The One With The Hot Air Balloon Accident

*Blows dust off mic*

*Tap Tap*

Is this thing on? Ah! There we go! No, if I remember correctly this bit goes in...here. And that wire goes over...there. And now, we should be in business.

Wicked.

So, a quick update on life in general: there were things, then stuff happened and after that everything was a little bit different. I guess you had to be there. But as we all know this blog has never been about what's going on in real life. It's about trying to work out what's going on in real life through the odd , odd things that are going on in my dreams.

Now, I know what a lot of you are thinking: "I've just figured out what I'm going to do with the rest of my days. Aside from gaining forty pounds and getting an over-sized guitar. I'm going to read this Undercover SuperBlog!"

Well I've got sour news, Jack. This isn't going to be anywhere near as constant as it was. I was young, I was in my Prime! Now I'm old, arthritis has set into my blogging fingers. I have to dictate this all to a team of trained monkeys.

So any typos, that's the monkeys' fault. K? Oh and Emma, I am terribly sorry about this.

Onward: The One With The hot Air Balloon Accident

It was the perfect way to cap a perfect evening. The party had been brilliant, I had looked fantastic in my pinstripes and my date Emma looked beautiful in her black dress and fur wrap. What's more important: We both made sure the rest of the part knew just how rich we were.

And now we were up on the top of the block. Not as good as mine, I thought, running my hand along the metal safety railing. I'd gone for teak. Expensive, yes, but it make the right impression. Metal, was just so...common. The whole building was like it though, all thirty floors, all glass and steel. No marble and wood. No warmth.

However, even I had to admit the balloon was a nice touch. To end the party with a flight over the city back to our transport was inspired. The canopy was made to look like old style canvas (although, I had no doubt it was really state of the art parachute nylon), and the wicker basket held leather seats and an African Colonial style table laid out with teas.

Emma had climbed aboard the basket. I'd let her take the first flight, might as well put an impression of chivalry on my impression of rich. Some more ladies went to climb aboard, but Emma had worked her magic on the chauffeur and he tipped his hat to the ladies and closed the door as they approached. She does like to ride with some style that girl, I thought approvingly.

The chauffeur undid the knot that attached the balloon to the roof of the tower and left the loose rope dangling as the balloon drifted skywards. Soon they were thirty feet above the rest of the party and dangling over nothing but a thirty story drop to the vermin laden streets below.

I stood at the (eugh, metal) railing and looked that the craft. The balloon itself was filled with air, heated by an internal element, so there was no noise or any other interruption from a gas burner. And this was attached to the basket by a single rope that passed through brass eyelets on the rim of the basket and on the circumference of the balloon. Beautiful. A rope that was tied at one end to the basket, and the other? The other had just been left dangling by the chauffeur.

And, like a trailing stitch in a seam, the links were pulling through fast! The basket dropped away from the balloon. That was it. Simple as that. The basket went down and the balloon went up. I didn't turn to watch the basket fall. I know already, they were both dead. You didn't need a finance degree and two yachts to work that out. Instead, I watched the balloon shoot upwards, unencumbered now, into the brightening sky. Then, while the screams from the other party goers were dull and far away around my cotton wool ears, I crumpled down and sat on the floor with my back the railing. God, I wished it was teak.

(Now here, the dream takes a rather abrupt turn)

Ah well.

What did I care anyway? It wasn't is if it was me that had just lost a balloon, an employee and his reputation. All I'd lost was some acquaintance who looked (very) good in a black dress. I had a lot of them. I'd bring another one next time. I lifted my head and got up.

Someone broke away from the crowd of people looking over the (yup, still ghastly) metal railing at the wreckage below and came over. She wanted to know if I was alright. I gave her a look that meant everything I meant: Please! Me? One of this cities most powerful men, not alright? Get out of my way.

And she was shocked. But proved herself to be a business shark as well. Not one to miss an oppertunity, quick as a flash, she gave me a card, and mentioned how she'd been looking for actors as good as me. They were shooting an episode tomorrow and could use my skills.

I walked back to the bar, grabbed a Martini and strolled to the elevators.

I'm going to leave the dream there, 'cos it does go on, but its very very different, and I think possibly it was two dreams that merged when I woke up. I go to the studio to shoot this episode (yes, of Star Trek TNG, I wasn't going to say it!) and get very excited about getting the chance to meet Patrick Stewart and about watching all the prosthetics get put on. It was wicked, but doesn't fit this

Night all