We ascend the staircase, me in the green velvet and black-chiffon dress (and a few hundred dollars worth of three inch heels) and Mark wearing a suit designed by someone infinitely better-known than either of us (put together).

 Already huge crowds have gathered outside and we swing out there to sign some autographs and just enjoy the crowd and the atmosphere.

And then it’s time to walk the carpet and answer a million and one question from the “red carpet journalists”. Well when I say red carpet journos but these guys are nothing like the journos on the red carpet in Hollywood – they don’t get a lot of chance to line the carpet here in Melbourne and most have day jobs doing breakfast television – I even spot the odd sports reporter. But they still ask a lot of awkward questions and, to be honest, I’m not really up for it now. I’m lucky Mark takes the lead, it’s not really out of any chivalrous need to protect me though, let’s face it, he has a movie and two TV series’ on their way out and he really needs to give them as much publicity as he can (one is on the ABC, so you know how much the public broadcaster will have to splash around on promotions – yeah none to zero especially in the current political climate).

I have a guest-spot in one of the local soaps to promote but my next “things” are a couple of really really big auditions in the UK next week though t I can’t actually talk about either of them. In fact I’ve been sworn to secrecy under pain of death (well of “never working in this town again” – which is pretty standard).

We stand there on the red carpet and I answer all the dress and shoe questions – a couple of times. I usually like to deflect these but I have to pay the designer back for the attention to detail on what is proving a bit of an eye-catching gown for the throng of media. And not just for them. I involuntarily remember the look on the face of the not-god of Mischief as he checked out the dress.  

Mmmm well probably not JUST my dress (hopefully the media won’t notice the sudden flush of red that creeps across my face as I remember his eyes on me, his touch.......).  I wonder if he’s still watching me now.

Mmm Do I have an intergalactic stalker? Oh yay that’s a nice thought, because ET, in this case, can not only phone home but he can probably beam me there whenever he feels like it. Other people get crazy fans watching their house, I get that but in space-opera proportions (lucky me).

We make it through the throng and into the huge ball room – well it would have seemed huge yesterday but at the moment it just likes a cheap imitation of “Loki’s” throne-room (oh my god – throne room – who has a throne room? I mean a REAL throne room – imagine saying “I’m going to the throne-room” and not meaning the toilet!).

Don’t get me wrong, the room still looks amazing – set out with 12 seater tables, crisp white tablecloths and a red, black and gold theme. But after “Asgard” I’m not as impressed as I should be.

 Everyone who is anyone (and a lot who aren’t) is here and it’s hard not to be a little star struck.

Last year’s Gold Logie winner (for the most popular performer in Australian television) Asher Keddie, is on the table next to me. We’re both nominated in the same category “most outstanding actress in a drama” – she’s going for back-to-back wins and I’m just happy to be sitting in the same room with her.

But she’s gracious and leans across to wish me luck and compliment me on my dress and I do the same. I’m struck by the fact that her figure hugging black dress features panels of black leather and of course, with black leather my brain drifts back to ET hotpants and his pimped-up palace in the sky.

Of course, let’s face it; it isn’t going to take much to remind me at the moment.

I hardly touch my food or notice that the young starlet behind us is flirting up a storm with Mark – who is my date and who – so the media speculation goes – is also my lover (chance and fine thing). But the starlet doesn’t know it’s not happening and from the eyelid batting, she doesn’t care much either. However instead of staking my claim like I should or would, I’m internalizing. Trying to go over everything both Loki and my father said.

I’m a princess?!?!  Yeah probably sort of kind of given my father’s reaction and the way King Zygoma was sniffing around. And I’m “promised” like in some weird intergalactic arranged marriage way to tall-dark and cheek-boned. Uh-huh.

My family is from out of town – well waaaaay out of town – Asgard, which actually exists.

Loki, exists and is king, Odin existed, was king and possibly my grandfather “Owen” – there is also a Thor though I’m not sure what other “gods” are actual freaky aliens.

I’m just trying to work out how it all fits together when Mark (obviously over his flirtation with the big-boobed beauty at the next table) puts his hand on my knee and gives it a squeeze.

“Hey there – are you still with me,” he says leaning over towards me in a conspiratorial manner, smiling.

I give him a warm smile back and try to focus on the Logies and on this incredibly good-looking, but still intelligent and witty and talented man sitting next to me. It’s hard to push the alien princess thing to the back of my mind especially when it’s just happened but I’ve got to – this is my real life right – this is my future.

I put my hand on top of his on my knee and his rich brown eyes sparkle and my heart flutters a little. (Yay – we have now returned to our regularly scheduled program!)

“Sorry I’m so distracted!” I say leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Family problems!” (Well it’s true!) and better than explaining what just happened to me and being dragged off in a nice little jacket with the buckles at the back.

“What award are we up to?” I ask and he laughs and explains that it’s the most popular drama.

Our show isn’t nominated in this one but I figure I should know who won at least one category in case I’m asked at the after party.

I’ve already pretty much ignored all the musical acts (no great loss) and the first five awards so I tune in and the soap which I’m guesting on soon wins. Yay for picking the right award to watch! The acceptance speech is pretty good too – witty and interesting and they even mention the Australian guy who went on to play Thor – a former cast member.

I laugh to myself, remembering how my dad thought it was hilarious that Thor was an Aussie, though I could never quite work out what was so funny.

But now...............

Holy crap.

The light bulb goes off, the penny drops and.............

“Holy crap!” this time I must have actually said it rather than just kept it in my mind where it belongs because Mark leans in and asks in a whisper if I’m okay.

I smile and reassure him that everything is okay but that I just have to make an urgent phone call.

Mark looks at me like I’m slightly insane and, at this point, I probably am because all I can think of is phoning home and phoning home NOW.

I promise I’ll be back for my category and sneak out of the room as inconspicuously as a woman in a tight green velvet dress and black chiffon train can.

The foyer is actually pretty empty and surprisingly press free (thank god) and I find a quiet place to make my call deciding I will actually kill him if he doesn’t answer.

The phone rings three times and I’m contemplating the home number when I get the “Hello Dr Errikkson?”

Before he can say anything more I drop it on him – I have to know and I have to know NOW!

“Dad!”  I exclaim louder than I wanted to.

“Just tell me one thing.

“ARE.

 “YOU.

“ THOR!?!”