I’m not going to admit that I’m a bit confused this week, because you’d hear me. But something I have believed pretty stridently has been called into question — and it was called into question by me. I should never listen to me.

Here’s the belief. You cannot use a familiar idea, a trope, in drama and say that it’s fine because the audience doesn’t know it. That the audience is not as familiar with it as you are, that you are involved in drama so you know these things. I think that’s a bit grandiose on the part of the writer, and damn patronising about the audience.

I once refused to take a suggestion on a script because it was an idea I had seen something close to eleventy-billion times in other dramas. “Doesn’t matter,” said the suggester, “the audience hasn’t seen it before.”

I believe I managed to avoid saying “bullshit”, but the fella didn’t press the point so I suspect I at least oozed quiet anger.

And then there’s this week. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, partly because I’m not allowed to, mostly because I’m clearly an arse who wants to sound exciting and important. But during the course of this thing which did matter to me but otherwise isn’t worth your wondering about, I got into a discussion about a particular recent drama.

Actually, a couple of them. But one of the people I was talking with disliked a certain show because, as she said, it was all very familiar stuff with the same police tropes. I can’t disagree, she was factually correct, and yet I wanted to disagree because I really liked it.

Trying to vocalise this then, and trying to be clearer now, I think the issue was for me that this time I believed the tropes. In any police procedural drama there are going to be the same steps in an investigation and I’m accepting that as accuracy rather than repetition, I’m accepting it as authenticity.

Around those points, though, characters were reacting in the same ways that all characters do in these shows, and that was my colleague’s issue. Yet in this one case, I believed them. I felt the pain and the anxiety.

So I am demonstrably wrong. You can write what audiences are already familiar with and it can work.

I think this is just yet another case of how the answer is that you simply have to write it brilliantly.

In which case, sod it, I can’t tell you what I was doing this week, but I must tell you that the show is “Catch Me a Killer” and while the series main writer is Amy Jephta, the episode I wats talking about was by Oliver Frampton. In the UK, it airs on U&Alibi.

Not to say that my mind is all over the place but before I get serious about desks, there’s a story from childhood we need to half remember. I want to say that it’s from Br’er Rabbit but given my age that would mean I got it from Disney’s “Song of the South” and you and I are not going there today, so we’ll forget half of this and remember just the bit about how the rabbit does something bad. He’s done whatever it is, someone is going to tell on him, but he gets to put his spin first and so he’s fine.

The first version you hear is the one you believe, the one you prefer.

And quite rigidly so. I had to talk with a rabid Trump supporter the other day and she insisted, insisted, insisted on how everyone should check their sources and they must, must, must seek out all opposing points of view throughout Fox News.

Anyway.

For reasons I cannot tell you — and that you would not give one pixel of a toss about if I could — I’ve been required this week to watch a couple of episodes of “Patience”. I’ve seen several before, though as it happens not these two, and it’s a good show. Except since I saw it before, I’ve been watching the original French series it’s based on. If you don’t happen to know it, its “Astrid et Raphaelle” but streams in the UK on Channel 4 under the title “Astrid: Murder in Paris”.

It’s excellent. I was recently invited onto a radio show to recommend TV shows to binge on and I immediately wanted Astrid to be the series I enthuse about — but I’d been beaten to it by at least one person before me. I felt robbed.

Both these French and British shows are police procedurals in which an autistic woman working in a police criminal records department helps solve crimes. As ever with pitch lines, it doesn’t sound great and it does sound contrived. It sounds like the way Quincy was a medical examiner but he would go out on cases because that’s where the cameras were. Or how Charlie’s Angels would fight any crime, but preferred ones involving going undercover in bikini fashion shows. Someone’s got to do it.

No question, Astrid and Patience are contrived. The original eventually addresses this at length and turns it into a problem for the characters instead of for us as viewers. And the English-language version actually comments on it very early on. The core problem is that this lead woman is a civilian and there have to be regulations and laws and procedures that she violates by becoming part of the various investigations. If that sounds like nitpicking, like I know my Police and Criminal Evidence Act (1984), then follow: Astrid/Patience have difficulty crossing a police line because only authorised people can. The two versions of this character stand there at the tape, unable to move until specifically authorised. You really feel for her, this difficulty is very well conveyed and that’s what makes these shows compelling, but it also means that whether I care about detail or not, they do, so skipping around the issue is TV logic.

Although, okay, you’re still thinking I nitpick because I knew that PACE act was 1984. In which case, let me pick: one episode of Patience I watched this week opens with a woman listening to her huge smartphone over wired headphones and it made me grumble. There’s no law that says a character has to have a new phone, but it was such a big one that it seemed new, seemed to be one of the more recent large-screen models. Yet it’s nine years since iPhones had a headphone jack and five since Samsung removed them too.

