I've been over to Bulb's. I'm not going to link because I've done that several times recently (see Utterly Drunk in my sidebar list of reads, if you want to go see.)
It was by chance that my mouse scrolled over his very select list of blogging friends and discovered he had put little comments about everybody.
Some of his little notes are really quite sarcastic (and I DO love his sense of humour) but some of them are really straightforward; "Sassy's blog", or "Precipitation" in reference to Rain's blog.
Thing is, his comment for me is neither fish nor foul - part of me wants to say "Ha! That guy is such a joker." Another part wants to say "Hang on you perpetually self-denegrating female, what if he means it? Can't you take a compliment?"
Short answer to that, of course, is no, I can't, at least not unless its factual and qualified and backed up with an explanation of rationale. Not unless the veracity can be measured. Not, in fact, unless I can see myself with a snowball's hope in hell of living up to it.
So, for a laugh; Bulb's assessment of me is "She might be famous one day."
I would (really really really) like you to tell me what you think might happen to get me to that state! As it happens, I have a few ideas of my own to start the ball rolling:
My grasp of the English language will be enhanced by a sudden middle-aged desire to learn what a pronoun is or to start structuring my phrases, plus a divine infusion of sophisticated humour that will see:
my blog applauded,
my poetry published, or
my short stories printed;
any of which would afford some minor kudos, but not even get me to the C or D lists where producers trawl for celebrity reality show contestants. Not famous then, just allowed to be a bit snobby if I choose.
I will become set in my ways and take the role of professional complainer, ie step up to the void left by Mary Whitehouse.
I will win a complete plastic surgery body makeover, look eighteen, do all the things I wouldn't have dared at that age and shag a minor celebrity, enough to get my face in the papers. This would possibly qualify me for D list and could be called fame.
I will be in the right place at the right time and somehow manage to break the fall of a very young, very drunken minor celebrity, be photographed and paraded as his secret granny fetish, probably under a headline such as 'Virgin on the ridiculous.' This would have the same effect, but be called infamy.
I will reach total spiritual enlightenment and be full of all peace and love and healing, and promptly make millions by writing overpriced books telling you lot, my insignificant and jealously inadequate public, where you are going so horribly wrong. This would be called irony.
Some producer or other, looking for a female version of the charm, wit and features adored by a TV camera, of Griff Rhys Jones, Ken Dodd, Terry Wogan and Michael Barrymore combined (predelictions aside) will discover me and set me and every word I spew on the well paid, televised pedestal that they so obviously deserve. This would be called 'about time, too.'
I can see it now.
Right, any more for any more?