fiat_knox | So, then. Fun.

Today is Part Two of my planned scheduled nothing. But since terrestrial nature abhors a vacuum (in contrast with the rest of the universe which is a big fan of vacuum, hence there's so much of it about in space), Things Happen to fill the aching void of idling.

It began, as much of the weirdness does, with a phone call from Glyn Llyewllyn, presenter / producer of S4C TV news articles. Apparently, my show segment went very well - ironically, I never got to see it because there's no coverage where I live.

So he asked me if it was okay to send my details through to a BBC radio show, since they were looking for a Welsh Star Trek fan. (Apparently, they're all mad Torchwood fans down in Cardiff and there haven't been Star Trek fans in Wales since The Great Hair Gel Purge of '07).

A few minutes later, and I was summoned to my mobile phone by the dulcet tones of a woman called Angharad, who discussed having an interview on the forthcoming Star Trek film, and discussing my linguistic predilection for Klingon, for BBC Radio Cymru on Saturday afternoon.

I'm planning on going to see this film tomorrow afternoon some time, which suits the lady just fine - the interview will be live on BBC Radio Cymru on Saturday afternoon, 14:15 GMT.

So. Interview at Eagles' Meadow on Saturday morning, and then later on in the afternoon on the phone back home at 14:15. *sigh* The life of a working celeb* never ceases, does it?

So where's the fun?

Only that, as I was speaking, I'd been halfway through changing for a shower. (Yes, I had one yesterday. The weather's hot, and I'm fastidious. So sue me).

But it means that the conversation with what might be a very pretty woman took place with me standing there, with only my shirt and socks on. No trousers. No underpants. Shirt and socks.

How very British. And no, I'm not going to furnish the photographic evidence. ;)

Now. At the risk of giving you all TMI, off to take that shower.

* as compared to the non-working celebs without a bone of talent in their bodies, whose only job seems to be to fill the pages of glossies and cause people to grit their teeth with annoyance with their continual presence on TV and in the press.