Monthly Archives: May 2017

On… Anniversary 2017

It’s that time of year again, you guys! Our anniversary. When against all odds, we wake up, shower, dress, get our asses to City Hall, and ask a stranger to take a photo of us kissing, without our children falling off the podium.


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Here we have 2017. Errol is five and Ned is three.

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Here is 2016. Errol is four, Ned is two and REALLY into it.

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Here is 2015. Ned is one, Errol is three. That dress is from Topshop. Where the hell did I put that dress.

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Here is 2014. Errol is two and Ned is three months.

NB Ned was a horrendous small baby. See that look of myopic distrust? That is EVERY one of his baby photos. At about nine months he became the smiley little bruiser you know and love, but as a newborn, yeah, he was horrendous. (In fairness to him, he had silent reflux and couldn’t eat without being in pain so was hungry all the time, but WHATEVER Ned, SHEESH.) I don’t know how I managed to finish my last book with him as a newborn, especially with Errol as a toddler and Fox away for work more than 50 per cent of the time, as well as write a spec script and my first movie rewrite gig because I was trying to transition into screenwriting, but I did, and I will have a very very high opinion of myself forever more because of it. (Kidding!) (Maybe.)

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Here is 2013. Errol is just over a year and a half. He was almost bald for a very, very long time. I was superfuckingblond at this point in my life. It almost made me bald. Avoid peroxide, kids.

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Here is 2012. Errol is about eight months old.

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Here is 2010, our wedding day.

We got married here, even though we were living in London at the time, because we just really like New York City.  (2011 is missing as we were in Zurich for the year for my Fox’s job, and I was three months pregnant so it would have been a photo of me puking and snarling at Fox.)

At some point I will figure out how to resize all these photos to be even, and whatnot. Maybe by 2020.

On… Filthy Liar

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I never enter competitions. I don’t play the lottery, I don’t play board games, I don’t play badminton or tennis or croquet, I don’t play poker, I don’t throw any hats into any rings, ever.

Until at the end of last year, the WGA announced they were holding a competition to win fellowships with TV showrunners. “That’s what I need,” I thought to myself. “I need a fucking fellowship. This is what I want to do with the rest of my life, this is reason I moved my tiny family to the USA. But I can’t just keep selling things and hoping they get made, because that’s a 1 in 100 chance. I need to learn from a real live professional showrunner, to ask them advice on a writer-to-writer basis. I need this.”

Because that’s the strange thing about being a fledgling screenwriter. I have been doing it for three years now, more or less, since my fifth and (probably) final book was published. I sold a movie script to New Regency, a TV show to ABC network, I had two TV shows in development with WB and Universal last year, I’m writing specs and doing everything you’re supposed to do… but nothing has been produced, and moreover, I don’t know ANY professional working screenwriters. None. Not one. Bizarre, right?

So I sent in a spec I wrote last year, FILTHY LIAR. (Basic premise: A cocky British illegal immigrant will do whatever it takes to stay, survive and prosper in NYC. Kind of an updated Vanity Fair, with shades of Holly Golightly.) I figured I might get an interview, might get through to the last 100, the last 30, the last 10… and I did.

In fact, I won. Best comedy.

I didn’t just win best comedy. Mine was – apparently – the only script to get a complete score. It’s a goddamn miracle, that’s what it is.

So ANYWAY there’s going to be a staged table read on May 25, here in NYC, professionally cast. If you’re in the city, and you’d like to come, click here! (And cross your fingers that this gets optioned and made into an actual show. Cross them TIGHT.)