In 2001 I decided to apply for Survivor. I thought it would be good for me to step outside my comfort zone, to challenge myself bla bla bla, not to mention a handy boon to come home with a million smackers (and a million US in 2001 went a lot further than it does today).
Of course, the idiocy of the plan was apparent to every single person I told, so pilloried and mocked, with confidence shattered, I let the idea go - peuff - never to be thought of again.
That is until today.
I was doing battle with a giant woollen rug at the time. Task, to get it from one end of the house, to the furthermost, uppermost corner. And I realised as I sweated and heaved and struggled and slipped back down the stairs and strategised and cajoled and simply refused to bloody well give up, that this was exactly what Survivor would've been like: Urban Domestic Survivor, that is. Sadly sans Jeff Probst.
And what's more, as I channelled my inner dung beetle, and bundled that sucker up the stairs, I realised that all those nay sayers were bloody well wrong. And if I had've gone on Survivor, I probably would've won.