“I love romantic comedy,” he explained. “I’ve always liked romantic comedy but not shite romantic comedy. I like romantic comedy with edge, with bite, with bollocks! To me Macbeth is a romantic comedy, so’s Oedipus. I mean what could be more romantic than a man loving his ma so much he wants to shag her? And what could be more comical?”

Slightly worrying, but I let it go. After all, Ewan’s name attached to the project certainly ups the ante all round. And of course his timetable makes the whole thing even more urgent, which is fine by me. Every film I’ve ever heard of seems to have spent years in the planning and here I was taking shortcut after shortcut.

That brought us on to the script, with which there are still two problems – one little and one big. The little problem is that I haven’t given the story an end yet. I say this is a little problem because I’ve actually worked out two endings that would work dramatically, one happy and one sad. I haven’t been able to choose which one I want to go with yet. I suppose because Lucy and I are just starting IVF ourselves I don’t want to tempt fate.

The bigger problem remains the woman’s voice in the film. Everyone agrees that I haven’t got it right yet and that it’s crucial. It’s not a big thing, the story’s fine as are the jokes, it’s just a matter of tone and emotional emphasis. I have to try and find a way to make the female perspective more convincing. I’m trying. I’ve been trying for days but the more I try the more Rachel turns into a bloke.

Time’s running out. Petra and Justin are setting up auditions. Ewan is scouting for locations. I must find the woman’s voice.

Dear Penny

Picked up my first sackload of drugs from Spannerfield this morning. Me and a bunch of other women, all feeling a bit self-conscious. I have to sniff the first lot, which I’ll begin tonight. You sort of shove a pump up your nose and give it a blast. It doesn’t sound too difficult so far. Incidentally, although we’ll be paying Spannerfield for the process, Dr Cooper says that he’ll pay for the drugs. Apparently some local health authorities will fund fertility treatment and some won’t. Ours will, which is very lucky because the drugs cost literally hundreds of pounds! Life is such a lottery, it really is.

Sam’s going to Manchester for a night the day after tomorrow. It’s this huge charity concert for the Prince’s Trust he’s involved with. The BBC are broadcasting it and for some reason it’s fallen to Sam to represent them. I could go, of course, and normally I’d love to, but I’ve told Sam that I’m still feeling a little under the weather after the pingogram and I could really use a quiet week.

This is a lie!

My God, I can scarcely believe what I’m writing, but I’ve decided to see Carl. He rang me at work and asked me out to dinner and I said yes! Of course there’s no reason for me to feel guilty or anything, I’m just going to have a bite to eat with a friend. I’m not going to do anything with him, obviously! But nonetheless, I can’t say that my conscience isn’t troubling me a bit. Because let’s face it, I’m not going to tell Sam about it. Well, how can I? I can’t say to him, “Oh, by the way, while you’re away I’m going to have dinner with the dishiest man in England whom incidentally I have already snogged,” can I? Of course, I could say, “Oh, I’m having dinner with a friend,” but then he’d say, “What friend?” and I’d say, “Oh, you don’t know him,” and he’d say, “Him?” and I’d say, “Oh, for God’s sake, Sam, it’s not like that,” and he’d say, “Like what?” and… Oh well, before we knew it the Green-Eyed Monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on would be knocking at the door, suitcase in hand and planning a long stay.

Dear Self

I’m writing this in my room at the Britannia Hotel opposite Piccadilly bus station in Manchester, which is, I imagine, what Kremlin Palace must have looked like at the end of October 1917. Magnificent gilt, glittering crystal, carved marble and hundreds of pissed-up yobbos wandering about looking for the bar and a shag. I love it. It’s real rock ’n’ roll.

Most of the BBC posse are staying at the Midland Plaza (which is a Holiday Inn but posher than most). However, Joe London and Woody Monk always stay at the Britannia.

“Vey understand a drinking man here,” said Joe. “Not vat I bovver wiv all vat now, but I like ta rememba, you know wot I mean?”

“And the disco’s always full of lahvly fahkin’ birds,” Monk added.

On inspection Monk was proved right about this. The disco was full of lahvly fahkin’ birds, but very, very tough-looking. Northern girls never cease to amaze me by how tough they look. I think it’s the temperature. They seem to be impervious to cold. They never wear tights! It’s amazing. In the middle of winter in Newcastle or Leeds you’ll see them, making their way from bus station to club, groups of determined-looking girls in tiny minidresses, naked but for a square inch or two of Lycra, bare arms folded against the howling wind, translucent white legs clicking along the sodden pavement in their impossibly precarious shoes. Never mind Scott of the Antarctic, these girls would have done it in half the time and got back before the chip shop closed.

I must say I’m glad I’m married and past all that trying to pull birds business. I’d be far too terrified to talk to girls these days (actually I always was). Still, you can have a bit of a sad old look, can’t you? And Monk, Joe and I have just celebrated the end of a great night by having a last drink in the Britannia Hotel disco.

And it has been a great night, I must say. A genuine rock extravaganza. Everything went brilliantly, not like on Livin’ Large. Believe it or not my bloody sister rang and actually asked if I could take Kylie! I’m afraid the language I used was not very fraternal. I haven’t sworn at her like that since we were teenagers. Kylie’s such a little anarchist these days, she’d probably try to assassinate the Prince.

The show was at the Manchester Evening News Arena, which is just vast. There must have been fifteen thousand fans in there. Amazing. I had a doddle of a job myself, which was to… well… quite frankly, I don’t really know what my job was. Hanging around, I suppose, while the engineers did all the work. That’s what executives do, isn’t it? And eat lunch, of course, but it was far too late to eat lunch.

We had an incredible bill. Representing the wrinklies was Joe London, Rod (obviously) and Bowie. We were to have had Phil Collins but there was fog at JFK. Besides this, we actually had a pretty impressive turn-out of current acts. Maybe the Prince is getting hip again. I certainly noticed that when the final bill was announced some of my fashion junkie colleagues at BH looked quite miffed not to be involved. The biggest booking of the night was Mirage. They’re colossal at the moment and being from Salford were almost local. The lead singer’s name is Manky (I think) and he hates absolutely everything, particularly, it seems, his own band. I went along to the sound check in the afternoon and he was on stage having a fight with the principal songwriter in the band, an ugly-looking bastard called Bushy. What a show! All the mikes were on and this vast concrete arena was echoing to the sound of these two lads yelling abuse at each other and pushing each other around.

“Ya fookin’ cont! Ya can’t fookin’ sing!”

“Ya fookin’ cont! Ya can’t fookin’ write songs.”

My heart sank because Mirage were the top of the bill (although Joe and Rod were pretending they were) and it didn’t look as if Manky and Bushy would survive until the evening. These boys may have been hooligans but they were professional hooligans. One of the other members of the band started strumming his guitar. “Look, are you fookin’ conts just fookin’ fookin’ about? Or are we fookin’ sound fookin’ checkin’, ya conts?”