Whoever Loved That Loved Not At First Sight.

If I undertake to have a go at this NaBloPoMo-thingy, will no-one please point and laugh if I fall face-down into the writing mud by… well, say, by early next week?

A paragraph a day keeps the psychiatrist away, after all.

I am sure I can find lots of somethings to burble inanely about. Today, for instance (it is barely past midnight. I am Carpe-dieming judiciously, in order to give myself 48 hours run-up at a second in-time posting attempt) I have spent an inordinate amount of time, following last night’s viewing of Skyfall, daydreaming pleasantly about Daniel Craig. Easy done! I hear you cry. But the odd thing is, I always start off briskly immune to his chiselled screen presence, flipping popcorn jauntily into my gob, and spending the first hour of the film convinced that he is not, after all, a fanciable Bond. I am always mildly perplexed about what I could possibly have been drooling over in previous outings. But invariably, by the final action sequence, I am no longer noticing The Ears phenomenon, but am dribbling copiously, and happily, hand poised motionless, over my depleted popcorn bucket. I don’t know quite how he does it, but I am not complaining. Bond in a Barbour was always going to be a winner in this house.

Interestingly (for me), I encountered* Daniel Craig many, many years ago, in Newcastle upon Tyne, where I lived for a while. I was 20 and he was 27, an unknown young actor. I remember it as one of those spine-searingly cold days that only the north-east of England can produce, and you may ask me why I did not immediately engineer an opportunity to fall meltingly into his warm sheltering arms, muttering something indistinct about coup de foudre.

It’s a good question.

I have an excellent answer.

He was in character.

*stood near-ish to!

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