What I dun in 2009

(see I told you I could squeeze another blog out of this concept)

These are my ‘achievements’ slash things that happened:

- My sitcom got re-optioned by the BBC

- My sitcom got rejected by the BBC

- I performed in two shows at the Leicester Comedy Festival (Three Jesters in Leicester and Lest Fest)

- I performed in the Midnight Comedy Showcase at the Brighton Comedy Festival

- My teen fiction book got picked up by a publisher, and is still there while they decide if they want it or not

- I performed a full run at the Edinburgh Festival in my show It’s Got Jokes In with my esteemed colleagues Hannah George and Lou Sanders

- I performed an Edinburgh preview on the Isle of Wight

- I climbed Arthur’s Seat

- I performed in the Edinburgh Twitter gig

- I started writing two more sitcoms and pitched them

- I got told to re-write the pitches quite a few times

- I learnt how to write proper pitches in a more conventional sense

- I wrote some pitches for some comedy radio ideas

- I went on a 5 day clown course in Dublin and learnt all about clowning

- I gigged in Dublin (making me officially international)

- I beat the Frog at the Frog and Bucket in Manchester

- I performed paid gigs at The Comedy Café and The Stand in Edinburgh and Glasgow

- The guy that booked me at the Comedy Café left and the new guy ignores my emails and calls.

- I became a published writer by contributing to the bestselling Harper Collins book The Atheists Guide to Christmas

- I went on Australian radio to talk about it.

- I went to NY City and have been able to tick that off my list of things to do before I die.

- I wrote some sketches for The Works at Madam Jojo’s that have been performed by actual real actors in front of an actual real audience

- I wrote some sketches for Recorded For Training Purposes which have been short listed, and not yet rejected out of hand. Fingers crossed

- I re-wrote a comedy radio pitch as a comedy book pitch

- I wrote more radio pitch ideas

- I was a guest on Resonance FM show My First Gig

- I got commissioned to write an episode of Hotel Trubble for the BBC.

It’s kind of a bit like two steps forward and then two steps back. Like that song I liked in 1990 about opposites attract, with a cartoon fox. Except comedy might be my opposite I am attracted to. But I hope not. Now, next time I am ‘ahead’ can we please just freeze time? Thank you.

Oh yes, and happy new year! (unless someone gives me a job in the next 24 hours – in which case it will have to stay 2009 forever) forever…forever….forever…

Top 5 Cinematic experiences

I don't think I've written about this before. A quick google search backs up this theory.

Anyway, loads of people are writing about their top stuff/deconstructing what happened in the decade. It just so happens all these happened in this decade, so lets say I am riding that bandwagon. (I'm not - and not because I think I'm above bandwagons - I just think I can stretch that out and write another blog about it).

So quite the opposite. I am in fact a bandwagon fiend. (That's actually not true either). (I am cautious about bandwagons but aware that even an anti-bandwagon stance is still technically a form of bandwagoning, and don't want to appear hypocritical). Or at least if I do, I want to be able to claim a shred of irony anyway.

Anyway.

In at no. 5:

Watchmen at the I-max.

Very big screen (obviously) and all the better to see a giant blue cock on. That is how I get off. Also great film. Also I read the book/comic/graphic novel, so if I wanted I could preen smugly 'yah, just not as good as the original, but a valiant attempt,' or some such, but I wont, as I actually thought it was a very good translation. Apart from the bit where they ruined the ending. And despite the fact that I could never do better, I get to judge them for that.

No.4

Iris at Vue in Norwich

I went to see this as a couple of friends I didn't know that well were, and I wasn't really sure what to expect. They had brought tissues as well as pop corn, (which was a new and suspicious thing for me, as I had previously only brought pop corn to the cinema before). I may have even made a couple of jokey comments about the presence of the tissues.

It soon became apparent why there was a need for them, and I spent a great deal of the film balling my eyes out. (Quietly) (I had respect for the other, equally sniffy patrons). I had to keep taking my friends tissues, which I think amused her, as I had been so sniffy (ha ha) about them in the first place.

