I am vastly approaching the grand old age of 28, some would argue 28 as an age is far from ‘grand’, which in regards to, you know, life span I would have to agree, but my journey to this milestone has been adventurously chaotic to say the least. I kind of deserve to feel old and maybe even slightly wise, in a pleasantly retiring way. Or maybe I’m just self-absorbed who knows. Any who, for those who are bewildered by my modest and slightly narcissistic presence; in a nutshell I have spent the last 10 years haphazardly thrusting myself onto national television, (I’d say more clambering and less ‘thrusting’ my way to the top, if I were to correct previous insinuations). And yet throughout this long and painstaking period of ‘celebrity’ madness I have continued on, somewhat ferociously to fulfil my little life of a small town gal, in a little, small, town.
Why you say. That I have asked myself probably more times than you’ve had to deal with seagull s*** on your car, or worse a seagull that thinks your car is its new sun lounger, or crazy Alice over the road who loves staring in and telling you the longest stories at exactly the wrong time, and you end up doing her more favours than your actual family, but you cant help but love her anyway. But despite the pitfalls, the things I have loved about living in a small town are interestingly plentiful and I intend to share some of these insights with you along my pretentious name dropping yet humbling writing journey.
For the most part, my X Factor stint and thereafter was spent so Thelma and Louise, so Yin and Yang, so Pon de Replay Rihanna/post Man Down Rihanna, you get the picture. So I’m stood on the red carpet in front of Reece Witherspoon, casually taking an escalator with her (sweating buckets of ‘trying to be embarrassingly cool’, look at me I’m famous), to enter the Premiere for Water for Elephants very consciously aware of the fact that Robert Pattinson is somewhere in this room, I am breathing the same oxygen as Robert Pattinson, I have basically kissed Robert Pattinson. But then at home I get to experience the honour of paying close to a tenner for springs up my backside, stale popcorn, and that couple getting up to no good in the corner (there’s only you and them in the whole cinema, awks). But then again you can’t throw popcorn, put your feet up, sneak in a cheapo bottle of white, or tell people to ssssssh at a red carpet film premiere so… Small Town 1.
Another night I’m totally upper classing it up in the Mayfair hotel with my good friend, begrudgingly paying £12 for a vodka soda (like don’t they know who we are by now, we always get free booze in London, pfft). I head out to the ladies room clearly being noticed by everyone else as someone who definitely does not ‘belong’ in there (which I don’t, I’m staying in a single bed with my GBF, scraping pennies together for our next drink), when I accidently clash shoulders with Gwyneth Paltrow. She was the very opposite of happy, probably because her skin touched mine, I swear I even saw a grimace. Maybe I just slowed down her long legged pace I don’t know, but it’s fair to say that I have had more enjoyable experiences bumping into the ‘1,2,3,4 man’ in my town centre (he obsessively repeats 1,2,3,4 in different patterns, very loudly and always makes you smile about how funny life is, in a thought provoking, spiritual kind of way)… Small Town 2.
I did however, uncomfortably for him, have the opportunity to force a hug upon Alan from The Hangover. I did it. And I loved it… Big City 1.
Until next time, stay smart, and hug people.