A question of such gravitas was deserving of an answer quick sharpish so I ventured out into the winter dusk with the words ‘Seek and Destroy’ perambulating around my skull, not unlike futuristic assassins carrying small arsenals and wearing dark glasses. Unfortunately, at this particular point in history, the streets are littered with these not so Golden Fleeces and so with heavy heart, I decide to postpone this pursuit for one of a more challenging nature.
I make the obvious decision to run away and join a Celtic circus, in whose company I enjoy many adventures: the time the bath came to watch the firework display, the journey to Escher’s castle and the time we sheltered the Milky Bar Kid after his exposé of Nestlé was made public. (It detailed how they had force fed him a diet of drugs for over 30 years in order to keep him looking childlike; they even denied him the right to wear contact lenses).
After a while, this mass of excitement becomes exhausting, so I pack my trunk, say goodbye to the circus and go off in search of another adventure.
I make my way to a sprawling metropolis and on arrival, like any weary traveller, go in search of a tavern. Whilst quenching my thirst with a hearty ale, I think to myself that innkeeping is a noble and worthwhile profession. So the next years are spent moving from one hostelry to another but for some reason, I seem to attract the lowest common denominator in every establishment. After a few incidents requiring the use of sewing machines, the joy of being a landlady begins to pall (yes, even with draught beer on tap!).
However I am suddenly aware that Life had woken from its afternoon nap and is in a playful mood.
I am just finishing setting up a group of bawdy ruffians as the pub team skittles when I am kidnapped by Sky who then proceed to perform a mind probe operation on me. Purpose: to locate a cunning idea for a TV show that has been filed in my head for safe keeping (root vegetables with super powers). I eventually manage to make a clean getaway but am unable to liberate the concept from the Sky fortress where it suffers a fleeting, one season run.
It's now time to try my hand at something new so I take myself off to another land where hills are aplenty and the grass grows lush and green (no, I'm not in the 'Sound of Music'). I become a travelling troubadour singing of the exploits of very tall sheds with no purpose, warring tribes of the sweet conserve persuasion and indigo coloured fish.
One summer day, my lodgings are mysteriously razed in combustible fashion, cremating the instruments of my trade along with all other worldly possessions. This begs the question: What to do next?
Note to reader: Some of this is true.