I can say this to you and I can say that the French original of this same episode did not have the same mistake in its version of the same scene, the same story. But then there are things I prefer in the British version, others I prefer in the French, and it’s all bits and things. I’d like to know why certain key decisions were made that make the stories different, but I can’t say one choice is better than another and normally I feel I can. I don’t mean I’m right or that you’d agree with me, I mean I can’t think of another example where I haven’t got both an very definite preference and reasons I think back it up.

For instance, this week I was also listening to Sheryl Crow’s version of Mississippi, a song I only recently learned was written by Bob Dylan. Then I listened to Dylan’s version. It’s so different as be practically laughable: it’s fine, it isn’t funny really, but it’s so dour and miserable compared to Crow’s version that it sounds like it was deliberately intended to sound miserable.

So in that case, easy. I prefer Crow’s take. But then I heard hers first. Just as I heard her version of “Sweet Child O’Mine” first and like it enormously, while people who first heard the original Guns N’ Roses version apparently do not.

Everybody prefers the first Doctor they saw in Doctor Who. Strictly Come Dancing is better made than Dancing with the Stars, if you see them that way around. The Princess Bride is an incredibly better novel than it is a film, unless you saw the film first and now entirely incorrectly believe that the novel is a shrug in comparison.

It’s not like either you or I sit here making up star ratings for things, but almost as if it’s a rule, I think there tends to be one version you like and one I think is at best an interesting copy.

I prefer “Astrid: Murder in Paris” to “Patience”.

Yet if all you can possibly get from this mess in my head is that I’m recommending Astrid, I am also recommending Patience. Perhaps if you’ve read this far, that’s what you need.

I’m just fascinated by two versions of anything and what sticks with you, what seems to land. During this week’s viewing, for instance, I kept being struck by how the lead detective’s desk is in the wrong place.

That’s the lesson here, as a viewer, as a recovering TV critic, as a writer. It is vital for drama that you arrange the furniture correctly.

And you thought the headphones thing was weird.

I want you to picture what I actually can’t quite remember, it was so long ago. But whenever it was, 16th or 17th century, I’m in a meeting at BBC Radio WM. I am so young that I’m probably only in the meeting because I’m too shy to get out of the room. I’m as of little use or significance to the discussion as the free copies of Radio Times you used to get on staff back then, and which may actually be why I went in there at all.

But they’re discussing Christmas schedules and staff rotas, and the issue I remember is how annoyed the programme director and the station manager were about a show. To my mind, it was a gift: BBC Radio WM had the rights to repeat a series from BBC Radio 4, a documentary series about the station’s home turf in West Midlands. To my mind, this was a show that was already made, and it wasn’t as if anyone was unhappy about paying a repeat fee. If there were a repeat fee, it so little concerned anyone that the subject didn’t come up.

To everyone’s mind, it was a first-class show, too. It was called “Teachers” and I think if it hadn’t already won awards, everyone who heard it knew it would. So quality wasn’t an issue, any costs weren’t an issue.

What was an issue was that each episode was half an hour long and the station wanted to run it in 15 minute chunks — and couldn’t. Specifically, it could not do this because the show itself just physically couldn’t be split in two. There was no break point you could make in the middle, there was no break point anywhere.

To my mind, that was a perfect half hour show, then. An absolutely perfect edit where every second was used, nothing was flab, you were carried along for the whole duration and no further edit was possible.

Unfortunately I don’t remember what happened next. I think they ran it in its intended half-hour lengths, but that may be wishful thinking. I’ve half a memory of being the person who played the tape out that Christmas but, as I say, it was so long ago that chocolate hadn’t been invented yet.

But I’m minded of this all week because I’ve had occasion to re-read a radio play of mine that didn’t get anywhere and I may be able to make an opportunity for it. I think I can say to you that it has the same tight editing in the writing, that each bit perfectly fits in with — and really even demands — the next part. Tight in structure, bound together by some gags that only work when they are slammed up next to one another, the comedy of counterpoint.

But the reason I feel I can say to you that this is a perfect piece of work is because it’s too bloody short. I need to find 10 to 12 minutes more material and so I’ve been looking at this sodding thing, completely unable to find where I can split it apart and add something new in.

I do see writing as knitting together a story, and so I do see making big changes like this as requiring you to first unstitch the piece. I’m not 100% sure now how similar knitting and stitching is, I may be mangling a metaphor. And if I’m not then, I am now: I picture myself holding the two unstitched ends up in the air, trying not to let them drop until I’ve got the new bit in and the concrete has set.

It’s a nice problem to have. It entails, for me, reading and re-reading the script, weighing each piece and spending a stupid amount of time just sitting and thinking. I don’t take a lot of time to just think so being forced to in order to achieve what I’m after, it’s practically refreshing.

And it’s good to be in that world again, it’s good to be with these characters. It’s even impressive — obviously just to me — how it’s so tight that there are exchanges of dialogue that are not remotely funny, except that they are because of precisely when they come and who says them.

