started driving eejits like me around in the middle of the night. And James knows where all the auctions are and where the bargains are. At least, this is what he tells me. “You don’ wanna be tradin’ yours in for no new car, bruv,” explains James. “You could be spendin’ just a coupla grand and get a decent motor that’s hardly bin used, innit.”

Well, I’ll bite. What else am I doing with my time apart from film making, distribution, trying to find an agent, planning another shoot and fretting? So it looks like at some point I’m off to a car auction with James–a motormouth in every sense–to look at shiny mow-tahs, barely used by the gentrified classes and the like. Cushtie, innit?

Oh, God, what am I letting myself in for.