Mabel Willows

Simon's Grandma died last week. Her name was Mabel and she was ninety-eight.

In her lifetime Mabel witnessed the invention of the telephone, four Monarchs, two World Wars and twenty-three British Prime Ministers who were all apparently as bad as each other, but not anywhere near as terrible as Tony Blair. No, for Tony Blair Mabel harbored a special kind of contempt, the kind usually reserved for the likes of tax-men, ruffians and women with 'untrustworthy hair' (namely Cherie Blair).

Birthdays seemed to provide the perfect opportunity for a spot of Blair-Bashing. I'm sure all of Mabel's children, grand-children and their respective partners received the same response upon thanking her for birthday monies: "That's alright dear, but you know, I would have given you a lot more if that Tony Blair wasn't STEALING MY MONEY!"

Depending upon how vitriolic she was feeling, her rants sometimes extended into: "I mean, if Tony Blair really did care about me, you know, like he says he does, then he'd get right down here and put a cash point in my house! How does he think I'm going to get to the bank with my hip?" Fair point, I'm sure you'll agree. Bad, bad Tony.

One of the most hilarious things I remember about Mabel is the fact that she smoked, but maintained that for the life of her she'd never ever even seen one of those dastardly cigarette things, let alone puffed on one or two hundred of them in her very own living room. Lord no. Mabel did not smoke. Apart from in the old home videos where she was caught, irrefutably, having a crafty fag next to the car, in the garden, on the beach, at the dinner table. Admittedly in these instances (when she spotted the camera) she didn't actually smoke whole cigarettes, as they were hurriedly extinguished and tossed aside with disgust like: "Eew. How did that get in my mouth?" So those ones don't really count.

I remember walking into her kitchen once and noticing that most of her body was inside the dinner-plate cupboard, she obviously hadn't heard me enter the room because when I asked her if everything was alright, I literally scared the living cigarette out of her. Instantly realising she had been rumbled having a nifty fag inside the cupboard - where no-one would see/smell/find her - she automatically ejected the offending article from her mouth and rushed to waft away the smoke, and make her rapid excuses.

As this all happened so quickly - what with her being inside a cupboard and all - she bashed her head on the way out, dropped the fag on to a dinner plate and said a rude word. As I helped her up, desperately trying to contain my laughter, she maintained that she was just looking for one of those thingys at the back, and that it was time for tea, and no that's not fag-ash on your plate, dear.

The last time I saw Mabel her eyesight and hearing were failing. Simon and I sat by her hospital bed and watched silently as she fell in and out of sleep. In the moments that she was awake I asked her what she needed, and leaning forward to save her voice she told me that what she really needed was someone to stroke her back, it made her feel much better she said. And so, slowing supping tea from a straw she sat in her frilly nightie while I stroked her back for the best part of an hour. Even though my arm ached after a while I didn't mind, because in that bed sat Simon's lovely Nanny. Frail now and smaller than I remembered, but definitely Mabel.

She woke suddenly from her mini-nap and smiled at me when I asked her if her back felt any better "Yes dear, you're very kind" she said as she patted my hand. In the same breath she turned to Simon, pointed in my direction and said: "Who's she?"

Thanks a MILLION

Oh goody, I've won ONE MILLION POUNDS. Again.


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Gold, Myrrh and Frank-Sent-This

Following on from my last blog about learning from children, I thought you'd all be interested to listen to this TED talk by Sir Ken Robinson.

He makes some very interesting points about the importance of encouraging individual creativity - especially in children - and is actually quite funny!

Plus it's only fifteen minutes long, so give it a whirl and let me know your thoughts...

http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html

Anything is what happens next

Last week Simon and I took four of our nieces and nephews out for the day in London. It was quite an eye opener, not only because they are suddenly nearly adults - tall, confident, too old to hold hands, and funny, very funny in fact - but because spending time with them is like sitting in the park with the sun on your face: kind of what life is meant for.

Clambering over art students sat crossed-legged on the floors of The National Gallery, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia which bought back memories of days spent in galleries as a young girl, learning about perspective, depth of field, light and colour. I cringed as I pictured my recreation of Monet's Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies, which boasted none of the above. It was truly terrible.

I'm not an artist. I knew it. My art teacher knew it. Deep down my parents knew it too. Nonetheless my painting was hung on the wall of their house until I was old enough to suddenly understand the significance of this, and quietly took it down one day with my own fair hands, empowered by the knowledge that it wasn’t the execution of this beast of a painting which mattered to them.