It was a weird experience being able to cry freely in a cinema like that (because the people I was with were doing it too, and if anything had instigated this cry fest) but impressive that a film can do that to you. It is not very often that a cinematic experience can move you to tears, let alone sustain them throughout nearly the whole film. I felt like a proper girl. (And was pleased to be living up to the crying girl stereotype).

No. 3

Tideland at the Curzon

Brilliant choice to see this in the middle of the day like I did, if you can't afford drugs (which I can't) though that wasn't my motivation at the time. I went in and it was daylight, I came out and it was daylight, but somewhere in between those two things, the universe tricked me and chewed me up and spat me out, leaving me wondering what day it was. I came out feeling highly disorientated and like I'd been on a walking journey for two years. Nothing seemed real. It was really weird.

Of course I had actually been on a magical journey through a displaced ten year olds imagination, expressed with surreal fantasy set against devastating reality. A fantastic film. A fantastic cinema experience. It passed the 'I nearly got hit by a bus afterwards because I was still really pre-occupied with the film' test. Though I'm not sure that's what Terry Gilliam was going for. Though he would be the lead in that genre when it takes off. Plus there was a cool foreword/intro type thing at the beginning by him, which I enjoyed.

No. 2

Pan's Labyrinth also at Curzon (then again in Bournemouth, but not as good there as they got the lighting wrong and it was too dark).

Just one of the most gripping cinematic experiences I have ever had. (The first time, at the Curzon). I forgot I was in a cinema.

I was totally swept away with the drama and the tension, and rooting for the heroes and hating the villains, and frustrated by the genuine and true ills of society, and delighted by the fantasy aspects. Plus the monster is officially the scariest monster that has ever been conceived of by man or beast. Good god that was a fantastic monster.

Also, when I re-saw it, there was a bit I thought had happened about half way through, but it happened in the first five minutes, which I always think is the sign of a good film, when it tricks you with time. Epic, amazing experience.

No. 1

Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire at the Odeon in Leicester Square the first night of opening.

I saw this film while sitting next to a man who may have been homeless. He was quite smelly and had a long white beard, and a posh voice. I thought he might be a Shakespearean actor that had fallen on hard times.

When the curtains drew back the (sold out, opening night, comprised largely of children) audience clapped and cheered, and the man nudged my companion and said, 'There. You see? When do you ever get that kind of reaction to a film starting?' as if they were mid way through a conversation. My companion just nodded politely, and refrained from saying, 'probably at any fan-filled Harry Potter film'.

When Rita Skeeter first appeared on the screen, he booed, shook his fist and shouted 'You bitch!' as if he was at grown-up panto, or just trying to demonstrate to the rest of the audience whose side he was on (again, not caring at all that he was surrounded by children).

When Cedric Diggory died he wept distraughtly [NB apologies if you hadn't seen it, but in all fairness, if you haven't, seriously, where the hell have you been? It's not even the most current one]

But basically, this man seemed to get more from this film than all the children sitting there put together. He experienced the highs and the lows to crushing and euphoric degrees. He may have been unhinged, but if a man in his 60's can get that much out of the experience of going to the cinema to see a child's film then cinema is truly doing it's job.

He Knows When You’ve Been Naughty – but he’s got no sense of perspective

It is the season of good will, which basically means that most people have to spend two days with people they secretly think are wankers. My family are no exception, but what we did was outsource.

The presence of these people was, in fairness, a ruse that backfired. Our mum had invited them, thinking that they would refuse, as it would be such an imposition. Plus, in theory (if our mum's fiendish plan had worked) they would have taken our 86 year old Granny with them to Ipswich, as they are related to her 90 year old beau.

They started off nice enough, asking us how the recession had effected each of us in turn, just in case some one had actually been effected by it. But none of us had. I was poor before and I will be poor for a while. And my brother has consolidated all his monthly ambitions into one giant pipe dream, so we’re the same as we ever were.

Despite the fact that my parents live in the countryside, they couldn’t get over the notion that our Mum keeps chickens, and found this a highly amusing eccentricity. ‘Where’s your Mum? Down feeding the chickens?’ The husband asked, with a smirk, and with an emphasis that suggested she might as well be at a VD clinic.

