Granada Reports

So. Where do I start with this one?
How about - GRANADA SHOWED UP TODAY. Like you do.
(Though I must add it was the telly channel and not the Andalucian city - which, to be fair, would have been weirder.)

Having spent nine months ensuring I am completely incommunicado to the outside world, and most importantly work, my reclusive ways came to bite me quite firmly on the bum at 10.58am this morning, when I learned of my impending stardom not a moment more than THIRTY TWO MINUTES before it happened. Yes. I hear you. That's exactly what I thought. After I'd finished pooing my pants.

11:03am. Our house went from this

(Complete with Dave's undies on the radiator)

11:07am. To this

(Complete with fresh hoover lines in the rug)

Via this. 

Oh shut up. It's not like it's 'Come Dine'.

So, house tidy. Check. Faded room scent (that has been underneath the sink for two years) sprayed. Check. Me smelling of polish, faded room scent and an over riding whiff of panic induced sweat. Check.

Okay. Next job. What to wear when you're supposed to be funny? A kiss-me-quick hat? Medieval garb? Fig leaves? Actually, scrap that question. I asked it like there were options. As a new Mum I've got four types of clothing.
Stuff that still doesn't fit.
Stuff that fits but is suspiciously stained.
Stuff that hasn't left the washing basket since Betty Poop was born.
Stuff that masquerades as fine, yet up close smells 'unusual', no matter how many times I wash it.
I settled on the latter. It's not like ITV's budget is up to smell-o-vision.



So. They arrived. Paul Crone and his camera man Steve. Isn't it funny how they say the camera adds 10lbs? Takes it away if anything. That Croney was a right porker in real life, thank God. No need for apologies for my post natal saddle bags and thunder thighs. With his hefty frame towering over me, I looked positively slender. Then they expected a cuppa. I held back the biccies. On their wages you'd think the Winnebago would sort that for them, wouldn't you?
They said we were going to do this thing called an interview. I've made that a link there, so all you media heathens can get a idea of the lingo us showbizzy types tend to converse in.
In this 'interview' they ASKED ME STUFF. And I HAD TO ANSWER THEM.
You wouldn't understand. It was all very high tech.

Unsurprisingly, I plugged into my autopilot. Fifth gear verbal diarrhoea. Words flew out left, right and centre,  in my customary three hundred mile per hour way, making most of my responses utterly incomprehensible to even the keenest of ears. For those who were able to ascertain ANY intelligible information from the garble which spewed forth from my chunnering lips, I decided to throw in a few added stutters and stumbles to ensure I appeared endearingly 'nervous'. Ha. As if.
*Taps incessantly on keyboard while mastering new 'squeeze your eyes violently shut every three seconds' tic*

They grabbed a few general shots of me; playing with Boo, feeding her, washing up her bottles; then they left.

As I closed the door behind them, I couldn't believe it. What in God's name just happened? That was amazing.Who would have thought I would have got up this morning, then....THAT! I can't wait for this evening. For Dave to get home from work and for me to sit him down and make my big announcement.

"You'll never guess what happened to me today love."
(Allow him to make one hundred and forty seven incorrect predictions...)
"Nope. An opportunity presented itself that occurs maybe once in a life time. A chance so beautiful and rare and of which I hope you will be incredibly proud. I found time...TO TIDY UP."

Just don't go getting used to it.

Click here for ITV link