I recounted this story to Lucy, my eldest niece, and through smirks she grilled me further, just so she could ascertain how bad bad actually was: "What, the bridge was wonky? And the paint all ran, making the water look like mud? And there was a hole in the paper??"

Yes, Yes and Yes. It was that bad.

“Oh. I wouldn't have thought you'd be bad at art.” was her reaction, and actually back then I didn't think I was bad at art either. In fact in my childlike bubble of confidence I didn’t think I was bad at anything at all, and did most things with an uninhibited fervour. It dawned on me that this approach to life has withered somewhat along the line.

Leaving the gallery we talked about computer games and horses, life as a teenager, school, university, and what happens next. The answer was unanimous: anything. Anything is what happens next. Simple. It struck me that life seems to suck this simplicity out of living, and that really truly looking at things this way is utterly refreshing, and totally freeing.

Maybe we should all regress a little, forget about the global economy and start approaching life like children do: splash in some puddles, chew Hubba Bubba and paint pictures, even if you don't have an artistic gene in your body.

Later that day Lucy turned to me, a smile growing on her face as if something brilliant had just dawned on her: “It was really clever that your mum and dad put your painting on the wall, wasn't it.”

Man-Crush?

Simon had to go to an embassy today, and due to rigorous security measures was not allowed to take any kind of personal belongings with him; no bags, no phones, no clothes. Well obviously he was allowed to wear clothes, but for all intents and purposes he was otherwise naked.

This is how our conversation went once he was finished:

Me: How did it go?

Simon: Complicated.

Me: Complicated?

Simon: Yeah. I was walking through the park near the embassy and realised that my USB Stick was in my pocket, and that they wouldn't let me in with it on my person.

Me: Oh. So did you dispose of it?

Simon: Yeah...I hid it.

Me: You hid it?

Simon: Yeah. I hid it. In the park.

(...PAUSE...)

Me: You hid your USB Stick in the park?

Simon: Yeah. I was quite clever because I dropped my A to Z by accident, and then bent down and pretended to pick it up, but what I was really doing was hiding my USB Stick under a memorial plinth.

(...SILENCE...)

Simon: You know, so they didn't see.

(...PAUSE...)

Me: They?

Simon: Yeah. Them.

Me: Them?

Simon: Oh it doesn't matter. What matters is that I managed to safely hide my USB Stick before I went dark.

(...PAUSE...)

Me: Before you went dark?

Simon: Yeah. Before I went dark. Underground, un-contactable...Like Jack Bauer.

(...LONG PAUSE AS I STIFLE A GUFFAW...)

Me: I knew this would be something to do with Jack Bauer.

Simon (flustered): Yeah well whatever. YOU JUST WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND...

Either my husband is working for The Counter Terrorist Unit or he has a huge man-crush on Jack Bauer.

I. Just. CANNOT decide...

A few things...

Number 1:



Madonna, get over yourself.


Number 2:

EEW, a man had a tree growing inside his lung!



And I'm not even lying: http://tiny.cc/D415y

Number three:



I LOVE it, but I'd like to have a little chat with Roberta from Spotify and ask her why she continues to interrupt my playlists. No manners that girl.

And finally:

I had the best Bank Holiday Monday ever, and as this footage proves Felix had the best day OF HIS ENTIRE LIFE...up until nap-time, anyway.

I know I shouldn't laugh, but...

Justice Secretary Jack Straw has called on Russell Brand to pay a £150,000 fine to Ofcom for the "gratuitously offensive, humiliating and demeaning" Sachsgate incident last year. I'd say Russell has definitely learnt a vital lesson about respect, as his Twitter musings today indicate:

11:16 am: What do "Ofcom" do with all that money? What is their mandate? I think they spend it all on porn. As head of "Ofporn" I fine them £150000.

11:33 am: I demand Jack Straw pays the 7bn pounds he squandered on the Iraq war that we didn't want. No wonder his son has to toke himself to sleep.

About a minute ago: I have decided to pay the Ofcom fine. I'll put it on my expense account. Oh no, I don't have one because I'm a citizen, not a corrupt MP.

I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one's holding a baby-latte

I looked after my friend's little boy today. His name is Levi and honestly honestly I think I could sit and chat to him forever. I say chat when what I really mean is listen carefully to his baby-babble, desperately trying to decipher what he's saying. He's nearly two but I swear when he finished his sentence and looked up at me with his big blue eyes, one hand in his pocket and the other raised to the sky, like: 'That's my opinion on the economic crisis, now tell me yours' right at that moment, I could've sworn he's actually fifteen.

