Steven Moffat is flouncing down Piccadilly. “I’ve got seven Baftas,” he snarls as we walk through the rain. We have just been refused admission to the sumptuous Bafta restaurant in the West End of London, where Moffat had a lunch date, before which we were planning to do the interview. Moffat didn’t shout: “Don’t you know who I am?” at the receptionist, but it was implied by the way he stood. His wife, the TV producer Sue Vertue, is a Bafta member, but he isn’t, so they won’t let us in even though I’m pretty sure someone made a reservation.
“More if you count the Welsh Bafta,” Moffat adds. “I’d have brought them as evidence, but I probably couldn’t carry them all.”
