Max held me at right angles to the ground and unprised my fingers from the railings. I must have looked like one of the nannies blown out as Mary Poppins blows in. Merrin Peeble's hooking email said, 'Hi, I'm all the way from TV land...' She named the company. I mustn't. When we facetimed, I saw I'd been spot on imagining Merrin as fourteen, slum-fed, with an absinthe green buzzcut. She continuously hoicked a shapeless crocheted black sweater up to her ears. 'We've had quite the laughs in the office looking at your footage,' she said, waving. I waved back. She waved bigger; so did I. She frowned and gave her wave a steely quality - a wave to stop any further waving, thanks. 'And we thought you'd be totally right for something up our sleeve since this morning's production meeting.' In her excitement she had pulled her sweater right over her head. She screeched until she found the neck; soundi...