We went to Juicy Tunes, a weekly sing-along event hosted by a man with a red tracksuit, guitar and bubble machine. It seems that this is all you need to make toddlers squeal with sheer unreserved joy, and bop their chubby little bodies clumsily around the play mats, but not Levi. Oh No. He's not fooled easily.

While we were doing the actions to Row, Row, Row Your Boat he looked me straight in the eye, his face a picture of earnest disapprovement as if to say: 'You do realise we are not in a real boat, right? I mean I know you're trying to recreate the actions of a real boat with your arms, but really you're making us both look ridiculous.' He seemed to have a similar disdain for Wind The Bobbin Up (obviously there's not a real bobbin here, do you think I'm stupid?) Head Shoulders Knees and Toes (I already know where all my body parts are, duh) and Hokey Cokey (this song is dumb).

It was only when red tracksuit man had downed his guitar to go and flirt with Clapham's Yummy Mummys, and most of the children had dispersed, that Levi decided to take to the dance mats. Coyly at first he edged his way into the middle, hands firmly in pockets. When he got there he stood for a while as if assessing the ambience, his right foot pointed forwards casually poked the mat while he double checked that no one was looking, and then, then he danced. Side to side, round and round, hands in the air, he danced to the rhythm of his own song, which I'm guessing wasn't Ring a Ring o' Roses.

He stopped suddenly, thrust his hands back into his pockets, and walked towards me nonchalantly staring up through his fringe as though there was no way on earth he had been lost in wild dance-abandon moments earlier. When he reached me I knelt down and said: "Did you have a good dance, Levi?" If a two year old could actually shrug then that is what he definitely did, he shrugged like: "Might have done. Might not have done."

"You're a good little dancer aren't you, Levi." I said, poking his chubby little belly, and he flashed me a sheepish grin which turned into a full-on cheeky smile, roughly translated as: "Stop! You're so totally embarrassing me...now lets get out of here and find us some baby-lattes."

Jade Goody Two-Shoes

I worked with Jade Goody once, shortly after she became famous. It was a TV show about celebrities and food, and I hated it. I spent two whole weeks wrangling with star egos and biting my tongue, whilst wondering how the hell I'd even gotten into TV in the first place. It wasn't like I was putting my English degree to good use through the medium of promising to shoot people's good sides, just so that they wouldn't start yelling and throwing spoons, which they did often. When I got word that Jade Goody was in the building, I rolled my eyes and let out a whimper as I went with my head-set and clipboard to meet her.

I already harboured a secret loathing for most celebrities, but my contempt for Reality TV Stars was difficult to hide. I'd found that most went from sweet unknown check-out girls, to perma-tanned fame-hungry monsters in the blink of an eye, and frankly I thought it was all a bit rude. I steeled myself as Jade's car pulled up to the red carpet, presuming that she would look straight through me and listen to my briefing with a sulky indifference like the rest of them. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised to be wrong.

She kind of fell out of the car, and immediately hit her head on the roof. My heart sank as I presumed that in some way this was bound to be my fault, but instead of hurl a tirade of health and safety related insults at me, she burst into a cacophony of hysterical laughter which seemed to go on for several minutes, during which time I started to wonder if she may have actually stopped breathing. When she eventually surfaced for air, she grabbed my hand and in her broad Bermondsey accent said: "I. Am. Such a dozy cow!" and I laughed. For the first time in a fortnight.

I walked her to the studio and she listened intently to my briefing, asking questions to make sure she'd got everything right, then as she went in she turned to me nervously and said: "Do I look alright?" I couldn't help but smile at how sweet and unaffected she was, and happily told her she looked great. And she really did.

Throughout the course of the show she consumed rather a lot of wine, and when I went to collect her for the walk back down the red carpet, she flung her arms around me and drew me close to her voluptuous bosom, whispering: "I think I'm DRUNK! Walk with me so I don't fall over." And so, Jade Goody and I walked down the red carpet, smiling for the paparazzi who had no idea that I was supporting her entire weight.

She hugged me again as we approached her awaiting limo, and through hiccups said: "My nickname for you is: Laura Big Eyes because your name is Laura AND you've got big eyes." Swaying on the spot she flashed that massive grin of hers at me, clearly proud of her pure genius, then furrowing her brow said: "But what's your nickname for me?"

