ABSTRACT
There you stand, dressed in your oldest jeans and thickest sweater (unless you’re unbelievably lucky and start in fine weather): a stopwatch restinsg imposingly upon your bosom – maybe a Polaroid camera also – and a clipboard clutched as a lifeline in front of you. Pencils, ready sharpened, are secreted somewhere about your person; virginal continuity notes and unmarked pages of script lie neatly gathered under the clip on top of your clipboard, and securely tethered (in case of high winds) with a large rubber band. You may, being prepared for any eventualities, have a sheet of plastic covering the paperwork. In your capacious waterproof bag somewhere near your feet are spare copies of the script and the schedule, together with spare pens, pencils, adhesive tape, scissors – spares of everything, in fact, even down to the odd aspirin and safety pin. Your laptop is in your car, or it might be closer to hand in a nearby cowshed.
