I've been to two marvellous, work-related parties in Cardiff this week. At the first one (due to a puzzling lack of vodka) I was completely sober until I got back to the hotel bar, at which point I got very, very, very drunk with daleks.
The second party was the wrap party for cast, crew and parasites like me. And it was marvellous. ish. There was the peculiar horror of turning up and knowing very few people, mixed with the lavish alarm on realising that there was a free bar.
Now, i've been good for the last year. I've been polite, courteous, and tried desperately not to put my foot in it, or disgrace my department.
So, when I finally met Tim, the astonishingly attractive runner on the show, I was very friendly, but relaxed. We may have chatted politely, and even danced a little next to Christopher Eccleston. If we did kiss, I'm sure it was brief and discrete. More of a peck on the cheek really. I wouldn't want to show him up in front of his colleagues, and I've got a reputation to consider.
You're way ahead of me here, aren't you?
This morning I woke up to a text from the script editor on Doctor Who. Now, growing up, like many fans I learned the names of the script editors - dear Terrance Dicks, troubling Eric Saward, Andrew Cartmel and his masterplan. One treasures their thoughts, ideas and philosophy. So, how pleasant to awaken to pearls of wisdom from the lovely Helen Raynor.
They were kind, thoughtful and solicitous: "Did you remember your coat this time? Or were you too busy SNOGGING TIM'S FACE OFF?????"
Um. Oh god. Um.