I walk a pleasant path.  The ground is quite even, with just enough hillocks and potholes to keep my journey interesting.  Behind, the road winds lazily back into the past.  Ahead are fine mountains to be climbed.  To my left, engaging scenery, hills and meadows traced with other paths, some strange and distant, others familiar.  Some paths cross mine, some join it, run along for a while, some branch off into other pastures.

Ah, but to my right:  To my right is a wonderland, a fair country of light, of unknown joys and pleasures.  There too, the snowy peaks stride across the far horizon, there too, the paths are strewn with unseen climbs and drops; but there, the mountain passes seem more manageable, the bumpy path more interesting.

But I rarely look.  I mustn't.  I can, of course.  I can stand and gaze into this glory for hours, days, weeks on end.  But then my own path is forgotten.
I mustn't look, because I must never enter.
Oh there's no fence, no wall, no great chasm to cross - I have only to step to the right of the path, and I'd be there.  But to enter unbidden would be to invoke its destruction.  All would rot and fester; even my own path would crack and tumble.

Only those invited may enter, and rightly so. 

How lovely to be wanted.  Or, more accurately, how lovely to be potentially wanted.

Two recent applications have borne fruit in the form of auditions in the next week or so, and now, out of the blue, somebody's found my CV on CastingCallPro, and offered me an audition just like that.

Coo.

It's almost as though I'm really doing this.

A light dinner, a glass or two of wine, a long, relaxing bath, and I was pleasantly sleepy and ready for my bed.
So I slipped between my freshly-laundered sheets, and was instantly... wide-awake.

Then began one of the most unusual nights of my life... ever.
My bed was snug and cosy, and I was as comfortable as if I'd been lying... in a cashmere sweater factory.  There should have been nothing to prevent my slumbers, but it took what seemed like hours for me to begin to drop off... and then things got really strange.
Throughout the night, I would occasionally doze off.  And I would dream.  As is so often the way, I can't now remember the content of the dreams, but one thing still haunts me even now.  Every time I dozed (and there were several, in the end), all the people in my dreams spoke...  like Jeremy Clarkson.

Now why couldn't I have dreamt of Richard Hammond?

Been altogether too much bally misery and gloom on here lately.  Far too much.

Time for something a bit more upbeat and jolly:  Lets hear it for lovely mediocrity.