Despite us not really reacting, or laughing or apologising for this heinous weirdness, he couldn’t seem to let it go. ‘What’s for dinner? One of the chickens?’ He continued. ‘No, turkey, obviously,’ we replied, un-amused. ‘It’s Christmas.’ (‘You twat’ we refrained from adding). ‘Do the chickens get Christmas presents?’ he chortled.

Lunch was all set to be an irritating amalgamation of politely putting him back in his box or faking laughter, depending on which chicken based quip he was making, and how offensive it was for him to be smugly passing judgement on people who were feeding him. But luckily the arrival of our uncle Pat was a welcome distraction. Uncle Pat is a happy but opinionated man, who had told no one he was coming for Christmas dinner. Though there were spurious references to an answer phone message that no one remembers.

I had bought my family a larger than average number of presents read by Stephen Fry. ‘You don’t like Stephen Fry, do you dear?’ the woman meekly offered. ‘No I don’t’, he said, and threw his energies into stuffing a plastic bag with dead wrapping. My brother asked ‘Why?’ (perhaps wondering if this man thought Fry had gone too commercial these days).

The man’s reasoning was slightly further leftfield: ‘I saw a few films with him playing… homosexual characters… and he – he….uh, seemed to… relish parts of those, those parts of the character.’

My brother then sarcastically replied, ‘Well, I hope Stephen Fry doesn’t slip any buggery into his reading of Chekov's short stories,’ angrily tapping the case of which, with a book he had also been given for Christmas.

‘Yes, that was exactly the kind of thing he was talking about.’ The man answered, without missing a beat, and completely oblivious to how much he’d missed the point, (or how much my brother later told me he wanted to rape him, making a slightly fatuous point about gays in the process).

They, possibly like us, weren’t looking forward to returning on boxing day, which we’d all agreed previously, to sentence ourselves to. Although boxing day turned out to be a bit more entertaining.

My Mum delighted in telling the story of how she and my dad met, claiming to have let my dad win at a squash game, which, out of nowhere, our Uncle Pat proclaimed to be ‘feminist crap.’

Pat then gamely held the floor and started deconstructing Othello, advising us that it was the only play Shakespeare got wrong, as it wasn’t black enough. Pat asserted any black man would at least wait for more evidence before killing his wife.

Pat then revealed that the next cleverest man after Shakespeare was Oscar Wilde, which was probably a role that Stephen Fry relished. But the man didn’t comment on this. He had nothing to say. Except ‘Ha ha! Will the chickens be getting any Christmas dinner?’

***

This Christmas blog was brought to you by both Catie and Duncan Wilkins.

Xmas Eve

I went out with my family for a Christmas eve lunch at an Indian restaurant (so we wouldn't get sick of Turkey) and had a fine old time.

We all ordered something different and tried a little bit of each others meals. I encouraged everyone to have as much of mine as they wanted. I had ordered a prawn thing that was a bit like Korma but wasn't and it was very nice. I hadn't been able to finish it though, and there was some left at the end.

I went to the lavatory just as my family started discussing what really posh people were like. The upshot as far as I can tell of what they were like, is that really posh people have nothing to prove, so are in some ways nicer than people who have come into money and are wanky about it.

I returned to the table as most of the plates including mine, had been cleared away. The serving dish containing the rest of my prawns was still there. 'Have you finished with that?' my Dad asked, gesturing to it. 'Yes,' I said. 'Can I have it then?' He asked. 'Of course.' I replied. I'd been trying to get him to eat it earlier.

My Dad then picked up the dish, put it in front of him, and started eating it with the serving spoon. My Mum commented that we'd just been talking about posh people and my Dad now proved he wasn't.

I said that he was showing he didn't feel he needed to prove anything, so he must be really posh.

My brother then said, 'Yeah, we've all seen a Duke do this,' which I found so funny, I was laughing for about 10 minutes.

8 hours later, in a pub, they brought it up again and I re-laughed for another 10 minutes. I was crying with laughter, but no-one else seemed to find it funny.

To me, picturing my Dad bent over a serving bowl, shoveling prawns into his mouth, at the end of an Indian meal, while my brother says, 'Yeah, we've all seen a Duke do this' is one of the funniest things that has ever happened.

