I'm going to get a warning letter from the Gay Council. And it's not going to be a nice one. I'm dreading getting a "Dear Sir or Miss Thing", and I suspect it won't be a Pink warning. It'll be a Burberry one.
I've brought out the fanboy in Adam. A quite charming one, but still a fanboy. We spent Saturday in the office, digitising Dr Who masters ("Don't you just think Lynda Barron's in a different story?" he'd ask). He decided to skip Heaven, choosing instead a date in the BBC canteen.
Admittedly he spent most of the day fielding calls that were roughly along the lines of "Yeah... hi... no, not tonight. Really? ... No, Jack's in prison for five years. Yes, not kidding... I see. Well, try the guy outside the VIP area, but be subtle... No, really not coming."
By Sunday evening, it was worse.
"Hi. No, it's true, I did stay in last night. Watching a film. Yeah. A film. No. I'm not ill. Uhhuh. Well, I won't see you as I'm staying in tonight. Yeah, having dinner, reading a book. No, everything's fine.... Where are you going? ... Sure - mention my name to Minty, and you'll get that. Sure."
Then he'd turn back to me. "You know, Terrance Dicks really didn't know what he was doing here. You can't set something in the middle of State of Decay."