My writing schedule has taken a cold, white hit. 

Usually the house will be empty, it’ll be just me wandering to and from the kettle, but today we’ve all been snowed in.

The Other Half managed to get to Oxford Circus before sliding on her arse all the way back again. Little Boy didn’t even manage to leave the house – through him I managed to get that small phantom sense of triump you used to get when you discovered that school has been cancelled.

Instead, we tottered in the direction of Regents – Regents; Regent’s? I can never remember – Park and threw snowballs at each other and passers-by until our toes fell off. 

It’s all been very exciting, but also a little frustrating, because the first draft of the spec I’ve been writing on has been building up a nice momentum  over the past week.

I’ve managed to secure an hour’s writing time in the local cafe – luckily, they’re open – which should keep me going.

It’s a pleasingly Dickensian scene. So I’m sitting near the window watching a blizzard blow down the street, a young urchin has just brough me a crumpet, I’m keeping one eye on Transfer Deadline Day news, I’m sipping latte and writing. Doesn’t get better than that, right? 

Remember to tune into Whitechapel tonight at 9pm, which looks an enjoyable, old-school piece of ITV1-hokum – a Jack The Ripper copycat on the prowl in modern-day London.

Phil Davis is in it so, whatever the quality, it’s already half a furlong ahead in my book. Me, I think Prince Charles did it.

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