I know I am formally in production for a shoot, when my kind, caring wife leaves her body and a head-spinning demonic producer person takes over. This person does not care whether I am tired, hungry or overworked, she just wants everything ready and NOW. So I rushed to work, tried to answer 120 emails in 6 minutes and then found myself in the nearby café having an interview. Piece of cake, I told myself. A chat about The World Unseen and finding your path, about comedy and taboos in I Can’t Think Straight. I sipped my coffee and waited for the journalist to ask the question. 35 minutes later I was still waiting as he wanted to explain his theory on both films as the opening to my answer. It seemed like an excellent theory but he kept using words like pedagogical, oedipal and dialectic and you know, a cup of coffee will only get you through about 10 minutes of that. When he finished he looked at me expectantly. Hanan who had been fidgeting next to me for a while, looked at me expectantly. As casually as I could, I wiped the drool from my mouth and wondered if I dared ask what the question was again? Anyway, I got through it, realizing that Amina was indeed an oedipal rebuttal of the patriarchal symbol of dialectical learning and pedagogical craven backpedalling educative reductionism. Poor woman, no wonder she always had her hands in her pockets.
From there it was straight over to North London (Hanan packed her passport) to watch Mireille, our Middle East cooking show presenter, whip up a couple of recipes. This went well and gave Producer Hanan (as opposed to Wife Hanan) plenty to focus on other than me. As Mireille fried onions, Hanan emailed interns, made shopping lists, instructed her on camera technique, made calls and had me take photos and footage. On the way back, the Evening Standard called to ask for an article on Civil Partnerships.
“OK but I’m on a recce for a shoot. When do you need it?’
‘4pm’
I looked at my watch. It was 3.30pm. I looked at Hanan, watching for any signs of weakness.
‘No problem,’ I said.
After that, despite tending to a child with temperature on the one hand, and another child with homework meant for someone aged 17, Hanan hounded me for my cooking show script and shot list. Her Producer technique is just to keep asking ‘Do you have the script yet?’ and unless I put it in her hands, she ignores my increasingly hysterical answers and threats of divorce, and keeps repeating it. I can weep, shout and grumble, nothing moves Producer Hanan.
‘You don’t love me.’
‘Of course I do. Where’s the script.’
‘I’m going to leave you.’
‘Does that mean the script’s finished?’
So I finally sat down to write the script yesterday morning, sick child in bed, the other one whining about an essay on corporal punishment when Hanan told me we had to go to the park to shoot a video. In French. Listen, I love Paris as much as the next person, but I know enough to order steak frites and a nice Bordeaux and that’s it. Whereas Hanan, whether in Wife or Producer mode, can speak French as if she was born beneath the Eiffel Tower. Which I don’t rule out as a possibility until I’ve seen her original birth certificate. When we got back, we had to shoot another video for the new Enlightenment Productions website, launching in January. This one was in English, but by the time Hanan finished picking fluff off my hair, dusting my clothes and coaching me to be less wild but more funny, all I could say was ‘Merde.’ Funny that. A bientot.