It actually feels like proper writing. I hope I can get it away this time.

I have a feeling that I’m heading toward a criticism of how AI tries to write, but really what’s on my mind is how stories are more than plot — and the examples I’m thinking of were entirely human-written.

Follow. Earlier this week my friend Mark Braxton on Radio Times mentioned that 2025 is the 40th anniversary of “Edge of Darkness” by Troy Kennedy Martin. It’s a six-part BBC television drama that, if you had to tell someone who hadn’t heard of it, you’d probably say was about a police officer trying to find out who murdered his daughter.

But if you know the show, what you’re thinking as you’re saying all of this is that it’s actually about a detective who nearly becomes a tree.

Look at that difference, right there. First it sounds like an ordinary thriller, then it sounds insane. The truth of “Edge of Darkness” is that it’s somewhere between the two, especially since Troy Kennedy Martin was talked out of the whole arboreal ending, but also because the series is much richer than a police procedural.

The thing is, you can prove that. It’s demonstrable, because the story has been told twice, to very different effect, and that difference is all in the telling.

For the 1985 TV series starring Bob Peck was remade in 2010 as a film starring Mel Gibson. Okay, yes. But the TV series had music, in part, by Eric Clapton. So nothing’s safe. That said, Clapton’s theme music was exceptional and Gibson’s acting, in my opinion, was functional.

The two productions are the same story and, curiously, they’re both directed by Martin Campbell.

Mark tells me, though, that Campbell has said he doesn’t think the film works. There are specific story points and particular characters from the original that are not in the film, but overall it is really that there is just a functional feel to it.

The film is about who killed this woman.

The TV show is about Knights Templar and the Teutonic knights of the Marches and a battle waged over hundreds of years, now being played out against 1980s Thatcherism, Reaganism and the proliferation of nuclear weapons.

The thing is, only that last bit about nuclear weapons is on the surface of “Edge of Darkness”. Yet that, plus all of the rest, informs the characters and what happens to them, it informs how things happen, and it truly informs the drama.

Now, I have a slight problem in that I loved the TV show. (I skipped out of revising for exams in order to see Troy Kennedy Martin at a day-long screening of the whole series in a cinema.) I loved it so much that I could not make myself watch the film.

But.

When Mark said this about the anniversary, I wanted to re-read the show’s scripts and couldn’t because my copy is in a box somewhere in the debris of my office. So instead, I braved it and I read the script of the film — because you can now find online.

It’s fine. Screenwriters William Monahan and Andrew Bovell have written a thriller that works fine.

Unfortunately for them, it turns out that Troy Kennedy Martin’s published script book is available to read online in the Internet Archive.

I read the the whole series scripts, then I watched the start of the film and the first episode of the TV show.

Same characters. Same plot. But the film is a puzzle, the TV series is a story.

And in both cases they are what they are because of the words that were used and the words that were not used — but which inform the show and are absent from the film.

I would like you to tell me that this is normal and I think you’re kind enough to do it, but possibly not good enough a liar to be convincing. Still, I’d appreciate you having a go.

I think I’m programmable.

It’s always been the case that there is music in my head, there is never not music, and if it’s not always whatever I last heard, whatever I last heard can get in there and stay. It can also come out, actually: if I stub my toe, for instance, then rather than swearing I am at least as likely to burst out loud with whatever lyric I’d got to in the tune. People have looked at me for walking into, say, the side of a desk and bellowing out “Oh, Vienna.”

Only, this week, I think I’ve found that it’s also dialogue. Specific lines get in my head and keep coming out of my mouth, which is not uncommon, which I know is also called quoting, but this week it’s also the tone and the rhythm as well as the words.

For the other week I re-read some Sports Night scripts by Aaron Sorkin and this week I’ve been re-watching the show. The dialogue in that show is the fantastic thing about it, but the dialogue is also the problem because every single character speaks in exactly the same way. Every single character and now, at times, also me. I can only hope that my conversation has been as clever and with as much of an undertow of great humour plus shockingly moving emotion, but I’ve tried.

And then there’s this. Just now, right before we started to talk, I said aloud what is spelt out as (DUBIOUS MURMUR). If you don’t recognise that, you might when I tell you that as I realised I had just quoted Marge Simpson, I said (ANNOYED GRUNT).

You’re ahead of me here. Yes, I’ve been reading scripts to The Simpsons. Hang on. I’ve read 39 of them. Oh, why did it have to be 39 and not 40? That word you’re thinking now is never spelt out in any of the scripts, it is always HOMER: (ANNOYED GRUNT).

Fine. This is of no earthly use and I feel sure you’re starting to think this had better be going somewhere, to which I feel compelled to say d’accord.

