I have a pitch for a movie; I'm going to call Woody Allen about it. My working title is Lost in British Translation and it goes something like this:
A middle-aged American woman arrives in London on business. After a very long day's shoot, starving and unable to sleep, she crosses paths with three other American women at a luxury hotel. The chance meeting turns into an unlikely bond as they shop, have high tea, go on television, and attend a dinner turned AA meeting. It culminates in a bizarre all-nighter where the girls get nasty and dirty with some boozin' and eatin' and realize they are in the throes of a sleep deprived mid-life crisis.
This is how Oscars are born.
Monday, the first day of London Trip:
10 am wake up in New York
1 pm buy suitcase, pick up dry-cleaning
2 pm lunch with agent, who would really like to see my finished book (soon, I promise and leave him with the check)
4 pm pack
7 pm cab to airport
10 pm leave on redeye flight, from Kennedy airport to Heathrow
Tuesday, 12 pm, arrive in London
(Up 19 hours)
Tolstoy or Shakespeare, or maybe Clint Eastwood, said there are really only two basic stories to tell: A Man Goes on a Journey and A Stranger Comes to Town. He forgot, though, this third universal one: Four Americans Don't Take Ramona to London and Go As Long As They Can Without Food or Sleep.
It was sunny when we landed, and Mark had gift pouches, and we giggled in the car so that was all great. But the more I didn't sleep, the more things started to bug me.