Concrete and Clay

Having been approached last week to appear in a national women's magazine to spout my opinions and perspectives on various worldly matters, as well as to get obnoxiously drunk and receive new clothes for free, and thereafter having considered the beaming pride it might engender in my family's collective bosum, I found myself in an oddly coloured, big-brotheresque coloured room in the middle of an imposing skyscraper in central london yesterday afternoon.

As I took a mushroom-shaped seat opposite a slightly withered someoneorother who Id seen in the dating columns of both the london paper and london lite, a smattering of australians and a couple of women eating grapes and covered in orange makeup, I heard questions such as "If you had a superpower, what would it be?" asked by the magazine people and being met with enthusiastic responses by the assembled group.

With the horror of what I'd let myself in for seeping through me like piss in a nocturnal bed, I heard my name called for makeup and on autopilot asked where the toilet was. As I left the room, an orange-faced someone was explaining when they had enjoyed their last snog in response to another magazine person. In 30 seconds I was back out onto the street, sweating slightly like a bearded Harrison Ford.

As I cycled home, truant-like in relief and freedom, ignoring the calls of the magazine people wondering if I'd fallen down the toilet, I realised that although I'm cheap, I'm not quite Asda. Yet. And fame is for losers.