But unfortunately I can never turn it into a sketch or stand up that I could potentially make money from because (a) I'm the only one who found it funny and (b) I don't know how.

Oh well. Happy New Years Eve!

Back to whence I came

I went back to the old country today. I forget which one exactly. Oh god I love the simpsons. (That is one of my favourite lines in the world). Abe says it explaining the Simpsons past. "It was back in the old country, I forget which one exactly". Perfect. If I had written something that beautiful I could die happy. That is my aim in life.

Anyway, my old country is Hertfordshire. They have proper snow. Slash life-threatening ice. My parents drive is on quite a slope but they have no interest in clearing if of being a death-trap, instead they have just chucked a few 'salt pellets' about the place, which have made little to no difference. I asked how my 86 year old granny copes on it. My Mum explained they "just have to hang onto her". So that's that dealt with. Good to be home.

Anyway, it's not been all fun and frolics and sarcasm about someone's driveway. (It's easy to scorn when you will never own a driveway yourself). I have been out and about meeting people I haven't seen in ages.

Then I accompanied my mum to help out at an old peoples home for people with dementia for the Christmas do. Which mainly seemed to consist of forcing good cheer on some reluctant and unimpressed elderly members of society. One of them was the dad of one of my mums friends, so a bunch of them had organized the whole thing with dressing up as elves and santa, and songs etc. (My mum had wrapped the pass the parcel). The biggest hit was bingo. Mainly I think because the game kept going until pretty much everyone had got a full house and won a prize. I have learnt that old people seem to like getting boxes of mint chocolates. They don't mind The Beatles, but join in singing with a guitar accompaniment the most when singing Christmas Carols. I don't know if this is because it tricked them into thinking they were in a church temporarily, and training kicked in. Someone had a four month old baby, and I also learned that I am getting pretty good at making babies laugh by pulling faces. Maybe I should change my act.

I also got a look at my family's Christmas 'circular' (which they send to all our relatives) and which in this edition my Dad not only reveals that my Mum had had that norovirus, but describes how bad her diarrhea had been too. I asked my Mum if she was bothered that he'd done that. She replied it was fine because she was a scientist and had in fact helped him look up how to spell diarrhea.

It's going to be a fun ice and poo filled Christmas.

Party like it's 1960-1969 inclusive

The other day I discovered what it must have been like growing up in the swinging sixties. Well, you know, what TV and films have lead me to believe the swinging sixties were like. I have nothing else to go on. I am only as ancient as the capitalistic eighties.

Though if TV and films are right about what the eighties involved then we all marched about coal, hated Thatcher and sat around disputing the pole tax till it got close to legal proceedings - and then paid it. And the main thing I remember about it from my real life is watching Wackaday and thinking shell suits and global hyper colour TV shirts were cool. (I was a victim of populist trend and propaganda) (you know, like the young people today who buy X factor singles) (and the older people today who buy anarchists singles)

Anyway, I'm getting off the point.

If the TV and films are right about what the swinging sixties were like, then I think I have experienced some of it for my very self.

I went to a 30th Birthday party in a warehouse where we put on white boiler suits and made massive art. It was like a happening.

There are some pictures. It may interest you to know that I painted the yellow sun in the top corner of the large canvas.

There was a bar and party food and we drank wine out of plastic cups in between all the art we made.

Predictably we ended up painting each other and making a massive mess. Turns out the paint went very easily through the white boiler suits. (but we had been told to wear old clothes we didn't mind getting messy).

Still, made for an interesting tube journey home. As I still had paint on my nose, hair, shoes, jeans and hands (that was visible) I got one of two reactions. People avoiding getting on my tube carriage because I looked unhinged; or people nudging each other and laughing - as if I didn't know I had paint on me - and because I looked unhinged. Actually, there was a third reaction, which was no reaction. Because after all, this is London and no one really (a) looks at each other, or (b) cares. The first two reactions must have been tourists.

Anyway, the whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable and I had a brilliant time. It was one of those experiences that makes you feel free and like a kid again, and make you wish grown ups got to do more of this crazy stuff in the real world.

Someone should bring back my (potentially fictional fantasy) of the sixties. I nominate the 2010's to be the new 1960's.

