Two very strange things happened this week.
One: I got box seats to see Keith Urban in concert. I played the dutiful trophy wife once more and even though I hadn’t even listened to a Keith Urban single, let alone a whole album, I’d become a bit of a fan of his after his stint on The Voice last year.
After a surreal experience of eating a belated dinner in a room lit only by the flashing neon from Keith’s opening number, we got to watch the concert while drinking endless cups of coke zero and creme brulee. By the end, I was a complete convert to Australia’s favourite fluffy-haired singing export. Keith puts on a bloody good show and knows what his fans want when they come to see him in concert.
Two: Someone who I adore very much told me on Thursday that I remind them of Renee Zelwegger’s interpretation of Bridget Jones. Mostly because of my ability to make an idiot of myself and my preference for wearing bunny ears.
I do NOT count calories like Bridget does, though I’m known to wear granny fat sucker knickers and sing along to power balads very loudly when the mood suits.
On Thursday arvo I told my podiatrist of my friend’s recent discovery AND SHE AGREED THAT I’M LIKE BRIDGET. I asked if that meant I got to slide down fireman poles and kiss Hugh Grant and Colin Firth.
Apparently that’s not going to happen for me.