Monday morning, 1st March. At about 6.45 yesterday evening, just as Sally was laying the table for our evening meal, my nerve broke. I rushed out of the house, shouting an explanation to Sally without giving her time to tell me I was a fool, backed the Richmobile out of the garage, slithering and sliding all over the drive - I damn near dented the offside wing on the gatepost - and drove at imprudent speed into Rummidge, arriving at the studio just in time to take my seat for the recording.
It went brilliantly. A wonderful audience - sharp, appreciative, together. And the script wasn't bad, either, though I says it myself. The story-line is that the Springfields decide to put their house up for sale in order to get away from the Davises, but without telling the Davises because they feel guilty about it, and the Davises keep unknowingly sabotaging the plan by turning up or doing something outrageous just when the Springfields ared showing potential buyers round the house. The audience loved it. I expect a lot of them want to move house themselves and can't because they have negative equity. Negative equity is when your mortgage is worth more than your house is worth. There's a lot of it about. It's a kind of internal derangement of the property market. Not funny, if you've got it, but it might make you see the funny side of Edward and Priscilla's dilemma. Or, to put it another way, watching their farcical trials and tribulations might make you feel better about your negative equity, especially as the episode ends with the Springfields reconciled to staying where they are. I often feel that Sitcom has that kind of therapeutic social effect.
The cast felt the good vibrations coming from the audience and were in cracking form. There were hardly any re-takes. We wrapped at eight-thirty. Everyone was smiling afterwards. "Hallo, Tubby," said Ron Deakin, "we missed you at rehearsal today." I mumbled something about being tied up. Hal gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing. Isabel, the floor manager, told me I'd been well out of it, that the rehearsal had been full of snags and cock-ups. "But that's always the way," she said. "If the rehearsal runs like a train, you can be sure the recording will be a disaster." (Isabel is an unhappy hoper.) Ollie wasn't there: he'd phoned in to say the roads were too dodgy in his part of the world. Several members of the cast decided to stay overnight in Rummidge in view of the weather, so we all went to the bar. There was a genial, relaxed atmosphere, everyone basking in the sense of a job well done, cracking jokes, buying rounds. I felt a huge affection for them all. It's like an extended family, and in a way I'm the father of it. Without my scripts, they would never have come together.
Samantha Hardy came to the bar, having tucked young Mark up in bed for the night at a nearby hotel, just as I was leaving. She gave me a nice smile, so I smiled back, pleased that she evidently didn't bear me a grudge from last week's conversation. "Oh, are you going already?" she said. "Breaking up the party?" "Got to," I said. "How's the script writing going?" "I'm going to discuss my idea with an agent," she said. "I've got an appointment with Jake Endicott next week. He's your agent, isn't he? I mentioned that I knew you, I hope you don't mind." "No, of course not," I said, thinking to myself, Cheeky bitch! "Be careful what you wear," I said. She looked anxious. "Why? Has he got a thing about clothes?" "He's got a thing about good-looking young women," I said. "I'd advise a nice, long, baggy bin-liner." She laughed. Well she can't say I didn't warn her. Jake will go ape when he sees those knockers. She has a pretty face, too, round and freckled, with a hint of a double chin that's like a trailer for the opulent curves straining at her blouse-front. She took my advice about asking Ollie if she could read some scripts and apparently he's given her a bundle to report on. A young woman to watch, in more ways than one.