If I could be bothered to start a facebook group it might even happen....

The death of the race to the death

And so, the figures are in.

The aloe vera plant is still crumpled at the edges, but getting taller and the basil is drooping and withering. I'm guessing no one would my bruschetta made with the basil.

But just so you know I wouldn't make bruschetta with that basil. I'm not stupid.

Eccentric maybe.

Stereotypes

There are some unfair stereotypes in this world. For example it would be unfair to say that all football supporters are sociopathic, violent homophobes. Debatably. It would even be unfair to say they are all loud, lewd, yobbish hooligans. Debatably.

But on my way to a swimming pool I ended up walking along slightly in their blue-and-white-scarf-wearing-midst, and was able to observe them at close quarters. For about 7 minutes. (which means I am technically more qualified to write them off than Christopher Hitchens was to write off female comedians). (7 whole minutes of research).

I ended up behind a man who looked about 50 and a man who looked about 30, so I am calling them father and son. I was worried they might shout something at me, like 'Hat!' (because I was wearing a hat) but they didn't. I thought perhaps I had judged them unfairly.

Then the dad lit a cigarette and dropped his empty packet on the floor, as he carried on walking along. He was a litterbug. It was interesting to me what a knee-jerk reaction I still had to this, as not dropping litter has been so deeply ingrained in me by my over-bearing debatably sociopathic mother. If she had seen this she may even have picked it up, given it back to him, saying 'I think you dropped this' sarcastically and then lecturing him on setting an example to any surrounding children (which she was prone to doing during my childhood, much to my then mortification) but no one stopped this attack on the planet, and the man walked on unfazed. Where are the angry, scary women when you need them? (They're always around when you don't)

The father and son then crossed the road (perhaps telepathically sensing my impotent disapproval) but probably because of the burger van location.

Then, coming towards me were two massive tall men in their early 30's and a small boy skipping who looked about six. They were all wearing the scarfs too, and the little boy was asking for something as he skipped, trying to keep up with the massive men.

Then one of the men just cut across him, saying, (in the most deep, menacing, gravelly, gangster-in-a-Guy-Ritchie-film-voice I have ever heard) "Shuut iiit!"

The boy stopped talking instantly. And the other man said (equally gruffly) "Good boy."

Then they walked past me so I couldn't eavesdrop any more.

So after 7 minutes of research I can conclude that ALL football fans drop litter and that Guy Ritchie doesn't deal in stereotypes after all. He is spot on.

Race update

I think the aloe vera plant is winning. It's crumpled but it's getting bigger. The basil looks like it's been hit by a Harry Potter curse.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Well, it's cold, attempting to snow and everyone's drunk. And there's loads of Christmas adverts and songs and that. And I've done my Christmas shopping. And I'm terrified of my bank balance. That's what's Christmas is all about - right?

I hope santa brings me a guaranteed future this year.

To get in the Christmas spirit I have assisted (and also insisted) in procuring, putting up and decorating a Christmas tree. And eating mince pies.

Then to really notch it up a gear I made mulled wine with my friend Grainne, ate more mince pies and watched the Christmas episode of Father Ted.

Apparently you can make mulled wine by putting red wine in a saucepan, then adding Tropicana orange and mango juice and a packet of mixed spices. You can but you might entirely love the results. Especially when it gets a bit gloopy towards the end and kind of turns into a mulled wine smoothie. Also it might taste almost entirely of spice, after you put the whole packet in a fit of Christmas extravagance.

But it was a pretty good first attempt. Next time I will veer nearer to what the recipe says, but until that day, woo Christmas!

Race to the death

I am currently conducting a race to see what can stay alive the longest - some basil or a little aloe vera plant I was given by a church going man.

The Aloe vera had been around longer, but has moved location twice and got a bit battered, but is currently indoors, though by a cold window. The basil is in a really cold conservatory type place, but is getting more light.

WHO WILL WIN?

I am going to pitch this as a replacement for X Factor.

New theory

Another thing that struck me about the Christmas plays at the scope school, was that initially I felt slightly weird being there. Not so much because of the supposedly harrowing existence of disabled people, but because it felt wrong on some level that children in wheelchairs and on crutches were being made to dance and cavort around for my entertainment. But of course that wasn't what the situation was, and I think the children really enjoyed it.

