Well, this could well be the last thing I write.
As I speak, we're trapped in the building while the police have closed off Wood Lane. Beneath us, a nice young man in asbestos is carefully edging towards an abandoned car.
It's a bomb warning. A serious one. Last time this happened, my office got blown up. The laser printer's not been the same since.
We rang up the BBC's alert helpdesk to find out what was going on (switchboard were rubbish and suggested we ring "repairs and maintenance"). It's a great message, which tells us that Television Centre has been "invacuated". Bully for them.
Meanwhile, here we sit, abandoned over a soon-to-implode car. And not even a pretty young intern to spend my last five minutes with creatively.
Sparkling Cyanide (1945)
1 year ago