Sucks to the Beeb.

A couple of sleepless nights later, and I'm still mad as hell.
All week my mailbox has been full of emails from people who have enjoyed The Price of a Fish Supper so much that they have written to tell me so.
Then somebody comes round to the house with The Daily Telegraph Magazine, in which distinguished critic Gillian Reynolds says 'Catherine Czerkawska is a wonderful writer of radio plays. She is poetic, humane, funny, makes you think, but for some strange reason, she hit the buffers with Radio 4 a few years back and couldn't get a single thing broadcast. '
Rosy glow of self satisfaction has barely had time to subside when another email comes from my producer. Proposal (200 word 'pitch' ) for new radio play about Scottish poet Robert Tannahill, which she thought was 'wonderful', has fallen at first hurdle. The answer is no. No way. Not interested.
Am not really mad at Beeb. I kind of expected it. Somebody there really doesn't like me or my plays. Am more mad at self for allowing self to be lulled by success of Fish Supper, into dropping my guard and giving them the satisfaction of saying no all over again.
Hell will freeze over before I send any more proposals Auntie's way. Have pleasant daydream of publishing immensely successful novel. BBC executives are begging on knees to adapt it. Tell them to piss off and take it to ITV instead.
Just you wait 'Enry 'Iggins, just you wait.'

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