After I got over that, I noticed that the teaching approach was very kind and loving and confidence building. And it just made me wish the rest of the world was more like that environment. Why can't we be nice and encourage children in this way in the rest of the world too?

I can't think of a single dramatic production I was involved in as a child, where the teacher didn't at some point have a breakdown and scream and shout at everyone that we were rubbish, and shit and useless and running out of time and the show was going to be a disgraceful mess.

It's much better to build children up and encourage them in a positive way. And really no need to shout at them if they do it wrong when they are trying.

Still, maybe that's why the British nearly all grow up to be neurotic bullies.

Just a theory.

The best Pop music

I had the meaning of a song changed the other day. I went to see the children at a Scope school doing their Christmas plays. The person I was accompanying had been before and had written about their experience of seeing three children with cerebral palsy dressed as Christmas trees dancing to the Toploader song 'Dancing in the Moonlight' changing the meaning of that song from a vacuous pop song into something amazing. But I wasn't sure if I was expecting anything like that to happen.

The children I saw were doing a dance (aided by their carers) to Cheryl Coles song 'Fight for this love'. They were going round in a big circle, some on wheelchairs, and on the word 'fight' their carers were helping them raise a fist above their heads, and singing the word fight. So it was like the song applied directly to them and they were singing that they had to fight for all of the love that they got. It made the song suddenly really moving and important, and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

They cut the song early, so the last line was, 'Now every day ain't gon' be no picnic' which seemed really poignant.

I never thought I would declare a line in a pop song that is practically written text-speak to be poignant.

Quorn life

I dish out my time equally between being dismayed and delighted, which is very confusing for me. One day I will pick one and stick with it. I hope I pick delighted. But I don't have a great track record, so it will probably be dismay. Still, better than despair eh? I pity those fools.

It's weird actually, because recently someone suggested I do X 'just for my own self respect' and it was only when I thought about it, I realised that (a) doing X wouldn't improve my self respect, and (b) I don't actually have self respect. What I have instead is shame, anger and resentment. Which is a bit like having Quorn instead of meat. It leaves the same general taste in your mouth, and you can choose not to focus on the fact that it's a synthetic substitute for the real thing.

Anyway, sometimes, if one hasn't blogged for a while, there can be a pressure that the next one has got to be good or 'worth it'. But luckily I have flouted that rule.

This is it. My insight into meat replacements and emotions.

I think it's been as good as vegan chocolate (which btw I have tried on numerous occasions - I'm not just picking the 'soft target' of vegetarians and vegans - my mum is vegetarian and was vegan when I was growing up so I have spent way more time eating beans than bacon, and therefore am perfectly legitimately allowed to judge said topics). In fact we were never allowed treats or chocolate or fizzy drinks unless it was Christmas, so I used to get up early and sneakily eat the dog biscuits. Perhaps not worth mentioning that, as now I might sound insane, but apparently loads of kids eat dog biscuits.

Anyway, at least it's proof I meant it about the self respect. I'm not a liar. Except I respect truth tellers, so does this mean I respect myself and have blown everything out of the water?

What a quandary.

Poetic blogging

Well I was doing ever so well in December. I was writing a blog every day for a good... oh all right, only 5 days. That's not actually that impressive is it.

I was impressed with myself at the time. I was all 'look at me writing a blog consistently. I wonder if I will write one every day for the whole of the month of December?'

Oh how the mighty have fallen. Or in my case, puny. Oh how the puny have fallen. Is it not worse if a puny person falls than a mighty person? We are less hardy and more likely to snap a brittle bone or two. I suppose it is more shocking if a mighty person falls. With puny people, it's a wonder they can move about. But the saying isn't 'Oh how the puny can walk about unaided, which is the exact reverse, and therefore should have as shocking an impact as when the mighty fall.'

I think all of my reasoning is flawed.

Or would it be 'Oh how the puny have risen?' That's more poetic.

Still flawed reasoning, I just can't let go of this idea.