Yes. I’ve also been watching Astrid: Murder in Paris, which is in French with subtitles. The other night two of us were leaving the living room and I automatically, unthinkingly said apres-vouz.

I’m telling you, it’s frightening and I am only now realising that I’m like this. I am programmable.

Like once I was pitching a radio thing about crosswords and I got so good at them, until the project collapsed and the entire subject left my head. Now I could no more do a cryptic crossword than I could find an ending to this sentence.

There is just one sole thing that is good about this. I thought I did well getting the voice of the Doctor when I was writing Big Finish Doctor Who dramas and if it weren’t the skill I thought it was, if it were just that I am programmable, still it worked out.

I just wish I’d paid more attention in school. Imagine if I’d read the classics or just had thought more about the French language instead of having a crush on the French teacher. I’d be so dangerous.

Whereas now you are. You now know that you can put ideas, dialogue and music in my head. It’s a good thing you’re so nice. You’d never manipulate me, other than to pretend that this all happens to you too.

There’s a show I like that isn’t called “Nobody Wants This”. Instead, it’s called “Nobody Wants This.” — with that full stop at the end. Or it is on posters and on screen, it isn’t in any reviews I’ve read or even just descriptions of it. Which may mean it’s not remotely important and I should have better things to do with my time than wonder about punctuation.

And yet, you know where this is going. Punctuation. As crucial as the words it punctuates. A comma in one place makes a line funny, an exclamation mark at the end ruins everything.

Although there is “Oklahoma!” and before that was this big, famous musical which I have yet to see and so can’t describe it to you in case you’re wondering which big famous musical it is, it was not big and it was not famous. But it was named after the state and it did have an exclamation mark. I seem to remember reading someone wondering how that went down with people at the time: did it get the same looks that, perhaps, “Nevada!” would today? Or “Mar-a-Lago!”

I don’t know if “Oklahoma!” writers Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II ever explained why they had an exclamation mark. So far I’ve not found sign of “Nobody Wants This.” writer Erin Foster explaining her choice, either.

And for once, I don’t need to know a justification. The titles just feel right with punctuation. Oklahoma’s shriek conveys an innocent exuberance to me – I really should find out what it’s about — and the full stop at the end of “Nobody Wants This.” feels so definitive. Somehow the full stop adds weight to the “Nobody” part.

I don’t know what the asterisks added to M*A*S*H mean, except that I think the original novel or novels had no such punctuation in the title and it was the film that added them.

Then there’s Magnum, p.i., which uses both full stops and lowercase letters for private investigator. And Quincy, M.E. which uses full stops and capital letters for Medical Examiner. Except everyone called those shows Magnum and Quincy, which does suddenly sound like a title by itself. Magnum and Quincy: together they fight crime.

Speaking of crime, NYPD Blue had no truck with punctuation, while Sledge Hammer! did. Police Squad! In Colour.

Again, there’s no reason for any of this, no practical reason you can point at for why shows do or don’t use punctuation, and yet I seem to like it when they do. Maybe because somewhere I have a draft script called “Ophelia!”, which right there used up my entire allowance of exclamation marks for the year. (Yes, it’s a retelling of Hamlet from Ophelia’s point of view. I just cannot accept that she goes mad because her boyfriend is in a wet tizzy. It’s years since I wrote it and it went nowhere, but I still like a key line where Hammy has been going on a bit and Ophelia gets to say: “Get thee to a summary.”)

Anyway. The original Star Trek films used to have colons in the title. The Star Trek films from 2009 onwards didn’t, but should. “Star Trek: Into Darkness” is practically legible compared to its actual title of “Star Trek Into Darkness”. Although the film was such an uncredited remake of an earlier film that its title should really have had “(Repeat)” in it.

Next, The Concord: Airport ’79 is an interesting mix of a colon and an omission apostrophe. But then I’m more interested in the film’s original title. Believe it or not, it was going to be called Airport ’79: The Concord. Someone probably ran a risk/reward spreadsheet on those two alternatives.

But a real surprise to me thinking about all this and checking what I thought I remembered, was When Harry Met Sally. It’s actually called “When Harry Met Sally…”, with the ellipses. An AI app just told me that Woody Allen made a film called “Every Thing You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask)” which is an interesting use of parentheses and asterisks, except AI hallucinated.

It’s actually “Everything”, not “Every Thing”. Good thing we’re not using AI for anything important.

AI also answered my question about TV shows with punctuation by noting that every episode of Seinfeld apparently has a title beginning with the word “The”. It’s not true, incidentally, as the entire first season breaks this rule, but the thing to note is that “The” is now punctuation. Good thing we’re not using AI for anything important.

I feel I could go on. I feel you feel I have done. But in lieu of a final thought ending with the brilliant words “full stop”, since I can’t think of any such thought, let me propose something. You having read this means that this is now in your past.

I would like to offer, then, that this makes what you’ve been reading be really a kind of period piece.