12. 12th January (well, 3.15am 13th Jan)

 Monday morning. 3.15am. 

I didn't get up to write this. That'd be ridiculous. 

I didn't get out of bed, pull on my dressing gown, sit is a far too cold study (rather than boot up the MacBook and sit at the still fairly chilly dining table, just to catch up on the fact I didn't write a diary entry yesterday (when I was having a lovely quiet, calm day), that wasn't playing on my mind. At all.

No, I'm here now because I woke up (I think I woke up, I may not have actually slept yet, which is annoying since I'm up at 8am for an early Anfield Wrap) and my mind went, "You know what's wrong with act one in the pitch NOW?"

Which is a troubling thought as my deadline for this is Friday and all I've written so far is act one. Therefore, why not tweak it again.

"The reality of their outside lives," I thought, "is still not there. That idea that they do something other than THIS VERY MOMENT, that the theatre asked for? You haven't given them that, have you? You've fudged it. And if you give them something else, how does that impact what you've written so far? And what bloody job are you giving them at 3 bloody 15 (now 3 bloody 20) in the A sodding M?

Dave had a job on phones for 5 minutes there. Then became a sparks. A reason to have interrupting phone calls that could puncture a scene. Debbie became a health worker then went back to teaching assistant. Which is going to give me a nice character beat to play with. 

Both desperate to get out of jobs that are doing their heads in. Both having different views of a possible next generation. 

Time to start editing.