"Ummmm, Jade....Goody....two-shoes?" I shrugged, wondering if she'd get into the car soon, but she didn't. She just looked at me through squinted eyes, then looked at the sky, then looked back at me and said: "I don't get it."

"You know, as in the saying Goody two-shoes...?" Still she stood in confused silence, concentrating really hard on understanding my pun. Finally she shrugged and said: "You're funny!" like I'd just made the whole thing up, and with that she climbed into her car and I waved her off.

As I turned to go back to the studio I heard someone shout my name, it was Jade hanging out the window of her limo waving at me and shouting: "I get it! Jade Goody two-shoes...because My name's Jade Goody and I've got TWO SHOES! I told you you're funny!" and with that she was gone.

Jade may not have had the brightest of minds. She certainly didn't know where 'East Angular' is, or if Americans speak English, or whether a strawberry is a fruit or a vegetable, but she struck a chord with people. Whether it was her nudity in The Big Brother House, her ill-judged attack on Shilpa Shetty, or her untimely death, Jade Goody made people talk, and think, and react. And in the end, The Bermondsey Girl really did do good.

The Favelas

It is a popular belief that Rio’s skyline holds the key to much of the city’s vibrant character. Look up and you see The Sugar Loaf Mountain, Christ the Redeemer, and of course, The Favelas – Brazil’s infamous Shanty Towns.



The citizens of The Favelas are the people who make Rio tick - waiters, street cleaners, bus drivers - but their wages do not afford a life in the city itself. As social service is practically non-existent, the rural poor have no choice but to construct their own houses close to the city and their places of work, using anything from rubbish to bricks and mortar.

Every bit of free space is utilized, even the sky it seems is being taken over as citizens build on top of existing homes, ironically living shoulder to shoulder with Rio’s rich and famous, who pay extortionate amounts of money for the same stunning views of the city.



Wherever you look you see them, instantly recognizable by their ramshackle walls, tarpaulin doors, and corrugated iron roofs. Houses and makeshift shelters alike cling to the hills surrounding the city, like a medieval kingdom ruling over its people. A disordered collage decorating the skyline.



Strange then, that despite their obvious presence, the Brazilian Government refuses to officially recognize the Favelas. Indeed many maps and tourist guides list the areas occupied by the Favelas simply as ‘Forest’. Much of the reason for this lies within the popular belief that they are dangerous places, rife with crime and disease.

It’s no secret that every Favela is run by it’s own drug baron, but unlike common preconceptions this does not automatically equal reckless law and disorder, on the contrary the drug barons enforce a strict code of conduct for all inhabitants. The Favela is a family, and within the family there must be no crime; those who stray from the code in any way meet a grisly end, it’s as black and white as that.

Rights and wrongs aside, this approach to Favela living appears to make for a tight-knit community, based around citizenship and co-operative strength. In a world where money is short and the future uncertain, pulling together is essential.

Perhaps it is this strong sense of community which keeps the citizens afloat despite their harsh living conditions, lack of sanitation, medical care and schooling, and the constant threat of devastating land-slides which rip their homes and families apart.

Perhaps it is this sense of community which also enables the citizens of the Favelas to boldly continue building high up into Rio’s hills, so that no one can pretend for a minute that they do not exist.

Travel Bug

At the end of last year, Simon and I decided that we were going to take some time out to see a little bit more of the world before it all starts vanishing. This time around we didn't revert to our usual stick a pin in the atlas method of location hunting, as we both instantly agreed on South America. Almost like...adults, actually. And so, the week before Christmas we booked ourselves open return flights leaving on the 4th January from London Heathrow to Rio De Janeiro. And then forgot all about it.

When I say we forgot all about it, what I mean is we bought two Rough Guides, one to Brazil and one to Peru. And, er, didn't read them. We also booked a hotel for two nights in Rio.

SUPER. ORGANISED.

It's no wonder then that upon arrival at Terminal 5 on that icy Sunday morning, we turned to each other as the lady handed us our boarding passes and said: "What the HELL have we done?"

Truth is neither of us actually wanted to go. I know that's a terribly stupid and ungrateful thing to say, but we have a lot going on in our lives and, dare I say it...we like our lives. The thought then of leaving our friends and our flat and our real life for six weeks wasn't something we necessarily wanted to do, but felt like something we should do. If that makes any sense at all.

Probably not.

