You ask Joyce and Vicky

if Candyfloss is sticky

Greetings. I am at the moment somewhat constrained by parenthood, but when I am allowed out of the house into reality I make my living singing (mainly of contemporary opera with some normal stuff thrown in) and amuse myself going to the theatre, watching detective dramas, trying to persuade my car to go somewhere without falling apart, eating prodigious quantities of chocolate and trying to work out what people see in John Barrowman, nice man though I am sure he is. There rest of my time is taken up with looking after small people, trying not to go mad at the billionth repetition of Pingu and The Kite and lusting to an insane degree over Griff Rhys Jones and James May, both of whom I witter on about endlessly, adore without qualification and one of whom I elect to rule the universe in my place when I need to go on holiday. My world is fundamentally jolly and I don't really do angst but I do moan quite a lot, mainly about idiot town planners who build houses on flood plains and knock down nice buildings to make space for more crap ones, the cretins who park at the end of my drive and trap me in my house, call centres and reality tv shows. And the gods of itv who decreed there would not be a second series of Mine All Mine, for which, when I am elected god, somebody somewhere is going straight to Hell. Anything else remotely interesting? Nope, I don't think so.