You’ve guessed by now, I’m sure, that I dream of being a writer. This space where you meet me is where I play pretend and imagine I’m something more than a middle-aged housewife. I have to admit to indulging in the occasional delusion of grandeur. You might recall my Nigella Lawson moment (pickled delusion).
I’ve also caught myself having imaginary conversations with Ryan Tubridy while I’m mopping the floor. Ryan congratulates me on winning The Booker Prize which came as a great surprise so soon after that Pulitzer. ‘Well Ryan,’ I begin in dulcet tones,’it all started with a blog…’
Think Jimmy Rabbitte in the bath with Terry Wogan.
Then there are days when I completely lose the run of myself. You know, when I get a new follower or when the WordPress elves tell me that I’ve surpassed my previous record for likes. They send you a message saying, ‘That’s pretty awesome‘ and, just for a few seconds, it’s fun to believe them. I envision myself in an opulent hotel room, sipping champagne and spilling a frothy pink dress out of an enormous, be-ribboned giftbox.
Yep, From Nigella to Jimmy Rabbitte and all the way to Carrie Bradshaw. My imagination knows no bounds.
Husband, as you know, travels a lot for work. He often brings home little treats for me or the kids, usually some chocolate or the cutsie souvenirs he finds in airports. He brought some gorgeous bulbs from Amsterdam last year and he found brilliant kites in China.
Last week, as he tossed dirty shirts out of his suitcase, he announced, with no small degree of excitement in his voice, that he had found something great for me to wear.
Little Miss Lawson-Bradshaw went into overdrive. Here it came…finally, the froth of fabulousness in a pretty box.
Allow me to model my new outfit for you…
If a girl can only dream, she may as well dream big.