Bond, James Bond

Everybody has a list. Those people that you wouldn't kick out of bed given a chance. I think there was a Friends episode about it, although I won't embarrass myself by going in to details. All you need to know about my list is that it is a guarantee that if I put a bloke on the list LK will refuse to watch a movie with him in it (he still has not seen The English Patient since I confessed that Ralph Fiennes scored high on the phwoar factor) - as if I could ever spend time with a bloke called Ralph. Or more to the point, as if he should be worried. The only thing I could pull these days is a pelvic floor muscle.

Anyway, it appears one of my 'candidates' has just bought a house only a few miles away from my home town in North Yorkshire. To say this is incongruous doesn't quite do it justice. I grew up in the wilds of Yorkshire; it's a destination if you're a tweed-clad hiker or a snowy plover. It is not a star hang-out (although we did once see Geoffrey Smith on a bicycle). You can't make that up.

Now, Santa Barbara, different story. You can't walk to the shops without tripping over a star or seven. Oprah lives a few miles away (a different school district, I can guarantee you that, but still). The best place in fact for star-spotting is the Starbucks in Montecito. Positively dripping with Hollywood talent in need of a latte. To think that Bond, James Bond (aka Daniel Craig) has moved to - rumour has it - Knaresborough seems a tad unfair. Like moving to Rwanda to spot a silverback gorilla only to find out that your local petting zoo has just established an exhibit.

We had in fact been privy to this rumour when we went home in April. There we were sitting and supping in one of our favourite pubs when the landlord told us that Daniel Craig had just bought a house down the road. "On, Bond Street" he said smiling, then walked away. We thought it was bait-the-American time, but it turns out to be true, confirmed by none other than my Mum who confessed she'd heard from a trusted source that he'd joined the other gym in town. I know!! What are the chances!

I do know, for the record, that I am both married and heavily, heavily pregnant, but ladies, I am not dead, and I wouldn't pass this up if I bumped into it in Knaresborough fisheries:










































Woof!

It's as if North Yorkshire's trying to lure me back (although the likelihood of him wearing a Speedo even in August is slim-to-none).