Me and Mrs Jones

Well, let me start by saying I attempted to follow up yesterday's post last night whilst I was at my evening course (my momentum is still there!). However, university servers being as they are, mine shut down at 7pm after I'd written about 300 words and I was unable to post it.

What I had written doesn't seem all that poignant now, like ‘I guess you had to be there’ so I won't go into detail. It started off very boring you see as it’s computer based and we were going over the basics from last week: “To open a document, click File and...” Yawn. Anyway, forget that, the moment has gone. Today I’ve been thinking about Doctor Who amongst other things.

The seed was planted by another blogger (you know who you are) as when I read it, I remembered something. I remembered a news item that I saw online a few days ago – a man called John Scott Martin sadly died recently. His ‘claim to fame’ was that he operated the Daleks in 110 episodes of Doctor Who. 110! He was 82.

What struck me about this man was that he had crouched inside what was in his own words ‘a bit like a supermarket trolley’ sometimes in only a T shirt and swimming trunks because it got so hot, and he had fond memories of it! I can only hope that I will be the same when I look back on my employment history.

I can’t pretend I’m not really pleased that at least someone is reading this and thanks for your comments, but I see I’ve just had one about Bridget Jones pants. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I wonder if that’s what it’s like to be famous – you put yourself out there and then you don’t know what to do with what comes back?

Anyway, that got me thinking again (can you tell I do that a lot?). Maybe I was a Bridget Jones once – I think most girls are at some point filled with blind hope and drama when they don’t know any better, and also with writing this like a diary I suppose the similarities are obvious. Unlike Miss Jones though, I’m not dizzy, I don’t talk about my underwear and I’m not single. It did make me think about who I CAN compare myself to though, but who else is there? Other women writers that spring to mind are Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, both incredible, prodigious, creative minds – and both committed suicide, so they’re out. I don’t know and since I haven’t been doing this for very long I’ve decided to keep writing with a stream of consciousness narrative and see what happens. Maybe someone can see traits already? Most comments are welcome.