It’s entirely possible I have an overactive imagination.
One of my favourite ways to pass idle time is to sit in a cafe, sip on a latte and invent life stories for the people I see. Like the glamorous woman with the designer sunglasses but incredibly sad eyes: I invent a story of career success but love lost. Or the two women bursting into laughter after simply catching each other eyes: I see them flatting together, breaking hearts and spilling secrets over glasses of cask wine.
I try and steer away from being nasty and judgemental, but some people make that an exercise in futility.
And is it entirely wrong of me that when something bizarre or funny happens I imagine what a great story it would be when I’m being interviewed by Ellen? ‘Cos you know, I’m a famous writer/actress/rock-star/activist/astronaut now.
I started this blog after always kind of wanting too, but not quite being confident enough. Then other people started telling me I should. I decided that when the 10th person I knew told me I should, I would. Then I put it off. Then I did it, and now I love it. My husband has often told me he thinks I should write a book. Until now, I’ve often secretly thought I should too, but been crippled by feelings of inadequacy. So – baby steps. I am in the process of getting some material together for another blog, written by my alter ego, the girl I sometimes wish I could be. It will chronicle her (hopefully) kick-ass life and the hapless people who try to foil her plans for international superstardom.