Anyway by then it was too late. We'd checked in and were already tucking into a massive English breakfast, stealing anxious/excited glances at the sky (don't know why) and at each other. We knew, after all, that this would be a trip we'd never forget...

Before we knew it we were on Copacabana beach. Simon turned away for ONE SECOND, and I acquired some new friends:

BLOG ON

OK, so I'm feeling a little sheepish.

Partly because I haven't actually posted anything in three whole months, but mainly because I have been overwhelmed by so many of you emailing to ask where the hell I have got to. Favourite email titles include:

B.L.O.G

B.L.O.G.N.O.W

B.L.O.G.N.O.W.P.L.E.A.S.E

For the love of Blog

She's a lazy blogger

Come back, Blogger come back

and my personal favourite: Blog on or Blog off!

Thank you to everyone for the collective pep talk, I have been a bad blogger but I do have a lot of stories out back which I'm gonna fetch for you. I can't promise it will be everyday, but I'm going to Blog on. I hope you're all still there...

Blessed are the Geek

Dear readers,

As you may have noticed, my Blog has been assassinated. For an unbeknown reason it suddenly disappeared into cyber-space, leaving me ever so slightly bereft.

Fortunately my friend James is a Total Geek - in the nicest possible way - and is helping me to get blogshonesttruth.com back on line. This is going to involve me switching to Word Press where I will be the proud new owner of a Blog which sings, dances and offers drinks & nibbles, and maybe a spot of after dinner dancing.

Thank you all for your kind where the hell has your Blog gone? messages, please bear with me while I paint the walls and move the new sofa in. It's not looking all that pretty yet, but www.blogshonesttruth.com will soon be home.

See you there in a little while.

Laura x

House and Garden (as you insisted)

This is my new house:



and this is my new garden:



I woke up at 7:30 am, walked downstairs into the lounge and then stepped outside, right into the ocean:



I then walked across the shore to breakfast:



and to be honest that was quite enough for one day, so I had a little lie down:



This place is amazing with a capital UTTERLY.

Sick in a bag

After a twelve-hour trip from London, we were met at Male airport by a representative from our Island who calmly led us to our speedboat transfer saying: "It's a little choppy out there today."

After enduring an horrific catamaran trip in Thailand a few years back, these days when someone suggests that the sea might be a little choppy I instantly experience total bodily paralysis, and have to fight the urge to rip out my hair and scream: "WE'RE ALL GOING TO PERISH I TELL YOU!"

I faltered for a moment on the pier as I watched several tourists stepping off boats and puking aggressively into plastic bags with The Fear etched onto their faces, but steeled myself and focused on the hut-on-stilts awaiting my arrival, and you know - I was OK this time. I did dig my nails into Simon's hand for the entire forty-minute transfer, but I figured that somewhere along the line I'll have to suffer worse, childbirth being the main torture that springs to mind.

The island we are staying on is totally, breath-takingly, surely this isn't real beautiful. The huts all stand in the sea facing out onto a massive expanse of, well, nothing but turquoise ocean and sunshine. Reef sharks swim at our feet, which I am assured are safe and friendly? And a lone stingray skulks a few metres away, which I'm sure isn't safe or friendly?

I guess I'll find out tomorrow...

And...we're off

Ladies and Gentlemen, you'll be pleased to know that I am literally hours away from my Maldives Dream! I keep having to run on the spot really fast just to stop me expressing my excitement through the medium of screaming out of the window, again.

We jet off to The Indian Ocean this evening, and I'm not going to even lie and say: "But Oh, I'll miss London and everyone" because you know, I'm not sure that I will. Not that much anyway.

One of the prerequisites of this trip was that our hut on stilts had to have WIFI, so that Simon can be contactable AT ALL TIMES lest the world of advertising grind to a halt. So I shall endeavor to update my blog, but please forgive me if my posts are sporadic, I still love you.

But for the next ten days, I love me a little bit more...

And then he laughed...

Just when I thought it wouldn't be possible to love Thom Yorke any harder, he goes and shows the Nation that he can laugh. I knew it!

AAAH.

Spin the globe

Because of the nature of our work Simon and I can very rarely book a holiday months in advance like normal people, but have to take time out at the drop of a hat when things seem like they are going to suddenly be quiet for a couple of weeks. So yesterday we decided that we are going to go on holiday, on Wednesday.

