Once upon a time there was a girl called Kate.  Living high on the velvet green plains of Bronte country, she was raised on a diet of romantic 19th Century English Literature and Theatre.  But Kate's first love was a horse called 'Scout' and she could often be found astride this trusty Pinto steed, galloping feverishly along the wind-swept, rain-drenched moors of home.  

One fine spring morning when the buds were swelling and the sun was rising like a cracked egg over the cool grassy slopes, Kate pulled on her boots and buttoned up her topcoat and made for the horizon. On she ran, past the sheep and the cattle and the headstones of the dead. And the spirit of adventure coursed through her veins faster than the babbling brook that flowed rapidly beside her.  On she ran, until she reached the shining bright lights and gold paved streets of 'The Big Smoke' where the camera men were shooting, the Ad' men were writing, the fashion houses were hiring and the Catwalk stretched out beneath her like a runway to the stars.

They took Kate and they combed her hair, her face was painted, her gait was straightened and her boots were replaced with sky-high-dagger-sharp heels.

And they taught her to walk like knives under the blinding hot lights, where a thousand hungry eyes glittered in the enveloping darkness.

Suddenly, her feet began to dance. They danced to the tune of the pimpers and crimpers, the glossies and flossies, the flashes and filmers.

And the money-making man with a voice but no face. 

Four speedy years swept her along and carried her high. But every night when the moon rolled up over the big black siren-screaming city, Kate would slip under her counterpane, lower her lids and dream of the purple, heather-strewn moors of home.

And long for it's silence...