TOUCHED BY A SUPERMODEL
Producer: Tyra Banks. After being electrocuted to death on the runway, a leggy model finds she can’t enter Heaven without first returning to Earth and doing good deeds to earn her way in.

Is it wrong that I really, really want to see that? (Also: I should pitch ‘Zinnia Zmith: Googlenurse’ to the CW. They are on the special medication.)

Paul Cornell (he of ‘writing some Doctor Who I adore and some I despise’ fame – not that that singles him out particularly) says British telly needs the US system of writers’ rooms. I suspect he’s right – nicking the ‘showrunner’ concept without the ‘other people, also possessing good ideas’ to go with it is like recruiting Hannibal without the A-Team, and your plan’s never going to come together when there’s no one to fly the helicopter/be a manwhore/pity any fools in the vicinity – but it’s still a concept that breaks my brain. I talk all the time while I’m writing: bits of dialogue, bits of backstory, bits of me shouting ‘shut up and type you arsewit’, the works. But that’s the sort of conversation probably best had with oneself, no? Or is a writers’ room full of people doing that all at once, in a super-efficient time-saving fashion, with free biscuits? That, I could learn to love.

The End of Mr Y, Scarlett Thomas: will babble properly when I’ve finished, but basically it’s your average Coraline meets Heidegger via Samuel Butler and a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Brilliance.

Frankly pathetic progress on B&L. But I’ve been having some pleasingly daft thoughts about Big Woo-related shenanigans and shiny author websites…

Compulsive Prison Breakery (T, it seems ungrateful, but I feel I must share this with you); smirking at the zen calm of Garfield Minus Garfield; discovering the sprouting lentil; wondering if Ewan McGregor can possibly have needed the money quite this much.