The last time I played tag I was seven and ended up losing two teeth. Happily, Sandie over at the delectable Quirky Musings of a Loony Mama has decided I’m “It” and has tagged me without using violence or stealing my lunch money. She has decreed that I must reveal six facts about myself. And I can’t make things up like I normally do.

1. The music of Beethoven makes me nervous. I used to play the cello when I was a kid. The huge instrument was odd choice for a tiny tot like myself; when my music teacher asked the class if anyone wanted to learn the cello I just said yes. I had no idea what a cello was. I assumed it was a tiny flute or something.

I joined a youth orchestra and spent my weekends playing concerts in musty town halls. The highlight of our season was the Christmas Gala performance at the swanky city concert hall.
On the night of the great performance, our conductor greeted the packed hall and announced that the first treat of the evening was Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony.

Beethoven’s WHAT? I’d never heard of it! I had been off for a week with flu; the bastards must have practiced it while I was away. I glanced at my fellow musicians who were calmly putting their music scores on the stands. I didn’t even have a copy!

I had to spend the next hour miming to Beethoven in front of 5,000 people.

2. I don’t have a favourite day of the week. They all kinda suck in their own way.

3. I don’t like heights. My worst vertigo nightmare was at the Sagrada Familia church in Barcelona. I’d bravely decided to climb the stairs of the spire, but ten steps up the narrow spiral staircase I decided I’d seen quite enough. Unfortunately a group of German tourists suddenly pushed their way behind me; there was no chance of escape. The only way was up, up, up, up…

The only way out of that cursed church was to cross the tiny bridge between the two spires (which I estimated was at 15,000ft) and descend the staircase of the other tower. Shaking and sweating for over an hour, I finally clambered my way to the bottom of the staircase. Freedom!

But the door at the bottom of the staircase was LOCKED!

A chubby German tourist grabbed my arm and chirped “Nein, ve cannot get out zees way! Ve must go back the vay ve came!” and dragged me all the way back up.

4. I can’t drive. No, that’s not true. I can drive, just not in a way that is acceptable to everyone else on the road. I like to travel at 100 miles an hour everywhere, especially in school zones (the kids think it’s cool). I ease into tight parking spots by nudging other cars out the way. I often forget I am supposed to wear my glasses until halfway through the trip. I like slamming on the brakes and making the tires squeal, especially in school zones.

5. I’m a famous movie star (well, in my street anyway). My movie extra career has taken off since my recent movie appearance as “Princess” the pasty redhead executive. The back of my head is featuring in Tom Selleck’s latest flick, and last week I played an East Indian refugee (I had to spend quite a long time in makeup for that role). I’m very versatile. And more importantly, I’m very cheap.

6. My first ever word was “bap”. I was trying to say “The cat keeps sitting on my face” but it just wasn’t coming out right.

Well, that’s my six totally-not-made-up facts. According to the rules of the game, I’m supposed to tag six more blogs. Unfortunately, since I’m the second-to-last person in the world to get tagged, everyone else has had a go.

So stuff the rules, folks! If you fancy posting your own ‘Six Amazing Facts’ on your own blog, website or even works notice board, here’s your invitation! Send me your link and I’ll feature you or send you a cake or something. It will probably be a feature rather than a cake. But you never know.

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12. Spaghetti

Invented by the Chinese in 250 BC, Italian food consists of pasta, pizza and parts of the pig you’d prefer to stay in the pig.

Spaghetti is best washed down with a light sparkling Frizzante (produced using a traditional method of fermenting grapes in old petroleum cans).

For extra authenticity, top your spaghetti with a Tommydevito, a spicy meatball made from pork, spices and snitches.

Did you know that the most popular Italian song in the world is Shuddupa Ya Face by Joe Dolce, Italy’s very own King of Rock?

The Vatican were considering making it their national anthem, but the Pope plumped for ZZ Top’s more conservative Gimme All Your Lovin’ instead. Sellout.

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My mate Sparky was delighted to hear his crabby old Aunt had died and left him a parcel of land in the valley. His happiness was soon extinguished after visiting his new estate. The land was wild and rocky; an old wooden barn stood decaying in one corner. The land was worthless. Sparky urgently needed to make some cash to pay his court fines. Short of striking oil, how could he turn his wasteland into a goldmine?

Sparky had an idea. After being ripped off at a dodgy hypnotism course at the local community centre, he realized there was money to be made from naive idiots trying to discover a higher level of consciousness. And in a way that didn’t involve weed.

What better way to part the gullible from their cash than a meditation centre? Instead of a costly trip to the Far East in search of enlightenment, overpaid yuppies could flock to Sparky’s barn, sorry, spiritual learning retreat and sit uncomfortably in the lotus position all weekend.

Sparky was confident he could learn the art of meditation by channeling the infinite wisdom of Google. Super Dave and I were instructed to spruce up the barn to make it look Far Eastern and, well, spiritual. Obviously with me being female, Sparky reckoned, I’d know about curtains and candles and that sort of thing. Thanks, Sparky.

Super Dave headed to the docks in his truck. The port was in lock-down after a shipment from China had sparked a formaldehyde alert. Containers filled with cheap soft furnishings from Shanghai were stacked by the dockside – no-one would open them until the fumes inside had dissipated. Unfazed by the risk of noxious chemicals, Super Dave set to work with a pair of bolt cutters.

Super Dave arrived back at the barn light-headed but elated. His truck was brimming with Oriental carpets, fairy lights and plastic Buddha statues. The barn was soon transformed into a twinkling haven of peace and cheap incense. I wondered if Sparky’s plan was actually going to work this time. However, common sense told me to get out while I could, so I wished the gurus good luck and sped home.

****

A month later I received a whispered message from Sparky on my answer machine. He said the meditation centre had been doing a roaring trade until a group of architecture students on a weekend retreat smoked too much herb, fell into the candlelit Buddha shrine and knocked it flying.

The old wooden barn had shot up in flames like a Chinese firework, sending young architects fleeing and the stench of formaldehyde-tainted carpets billowing into the air. Worse still, the smoke was infused with the aroma of eight kilos of burning weed.

As the smell wafted towards the local police station, Sparky and Super Dave had fled. They were now hiding in an empty container at the docks.

I haven’t heard from Sparky again. Either the formaldehyde finished him off, or he and poor Super Dave are halfway to Shanghai.

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