Fifteen strangers have arrived to make a film in my kitchen. It’s only the kitchen sink they want, and a shot of the front door. For this they also need somewhere to eat, and a room for hair and make-up. The film will be about three minutes long. The women are in charge of paperwork, hospitality, styling, continuity and health and safety. The men are in charge of electricity and equipment, which arrives in solid black plastic boxes and takes up space. The women have a running joke that nobody reads the call-sheet. If the men could only read the call-sheet, they’d know what they’re supposed to be doing. But the men are too busy talking shop to do that. An actor asks us, ‘What’s your favourite film?’ We don’t know, we’re not children: we don’t have favourites, we don’t rank. I make a hot water-bottle for our star, who’s on the phone in my bedroom. It’s not clear what we’re waiting for, but everyone is calm and practical and doing their job. Except me, because I’m the writer and don’t have a job. I’m hiding at the top of the house in a room I’m keeping all to myself. I have a streaming cold and my ears are singing. If someone needs me, if something goes wrong, they’ll have to shout.