It was a bit unusual

Clever marketing ploy? Or dumb oversight? The Shrewsbury Theatre Guild attracted some less gruesome attention to the crime capital of the county this week when its adaptation of an 18th Century novel was mistaken for Welsh balladeer and heartthrob, Tom Jones.

"Tom Jones here!" the banner, somewhat misleadingly screamed, as it hung by the Castle, prompting middle aged women across the county to rush out, buy tickets and lob some knickers in excitement.

"Can you believe Tom Jones is playing here?" Even Shrewsbury's young began to ask, having only been witness to one other pop music event in their lifetimes - the not unusual arrest of Pete Doherty for possession of Class A drugs.

There were, however, some non-believers. "So some big name is booked to play Shrewsbury. Big deal," said one man. "He'll only cancel. What's new...?"

The Pussycat Dolls in the Quarry?

"Whoah-oh-whoah-oh-whoaah-ooh," said the Theatre Guild, when asked to comment.

It has subsequently added inverted commas to the title of its play, adding that the overwhelming interest in tickets was "a bit unusual."

A Not-So Superplan

If you know me/have read my blog/been in ear-shot of any number of recent conversations you'll know that I'm very excited about the UK release of Superman Returns this Friday.

So excited, in fact, that I rushed out - faster than a speeding bullet - and bought more tickets than people I know. Anxious, perhaps optimistically, that the Man of Steel's return to the Silver Screen would sell out, I spent more money than logic today when booking seats over the Internet - reserving two for the 12:30pm showing in Shrewsbury, another two for 1pm that same day in Telford, and two more for an 8pm showing later that evening.

That's six tickets, for three showings - two of which commence within a half hour of each other, are in two towns 10 miles apart and one frankly expensive and badly planned day.

Worse still, Pete's working, Emma's in London, Beth's in York (and is so sick of Superman and its oft-quoted trailer - "the world doesn't need a saviour...and neither do I" - she wouldn't come anyway); and the only girl who might put up with my hand holding, tear welling, nausea inducing excitement is gone, in a similar and badly planned break-up. If I'd have just hung on...

I don't know what's more depressing: that I don't know five other people to take to the cinema, that I can't work an online booking form, or that I'll be watching perhaps the most eagerly anticipated movie event of my adult life alone, in an ill fitting Superman costume, with an empty seat beside me to put my red polyester cape.

Super.

Town of Flowers

Shrewsbury - birthplace of Charles Darwin, home of 80s pop group T'Pau, town of flowers - became the scene of a murder probe Sunday morning when the bodies of two women were found in what police believe to be a massage parlour.

Since their discovery, the murder, as you might imagine, has been talk of the town. In talking about it, townsfolk - on three separate occasions - have asked of my whereabout Saturday night. This was mildly funny the first time. It then dawned on me that the question assumes two things: that I might a) frequent a "massage parlour", and b), perhaps more alarmingly, actually murder someone.

Also worrying is the fact that I don't have a great alibi. I, like most of the nation, watched Rooney stamp on Carvalho's balls Saturday but then left a house party early to travel from Wolverhampton back to Shrewsbury, with enough time to run a bath, have a sandwich and watch Big Brother. Probably enough time to knock out a couple of hookers.

It doesn't help that I often include the building suspected to be a massage parlour in my town tour to visitors, alluding to them the fact that I know of its place and purpose (though no more than it's blacked out windows and closed sign).

It probably works against me that I am like one of two people of colour living in the town centre. If a brown face was caught on CCTV I've a 50/50 chance of being interviewed. And I don't do well under that kind of pressure. I can't even stop from sweating when airport security ask if I packed my own bags.

However conspicuous at least I wasn't sporting ridiculous head gear Saturday night (for once). Apparently police are looking to interview a man who stayed late at a nearby pub, wearing a purple bandana and having taken part in a "pirate re-enactment."

A pirate re-enactment? A massage parlour? A murder? These things happen in Shrewsbury? This place is suddenly a lot more than a town of flowers.

My Hot Thighs

Though many online forms and questionnaires have asked, I have - I promise you - never listed my thighs as my "best feature" (though this might be to blame for my lack of match.com action); so, rest assured, this entry is not about the hairy strip of flesh between my knees and nether-regions, sexy though that might be (to the depraved). It is rather about my burning lap, not the seat of exotic dancers, but home to my overheating Mac - cool by form, frickin' hot by function.

The MacBook Pro, released earlier this year, is one hot piece of assembled hardware, apparently fixed with thermal grease, which is causing some of the stylish laptops to reach temperatures of 129°F.

There's no doubt the MacBook Pro is packin' heat. But at those kind of temperatures new Mac users, like me, are no longer the cool kids of the computer world. And, though branded - quite literally - with the Apple logo, my thighs are no more attractive, though perhaps less hairy.

• Warning from Apple: Don't put our laptops on your lap [via Engadget]