My favourite part of writing is, unsurprisingly, writing. Dissecting scenes, shaping the grand form of the drama. It’s joyous. I get so wrapped up in the nitty gritty of the story that reading the script back afterwards is always, universally… depressing.

Long before a certain right wing celebrity found himself on the wrong end of the gun laws he was fighting to protect, I had an idea. What if, during a Question Time style panel show, a member of the audience got up and assassinated a right wing panelist. An act so random, so public, and so violent would ripple out, the catalyst of enormous social and political change. In this thinking, I charted not change, but collapse.

What if, after thirty years of that turmoil, war, and eventual societal collapse, a woman just wanted to find a decent pair of daps?