You'd think that as we've done this last minute thing so many many many times, we'd be pretty expert at it by now - know where we want to go at the very least - but oh no, for some reason choosing where to go on holiday is a task beyond our capabilities. We own a Rough Guide to every country in the whole world yet still resort to the spin the globe method of location hunting, and even then can rarely agree on where is best to visit.

Against the clock we end up embroiled in frenzied phone calls to various travel experts, and by the time we eventually agree on where to go can't even bear the sight of each other, and most definitely don't want to go on holiday together.

But this time I SWEAR it's going to be different. I have wanted to go to The Maldives for, like, EVER and so that is where we are going to go.

I'd like to add the words end of story on to that sentence, but of course it's nowhere near the end of the story because I am, it appears, married to a toddler. A toddler who will apparently get a bit tetchy being in such a deserted place as The Maldives, and a bit bored of looking at all that sun and sea and sand for ten whole days with nothing to do apart from, what's it called? RELAX.

And what about the rest of the world? Have we looked into the rest of the world? I mean we still have four whole days before we leave, so can we at least look into the rest of the world?

ARGH.

Piles of paper

Is it just me or do you have a paper pile in your house too? You know the place where all the stuff you don't want to deal with right now this very minute goes to? Namely bills, wedding invitations, christening invitations, join our charity invitations...well there is one in our house permanently, but as I discovered today the Paper Only rule which applies to the paper pile has been twisted somewhat over the several weeks, no who am I kidding, months that the pile has been allowed to grow.

In there I found:

A box of blister plasters. Obviously placed there because going to the bathroom and having to reach down - all that way - to the bathroom cabinet and place them in the foot related wash bag is just way too arduous.

A voucher for Diggerland. Paper yes, but officially classed as what we call A Birthday Present, so should not have been placed in the pile, SIMON. And to think I was so proud of myself when I bought you that...

Several elastic bands. Seriously this is a mystery. There are always elastic bands in our house everywhere but we never buy them, so where do they actually come from? I blame the Postman. Not quite sure why, but I do.

A wire with a thingy on the end. During my let me talk you through all these technical things I bring into the house, and explain how we need them JUST TO STAY ALIVE lecture from Simon, I learnt this is a very important wire which stops the house from burning down, or something.

A sock. Not mine. Actually I don't think it's Simon's either, hmm.

Orange peel.

A dead fly.

A squashed raspberry.

Bills with squashed raspberry on them.

A wind-up birthday cake.

The remote control.

And at the bottom, a Post-it Note bearing the words: Sort paper pile IMMEDIATELY.

Moving it to an entire new room on a different floor of the house counts as sorting, right?

The X Factor?

I accidentally caught a snippet of The X Factor on Saturday, and strangely it left me feeling quite angry. Aside from the fact that I really don't understand how the less talented Minogue sister is qualified - in any way - to judge talent, I was largely struck by just how important the prospect of fame is to people across the country.

How many times has the show featured an interview with a young hopeful which goes something along the lines of: “This is (sob) the only actual thing (sob) that I have EVER WANTED, RIGHT? If I don't get to just SING FOR – like – EVER, (sob sob) then I just don't know how life is going to continue”?

Don’t get me wrong I’m all for people following their dreams, but how is it that succeeding on The X Factor has become the mark of true talent? Yes, the show has enabled winning contestants to achieve Number 1 hits, but what happened to all of the people who got to the final stages of the show last year, yet didn’t win. And the year before that? And the year before that? Exactly. We don't know, nor do we care.

These people all have the carrot of fame and fortune dangled in front of them, and because they are hungry, really hungry for it, they dance and they smile and they sing for weeks and weeks on end. If they are lucky they make it to Boot Camp and if they are luckier still TV crews visit their home town, and talk to their Mum and their old Head Teacher about how they always were good at singing, you know.

How is a person meant to deal with the pressure of being flung into the limelight like this, and told they are hugely talented and will definitely make it big, but then: “Oh, actually the public likes someone more than you, so its bye-bye and back to your day-job, I’m afraid. Oh and if you try to revive this singing career thing we’ve started, you will probably be ridiculed. Forever. Just, you know, FYI.”

Surely this isn’t about encouraging an individual's talent and potential, nor is it about music. It’s about making TV, and unfortunately the harder they fall, the better the show.

The X Factor is like a firework display: it’s big, loud and shoots bright lights into the sky, but the lights go out in an instant. In the cruel light of day what’s left behind isn’t just the fizzled-out remains of a rocket, but - realistic or not - the hopes and dreams of real people.