After my self-loathing trip to Westfield, I am staying local. I am Milly Molly Mandy going up the village shop. Yearn for Fatso's. I don't remotely know why.
While he is scanning my white sliced in stony silence, I comment that he has got to stop cracking all these jokes and let me get a word in edgeways, I mean I love a chat and everything but.....
He looks scared again.
The only crumbs I can treasure is the deep meaningful (and only) conversation I had with him last week. His watery puffed-up eyes had looked into mine and he said: Look, I do not know Danny Boyle, I have never worked with Danny Boyle, I didn't even know who Danny Boyle was till this bloody film came out. I have never been, nor am I likely to be, in any sort of film. I am not that useless fat policeman in this Slumdog thing that you seem to think I am . Neither have I been to Bombay or Mombay or whatever the Hell they call it now. Nor would I. My family are from Pakistan!
I tell him that was a great pitch and was he setting his sights on Oliver Stone or Tarrantino now. He seemed to sit down heavily. He wasn't used to all those long words. He wasn't used to words at all actually.
The phone goes. I tell him that could be Danny for him now with a new script. I think I saw tears.