by James Killough
I worked with an actor once, a Royal Shakespeare Company stalwart, who had a great story about being stalked. He awoke one morning to find a screenplay in the post. It wasn’t from his agent, there was no postage on it, not even a return address. Then he started reading.
The story was about an actor who lived in a house identical to his, on the same street, who did the same things daily. And he was being watched by a girl across the way, who had fallen in love with him, and who had written the screenplay in hand.
“So what do you think I did?” he asked me over a pint in a pub.
“Had an affair with her, of course,” I replied.
“For four years,” he sighed. “We’re just breaking up.”