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I'm in Tescos. Not one of the big Tescos, one of the small ones. A Metro or an Express, I'm not sure which. It doesn't matter though. What matters is that I'm not impressed. It's just gone seven in the morning and they haven't got any semi-skimmed milk in stock. They clearly don't understand how this thing works. I am the one who is supposed to be without semi-skimmed milk at seven in the morning. Not them. I reluctantly settle for the skimmed variety and hook onto the back of the lengthy queue. I look to my left and admire the neat rows of chocolate. I pick up a Snickers for later. I reason that it'll make up for the fat content I shall be losing out on now I have been unwittingly converted into a skimmed milk drinker.

Directly ahead of me there is a mother and daughter. The daughter wants a Kinder Egg. The mother doesn't believe this to be a good idea. I agree with her. Not out loud. Just in my head. The daughter then asks a question and it's a question that makes me sad. She asks, 'Mummy, when will I be famous?'. Is this really where we are at in this country? Children of no more than five years old wanting to be famous? I wonder how her mother will answer. I desperatley want her to turn into Doris Day and dance lightly throughout the shop singing, 'Que Sera, Sera. Whatever will be, will be.' I then want the staff to come in and dance with mops and buckets and sing, 'The future's not ours to see, Que Sera, Sera!' I'd then lead my fellow queuers with a chorus of applause and 'Whoops'. I prepare myself. But then something terrible happens. The mother in question dissapoints me. 'When you're the new Kylie sweetheart,' she says with an unhealthy amount of conviction. I tune out.

It's a long time ago now, the eighties, but when I was that young none of my five year old friends asked their mum's when they would be famous. I certainly never asked my Mum when I would be famous. All I wanted to do was build Lego Castles and whack a ball around with a yellow plastic bat. That and ask her why she kept giving me these damn turkey drumstick things that really didn't taste at all good. I never had the confidence to do it, much to my palette's resentment.

Even a few years later, when I would have been captaining England U8's Cricket team if there had been such a thing, I never thought about being famous. I knew as plain as day that I wanted to play cricket quite a lot and that it might mean I play on television. But fame? I don't think I had ever heard the word. No, all I wanted to do was whack a ball around for England. Well, I say, 'always wanted to do'. That isn't strcitly true. I mean there was that fateful day when I nearly gave my Dad a heart-attack by announcing - as Wales beat France in the Five Nations – that I might start supporting the Principality. For a whole hour my Dad just sat there, as white as a sheet, slowly shaking his head while I shared with him my desire to line up next to Iuen Evans. I can't remember when I learnt the error of my ways but I am pretty sure it was the same afternoon because I was given some dinner.

Someone is handed their receipt and the queue shuffles forward. Just as I think I'll be out of this place in a couple of minutes the till alarm starts it's noisey protest. Why do I have to like tea so much that it makes me get up at 6.30am to walk to the shop? I tune back into the conversation mother and daughter are having. The record has not changed. Daughter is now covinced she is going to be as famous as Kylie. She's jigging up and down in what I assume constitutes a Kylie boogie. I can't decide whether to get on down and show off my Rick Astley moves or just kick her up the backside. The sensation of my phone vibrating in my pocket prevents me from doing either. It's from my Dad. He wants to know if I have a Plan B. I start replying with, 'I have gone for skimmed milk', when I realise I never informed him of my milk purchasing intentions. I read his text properly. He's actually asking me if I have a Plan B if I become unstuck by this recession thing. It's a bit of a depressing text to get from your Dad that early in the morning. I let him know the good news - I have lots of plans. I neglect to tell him that none are really up to Plan B standard. That can wait.

It gets me thinking though. When I was younger I had a Plan B. I knew I didn't really need one but I had one all the same. And was fame at the heart of it? Of course it wasn't. Plan B then was to design F1 cars. Big, fast, vroom, vroom machines. And I did. I dedicated an 80 page A4 drawing pad to it and filled every page. Side elevations, front elevations, top elevations. If there was an elevation to be had I was on it. I even created my own team which I then expertly transfered from page to PC Grand Prix game. Although I was a little dissapointed by the reacton of my parents who suggested that the Lee Supersonic was no more than a renamed Cannon Williams-Renault. When you are in your childhood years such aspertions can be spirit-crushing. I showed them though. Lee Supersonic won every race of that 1992 Season. Frustratingly though, having ousted Riccardo Patrese to Tyrell and added myself as Nigel Mansell's team-mate, I lost out in the title hunt to the moustacheod one. The reasons are two fold. Number one, I made about ten pitstops per race because I loved having my visor wiped down by a big yellow duster. Number two, I got so frustrated at having to start from 16th on the grid in Suzuka that I decided to drive the wrong way around the track in protest. Jean Alesi didn't stand a chance. I guess from that day on I was never destined to be that F1 car designer. Who in their right mind would employ someone who had such a reclas regard for driver safety? Apart from Clive Sinclair that is.

The mother and daughter are now at the till. I'm next. I wonder what the daughter's Plan B is. Just suppose she goes through life convinced she is just going to be famous. If she can't do it by pretending to be Kylie, how will she do it? Maybe she'll enter 'Paris Hilton: My 17th Best Friend', I muse in indignation. My turn at last. I move to the till. The alarm goes off again. Ironically I guess, I wasn't that far away from fame myself. If I had been slightly better at converting ducks into centuries then I would have almost certainly been sitting in Waterstones at this very moment signing copies of my 2008 Season Diary. I'd be sponsored by M&S and Ted Baker Hair Wax and Tetley Tea and Zavvi. At least I'd have deserved it though.

I walk out of Tesco just as a massive crate of semi-skimmed is rolled past me. I wonder whether anyone has ever dreamt of working for their local supermarket. That would be nice don't you think? Probably get a discount on Kinder Eggs too.

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