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No, don't ask how I have internet. I'm not sure myself, and I don't think it will last.
Anyway. This is the problem. Starting from tomorrow, I am a BBC runner. I don't know what a runner is. Oh dear god. I'm terrified. I've been working with these people for four days and haven't fucked anything up, but that's in the safety of an office. Tomorrow I'm going to be loose on London with ample opportunity to make mistakes, and I'm terrified I'll do something stupid and ruin the shoot.
And before anyone accuses me of overestimating my role in the production, this thing is running on a tighter-than-tight schedule and is planned down to the minute. (The schedule is thirteen typed pages, with illustrations.) Oh, my god.
So far it hasn't been too bad, honestly. When I have more time, I should spend some time just talking about BBC White City and how beautiful it is, and the various odd details I've noticed about the place, and what it feels like doing a regular day's work for the first time in two years, because it's all an experience. Walking out of the building at six in the evening, joining the exodus going down to the Tube station, makes me feel very much part of the rat-race; I went down to Shepherd's Bush for dinner with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shipperkitten on Wednesday, and complained at the time that it was all getting unutterably grown-up and scary, because how can I have a job, a real nine-to-five job that isn't selling books, in London? It makes me miss home, and Oxford, and makes me start wondering where home is.
It's all incredibly exhausting, of course. Counting travel time, it's a twelve-hour day, and I'm staying with people whom I don't know, at a new job with people I don't know either, and without internet (usually, that is) as well as three days without a phone (because I left my charger in Hatfield Heath and didn't have internet to tell people I was incommunicado!), I was feeling stupidly, ridiculously, self-destructively lonely. On a whim, I stopped on the way back at Oxford Circus and spent a rain-wet hour walking around, looking at the lights blurring in the rain and thinking that no one, no one at all, knew where I was. I don't think it's that simple, but I might have found the meaning of life: it's the missed call on your phone, where are you, I'm worried, when you don't come home.
Quite possibly exhaustion is making me talk rubbish. But in all seriousness, this is such a valuable experience and I'm really lucky to get it, but it's hard in ways I hadn't expected - the shift back to nine-to-five, the sheer hard work, the long journeys, but most of all the way I miss being at home. When I write LJ entries in my flat in Oxford, I know Claire is on the other side of the wall, I can hear Ben singing in the kitchen; at home, my parents are usually there with me; even when I'm on my own, I'm not. But here I'm among and around strangers all the time, and it's getting to me, I think. It's funny, I was feeling so miserable in Oxford, and I'm glad I'm out of the claustrophobia of that environment, but I didn't realise the sheer importance and value of having so many people I know and love around me all the time.
In April or May, I'll be able to talk about what it is I'm actually working on - why I need smashable guitars and why I have to run around from Putney to Waterloo to Abbey Road tomorrow - and then you'll all probably laugh at me. And I don't think I would have had it any other way, really. But my phone bill is suffering, it must be said.
Okay! Enough negativity. (I've no reason to be negative: I'm not depressed. I'm scared, tired, nervous, but I am all those things; none of this not-feeling-anything malarkey.) I have an honestly awesome job, I'm out on location shoot with the BBC tomorrow, I'm going out to Hatfield Heath in the evening for a much-needed break (although back shooting in London on Saturday, sigh), and in precisely one week and two days from now, I'll be in New York.
Yeah. Bedtime, before I actually keel over.
Anyway. This is the problem. Starting from tomorrow, I am a BBC runner. I don't know what a runner is. Oh dear god. I'm terrified. I've been working with these people for four days and haven't fucked anything up, but that's in the safety of an office. Tomorrow I'm going to be loose on London with ample opportunity to make mistakes, and I'm terrified I'll do something stupid and ruin the shoot.
And before anyone accuses me of overestimating my role in the production, this thing is running on a tighter-than-tight schedule and is planned down to the minute. (The schedule is thirteen typed pages, with illustrations.) Oh, my god.
So far it hasn't been too bad, honestly. When I have more time, I should spend some time just talking about BBC White City and how beautiful it is, and the various odd details I've noticed about the place, and what it feels like doing a regular day's work for the first time in two years, because it's all an experience. Walking out of the building at six in the evening, joining the exodus going down to the Tube station, makes me feel very much part of the rat-race; I went down to Shepherd's Bush for dinner with
shipperkitten on Wednesday, and complained at the time that it was all getting unutterably grown-up and scary, because how can I have a job, a real nine-to-five job that isn't selling books, in London? It makes me miss home, and Oxford, and makes me start wondering where home is. It's all incredibly exhausting, of course. Counting travel time, it's a twelve-hour day, and I'm staying with people whom I don't know, at a new job with people I don't know either, and without internet (usually, that is) as well as three days without a phone (because I left my charger in Hatfield Heath and didn't have internet to tell people I was incommunicado!), I was feeling stupidly, ridiculously, self-destructively lonely. On a whim, I stopped on the way back at Oxford Circus and spent a rain-wet hour walking around, looking at the lights blurring in the rain and thinking that no one, no one at all, knew where I was. I don't think it's that simple, but I might have found the meaning of life: it's the missed call on your phone, where are you, I'm worried, when you don't come home.
Quite possibly exhaustion is making me talk rubbish. But in all seriousness, this is such a valuable experience and I'm really lucky to get it, but it's hard in ways I hadn't expected - the shift back to nine-to-five, the sheer hard work, the long journeys, but most of all the way I miss being at home. When I write LJ entries in my flat in Oxford, I know Claire is on the other side of the wall, I can hear Ben singing in the kitchen; at home, my parents are usually there with me; even when I'm on my own, I'm not. But here I'm among and around strangers all the time, and it's getting to me, I think. It's funny, I was feeling so miserable in Oxford, and I'm glad I'm out of the claustrophobia of that environment, but I didn't realise the sheer importance and value of having so many people I know and love around me all the time.
In April or May, I'll be able to talk about what it is I'm actually working on - why I need smashable guitars and why I have to run around from Putney to Waterloo to Abbey Road tomorrow - and then you'll all probably laugh at me. And I don't think I would have had it any other way, really. But my phone bill is suffering, it must be said.
Okay! Enough negativity. (I've no reason to be negative: I'm not depressed. I'm scared, tired, nervous, but I am all those things; none of this not-feeling-anything malarkey.) I have an honestly awesome job, I'm out on location shoot with the BBC tomorrow, I'm going out to Hatfield Heath in the evening for a much-needed break (although back shooting in London on Saturday, sigh), and in precisely one week and two days from now, I'll be in New York.
Yeah. Bedtime, before I actually keel over.