If I ever become successful, people will say 'Oh how the puny have risen.' And I won't have to worry about them saying 'Oh how the mighty have fallen' if there is a backlash, because people will say, 'No, don't you remember? She was puny to begin with? It's shocking she ever got anywhere. She's returning to her rightful place. This is an instance of "Oh how the puny return to whence they came, where they should have stayed all along"' And the other person will say, 'Oh, the circle of life. It's a bit like that Elton John meets the Bible.'

That is what they will say.

To Carry or Not to Carry

Of course, now I have these impressive 'business' cards, and will be carrying them with me everywhere I go, in excited anticipation that someone might want one, no one will want one.

I think that's why I stopped carrying them around with me before two years ago.

It's kind of like if you carry an umbrella it definitely won't rain. Or if you remember your sunglasses it will stay 100% cloudy.

The law of Murphy or sods or which ever superstitious being you ascribe to forbids it.

But does this mean that by carrying my business cards around on me, I am guaranteeing that no one will ever want to net work with me? And that at another writers networking party, at no point will anyone ever say 'Hey you'd be great for this thing I'm doing, can I take your card and we'll talk some more about it?'

Because if that is the case then, I should really stop carrying them around. Because at least if I am not carrying them and someone wants my details, I can still give them my details.

It's quite a mine field, is being a superstitious, insecure writer type.

But lets not jump the gun. I haven't left the house since I found them, so this is all conjecture anyway.

And, y'know, maybe no one wanted to network with the Catie of two years ago, but it's quite a different story now.

After all, the Catie of two years ago couldn't have paid a month and a half's rent with the total profit she had made from writing. So the Catie of today shits all over her.

As soon as word gets out about this shitting there will be a huge demmand....

HUGE.

I am swanky

I went to a deliberately and honestly titled 'networking' event for writers the other night. Which was quite interesting.

While lots of people were giving out their swanky business cards (some even with photos) I was scribbling my details down on ripped up bits of paper for the few people that requested them.

'Maybe I should get some cards made' I thought to myself.

Then, through the brilliance (and only slight trauma of moving house) I found some business cards left, that I had made at least two years ago. Admittedly they are from a free website, and say 'rocket scientist' on them (because I am so funny), and they aren't swanky, and don't have my picture, or enough information (you could only choose name, number, email OR website, I seem to remember) so they just have that, and the false information that I am a rocket scientist. But this is brilliant, I thought.

Now I have some business cards. That are (literally) one up from ripped up paper. Catie Wilkins is going up in the world.

I am the future of MTV

Well, the phone has been ringing off the hook with industry interest in my new MTV show. Provisionally entitled: "Punked - Kind of - Let me explain - no look more closely - there see? You have been punked." [see previous entry for that to make sense]

It is only a matter of time before I am making a million pounds before breakfast.

(Though please note - in this context 'breakfast' denotes a very specific meal that will take place 2072.) I will have made a million pounds by then because of inflation. We've all seen back to the future 2. So it's just a matter of time one way or another.

Punked

I wanted to punk my boyfriend, like they do on the MTV. But I don't have access to celebrities, actors, stunt men, expensive vehicles and specialist equipment, so I had to find another way.

So what I did was, I went on the game he is playing on his DS, and entered it as a new player. But instead of my own name, I called myself 'ghost' so that he would think there is a ghost in his house. That plays his DS.

Unfortunately, the next time he played it, he didn't even notice, so keen was he to get on with his own game.

So what I did was, I explained what I had done, and told him that he was punked good and proper like they do on the MTV.

I think they should let me have my own MTV series.

Clowns

I woke up from a deep dream where I was on another clown course. This time my clown costume was a traditional, baggy, white outfit with black buttons down the front. I was exceptionally proud of it.

We had all been told we had to be from a different country and I was Italian. We all had to shout something in our chosen accent and I shouted 'Italiano!' I had decided I was an Italian chef called Mario.

This never happened on the real clown course I went on. But I woke up as pleased as punch that I was a traditional clown, and finding myself ever so funny.

I should totally just stay asleep more often. I'm happy there.

Actually I'm happy now too. Apart from a head ache.

Maybe it's a sign I should run away and join the circus.

I'm sure I could make a good living from shouting 'Italiano!' and 'Hello, I'm a chef with no imagination called Mario.'