So I was pootling down the road this afternoon on my way to work, composing a little blog post in my head as I went, for I was weary of my iPod's song shuffling (today, it had clearly decided it was in the mood for obscure, depressing alt-country and a smattering of Massive Attack, wisely rebelling against the sheer oppressive sunniness of the day). As I may have mentioned, my decidedly unglamorous job is situated in a moderately glamorous environment, so I have, on my sorry trudge to my desk, witnessed the odd famous face wandering hither and thither, and on one memorable occasion, seen a full-sized Dalek being escorted down the street by two flouro-vested security guards.
Anyhow, I was thinking about writing a post about the stunning reaffirmation of my faith in the Good Writing God of Charlie Brooker, which had of late been on the wane - weeks of columns on the Apprentice, which I never watched, and his association with Jaime Winstone, who gets my goat in a completely irrational manner, and the continual absence of Screenwipe from the schedules...Lord, why have you forsaken me?! But all was fine again after reading his absolutely spot-on analysis of tonsillitis as the worst ailment to ever befall man or beast. I was affected with bouts of the bastard throat-wrencher on and off for years when I first moved to London on my ownsome, the worst case being when I fell feverishly asleep on a Tuesday and woke up on a Thursday with an overwhelming craving for Weetabix. Dammit, I liked Weetabix until that moment. Now forever they are associated with unbearable pain and the shame of having to ring my mum and get her to drive all the way to London and ship me back home wrapped in a blanket in the back seat. To spend my 22nd birthday. In bed. In agony. Thanks, stupid tonsils.
Great! I was thinking today as I sauntered, another thing to add to my list of reasons that prove that myself and Brooker have the exact same mind - so far common features include fear of spiders and throwing up, opinions on all TV shows there have ever been (expect Dexter, which I love and he didn't, and The Wire, which I still haven't seen despite that being pretty much a capital offence nowadays) and the fact that every time I think something, he bastard writes a bastard column on it and bastard says it a few thousand times better than I could ever consider starting to think about (that last one may be a slight exaggeration). So I thought, and I sauntered, and I thought and sauntered. And then...
Can you see what it is yet, girls and boys?
..Then, I looked up and HE WALKED RIGHT FUCKING PAST ME.
Here's a few good things about that. One, I was wearing sunglasses, so the four or five seconds where I was staring manically at him, open-mouthed and agog, would have been completely undetectable. To the world, I had the casual appearance that said "Hey, I'm jus' sauntering, lookin' at nothin'". Two, he was talking to someone with him, so he took absolutely no notice of me whatsoever as I gawped like a guppy. Three, I was able to appraise him in the flesh and realise that yes, absolutely shit damn and blast it, he is actually quite attractive, which always makes things more complicated.
Here's a few bad things. In all probabilities, that is the first and last time I will ever get near him. So I have now lost my opportunity to nonchalantly compliment his stylings, strike up a dazzling conversation, and ultimately blag myself some quality brain-picking time. (And a hasty marriage, obv.) But most of all... the fact that I'm so het up about all this - "this" being the fact that I *walked past* someone famous who I admire - is proof positive that I am a bloody mentalist who needs to get a frigging life, and I'm clearly a hair's-breadth away from actual crazy stalker behaviour, and at some point in the next six months I will be found crouched in his front garden, giggling, clutching a blood-stained doll with a face mask made from a crude mosaic of pieces of my passport photo and his byline picture, screeching about how I had just miraculously given birth to his child without ever touching him.
Well, then! Busy times ahead. How exciting to have a plan for once!
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