Aspiration to live high life at home.

Byline: Shari Low

THIS week, comedian Seth Rogen achieved a major ambition - he wrote a Simpsons episode. The man behind The 40 Year Old Virgin (figuratively speaking) told of his delight at being asked to pen the show.

He said: "As a writer, that always just seemed like the holy grail. I can die a happy man."

Wow. How incredible to have succeeded in fulfilling your biggest dream. It's commendable, fantastic. It's... OK, I've run out of superficial adjectives because the truth is I'm just plain jealous. Green. Think deep shade of Brussel sprout. Doh!

It's not that I want to write a cartoon featuring small creatures with questionable hairstyles, but I've got a big barrel of aspirations and no sign of getting anywhere near them.There's the really big, important stuff shared by most of humanity - find cures for disease, solve world hunger, raise a happy, healthy family, win the lottery and bring back the mullet.

Then there are the goals that gravity, age and lack of talent have definitely ruled out. No, I'm never going to be a supermodel. I won't ever say, "Because you're worth it" and flick my glossy mane in a smug fashion. Marriage to an aging A-list Hollywood star with multiple homes and a private jet has probably passed me by - damn that Catherine Zeta Jones. Neither will I win an Oscar or duet with Bruce Springsteen.

But there are still things I'd love to achieve. I want to write the bestselling bonk-buster I've been procrastinating about for a decade.

One day, I'll take my boys to an LA Lakers game and sit in the front row between Jack Nicholson and Puff Diddy. I fantasise about surfing in Hawaii - without worrying about stray harpoons.

But top of the pile? I want to go to the Country Music Awards in Nashville. I know. Could I be more unhip? But a whisper of a song about tractors, lonesome cowboys or swings on a front porch has me yee-harr-ing in the kitchen while I'm making the tea. So I'm spitting over reports that Amanda Holden has got my dream job - she's off to the US to make a documentary about the country music scene. How did she get it? How? OK, she's skinnier than me, blonder than me and a TV star.

But I know my stuff. The role should have been decided by a sing-off - awarded to the one who knew all the words and actions to I Never Promised You A Rose Garden.

That Holden one would have been eating my Daisy Duke shorts. Apologies if that's a disturbing mental image, but it does bring me to the next item on my agenda.

I want to fit into the smallest clothes in my wardrobe. This week's top survey - entitled Tell Us Something We Didn't Know - has to be the poll that concluded British women are hoarding pounds 5billion worth of unworn clothes because we can't fit into them. Looking at my own wardrobes full of items from sizes 10 to 22, I'd like to know who's responsible for the other pounds 2.5billion.

Meantime, I'll just focus on more attainable opportunities for fortune, fame and achievement. I may never get to Nashville. The Lakers game is probably out. But with my dodgy spending, dubious decision-making and aspirations of first class travel, I could still make a career as an MSP.

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WRITE ON: Seth Rogen and Simpsons