Stacey Solomon gestures in a theatrical manner at a pile of notebooks. 'How many do you think you have?' she laughs. I know this is a trap but fall for it anyway. '25?' '48!' She's silent to allow the audience at home to explode in laughter. 'Why do you need so many?' she asks. 'I wanted to be a poet.' This elicits an eyebrow raise. 'Why?' 'I don't know, to connect with people and try and seek some kind of truth,' I mumble. 'And how many people have you connected with over this abstract nonsense?' There's a full minute where neither of us blink. '... Just thought they might come in useful one day.' She opens a notebook, clearly marked up by a researcher for this moment. 'While the static sky softly sighs... Is that useful?' 'It was useful for this poem.' 'Don't get meta.' I don't know what to say. Stacey feeds the notebooks into a comically oversized shredder. We do multiple takes in wide, middle distance and close up. My face crumples in a different way each time as I watch my…
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