Itchy fingers and no red wine

We're not even halfway through the week of letting our first draft rest before the edits begin, and already I have itchy fingers. I suppose it's better than tearing my hair out which will probably be our state of mind next week when we're re-writing our pilot script. So to calm my frayed nerves last night over the ironing (oh, the luxury), I watched the first episode of Black Books. I had no red wine to hand but maybe that's a good thing as I was ironing shirts.

In my twenties I dreamed of owning a book shop. I also liked a drink or four and the occasional cigarette. I lusted after a life of decadence and art. The reality of course was very different - working as a secretary and barmaid in a small northern city. Black Books, in it's ramshackle, dimly lit way epitomises my dreams back then. Fran would have been my hero.

The first episode of Black Books is genius at drawing the three characters together in it's own rich and maniacal way. I found myself chortling at Manny's, gown clad, calm quoting traipse and laughing out loud at Bernard's final delight at finding the accountant of his dreams. I only hope that our pilot will be as successful.