I have arrived in London, where the film festival people have put me in a ridiculously nice hotel and have asked me to see twelve movies in the next five days.

I can handle that, particularly when the walk to the main screening venue is so bloody beautiful — basically, I cross Trafalgar Square, cut through Charing Cross station and walk across Waterloo Bridge, and there I am at the British Film Institute, with its seductive gift shop and its welcoming press area, where Bourbon Cremes sit on a little plate for anyone who might be nibbly after a transatlantic flight.

My first screening’s in an hour. Have I mentioned how much I love my work?