This was the first line.

I’d written a short document. I printed it off and pasted the pages into a large Field Notes Dime Novel Edition notebook. And I went to a hotel room in London and didn’t come out until I’d broken down the whole season.

I remember clearly standing on the hotel balcony around 1 in the morning, looking down on East London, and suddenly realising the sound of Saint Germain. A few months later, Bill Nighy agreed to take the part of Saint Germain, which was good, because I would have been fucked if he’d said no, because he was that sound.

Also, seriously, how good is my life that I got to write for Bill Nighy?