What makes great telly?

Well, it's been a long time since I sat in front of a show and applauded the television. I am not in any way, shape or form, embarrassed to admit that I loved watching the Britain's Got Talent final tonight. It was truly cracking and I was chuffed that Diversity won. Judging by how long it took me to get through on the phone, I kind of thought they might be in with a good chance. Yes, you know I'm going to spout on about creativity, but hey, don't you think that's what made them win? Yes, they are an incredibly talented dance act, but what a great imagination their choreographer has (as well as a devastating smile!). It's all about thinking outside the box, or maybe in their case, inside!

Imagine the scene as Stavros Flatley & son sat at home one evening and came up with that act. Wouldn't you just love to spend Christmas round their house? My sides hurt, I laughed so much and I think Simon Cowell was rather thrilled to be called part Greek!

I had another special reason for enjoying tonight's show. My son has been away for a week with his Dad and I got him back today. We sat cuddled up on the sofa and enjoyed being reunited. I know it's good for him to spend time with his Dad, but it doesn't stop me missing him. I even turn a deaf ear to his answer to my question - "shall we audition together for next year?"

"No", was the reply. "I'm much better than you Mummy". Ah well... he may have a point. Mind you, I have this strange urge to receive a Simon Cowell put down. I'm almost tempted to rehearse the worst performance ever just to see what he says...

I actually feel full of creativity now. Unfortunately I've also had a glass of wine too many (yeah, that's one glass!) so the chances of me finishing the novel this evening are slim, but at least I'm blogging. I feel like a proper writer - watching TV then dashing to the pc to write up a story about it.

I'm off to dance my way to bed now and practice my singing. I don't care what the critics say, Britain's definitely got talent!

Marathon Woman

The subconscious is a remarkable thing. Last night, whilst in the land of nod, it decided to remind me about the other recurring dream I had forgotten to mention in my post of yesterday. And how did it do this?- why by sending me on a 26 mile run of course. Yes, I frequently exert myself over a marathon's course in my sleep and I might point out that I do very well at it - barely a bead of sweat marks my brow. Yesterday, I got to participate in the little-known Kettering marathon, a walk in the park dear readers, a mere walk in the park!
PS: that Emma Baker still hasn't read my blog, or she'll surely have commented on it by now... One more day Emma, then the photo goes up!

The stuff of dreams

I have a number of recurring dreams which intersperse themselves among the downright weird and freaky. Recently, for example, I dreamt I was at a large dinner party and was lucky enough to be seated next to Charlie Chaplin. He was really rather charming and can actually speak which was never particularly apparent in all those silent movies he obviously preferred to star in. I can't think why because he spoke with a most cultured accent! This was the first dream about the 'little tramp', but by no means the first about famous folk. Naturally we all dream about being seduced by Hugh Jackman every now and again, but I have a persistent sleeping fascination with Kevin Spacey. According to my dreamworld we are in fact best buddies with a friendship going back years. Regrettably I have never actually met the man in person though I used to hang out near the Old Vic which he owns. Well, I say hang out, that makes me sound like a wino loitering in the loosely named gardens opposite the theatre. I'm afraid, I was rather dull and worked for a local financial institution. [here comes a digression: I was going to say that I would have been unlikely to have bumped into a Hollywood A-lister at 3i plc, but I did meet the occasional celeb there - I literally got tangled up with Michael Portillo in the revolving doors, shared a lift with former Radio 1 DJ Peter Powell (very short, looks like a builder) and almost burst with excitement when I spotted Sir Trevor McDonut sitting in reception (very distinguished, looks like a newsreader).

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, dreams. I frequently have to go through the panic of realising that my finals are imminent and I haven't done any revision or preparation and wake up with a cold sweat and the urge to stroke my degree certificate.

And finally, one which perhaps I should not share but loosely involves trying to find a public convenience with a door... Let's just leave it at that...

What is all this waffle and, more importantly, why? Will I wake up soon?

Emma Baker

See... I told you I'd written about you! I was going to add a (perfectly lovely) photo but thought you might never speak to me again...

Here comes summer...

Well, this is it, the sun is out. I dug out the flip flop sandals today, pulled on a surf chick skirt and top and strutted my stuff in the sunshine. Having fallen into bed at 10pm last night (on a Friday - how sad!), I was up with the lark (or maybe it was a pigeon) and out in the garden. Channel surfing the other night, I stumbled upon the Chelsea Flower Show and something that none other than Ken Livingstone said really got me thinking. He was discussing the therapeutic powers of gardening. So, I approached the weeding this morning from a different tack - this was not painful chore, it was relaxation. And, do you know what? He was right. Well done Ken, all those years in politics not wasted... I had a very pleasant potter and admittedly a small skirmish with the bindweed which had sent in reinforcements while my back was turned, but I soon sent it scuttling back under cover. Soon I'm off out again to allow someone else to unleash their creativity on me for a change - having a hair cut! Living la vida loca!

The N-Factor goes on a diet

As in novelty and yes, it's wearing a bit thin. I appear to have discovered a limit to the interest I can take in broadcasting, digital switchovers and transmitters. And, far worse, it is making me so tired that I have neither energy nor inclination to pick up a paintbrush or put pen to paper. In fact, yesterday I received a sternly worded letter from my poor fledgling characters who have been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to stretch their wings into a fantastical land of adventure and mystery for weeks. They were not happy I can tell you. I mean imagine, there you are poised on the cusp of a life-changing experience; ready to fly with unicorns and dragons and fight for honour and justice and what happens? Well, nothing that's what. Doomed to spend what could have been a magical existence trapped instead between the pages of a notebook (and not even one of my inspirationally designed ones either!). I feel quite sorry for them. I'll come and get you out soon... I promise...

Now see where it led me...

My Etsy wanderings took me here. Naturally I had to join - all those creative souls to spout lyrical with, I can't wait! I can feel hours of play coming on, but must sleep (and write my book).