“The English winter - ending in July, To recommence in August.”

Lord Byron had a very jaded view of our weather. Probably all those aristocratic excesses had addled his mind, many of which I can't mention here for fear of upsetting delicate sensibilities.

He should be here today. The weather is sublime. He might even have been inspired to write a poem.

My view of August? Well, I must say I woke with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nothing to do with aristocratic excesses, I can assure you.

Simply that the end of August is the deadline for the feature-length screenplay, The Name Of Which Cannot Be Uttered.

(Snappy little title, no?)

When it was still July, yesterday, it didn't seem so scary.

I'm going to have to work like a dog.

Not like MY dog who potters around sniffing things, collects dirty socks and underpants to line his nest under the bed, indulges in a little barking practice and sleeps a lot.

It's a dog's life!