This Week, I Have Been:

A - Applying. Suncream. Furiously. The other day I went to the park to sunbathe, but slathered my skin in so much factor thirty that I think I came back whiter than I was when I left. Somehow it actually soaked in so that even with my freckles I look like I have just been spattered with white paint.

B - Basking. In the knowledge that in a few months I won't have to worry too much about money for a little while. I am to be a music practitioner in a primary school for the rest of term, which means that every Monday I get the bus to Burnley to spend the day working with a drama practitioner, two teachers and lots of small, eager people (children, not dwarfs).

C - Calculating. What I will be able to buy! Then quickly reminding myself that I will only cover some rent for a few months, but then going back to typing How Much Do Glittery Ponies Cost? into Google.

D - Drinking. Beers in the sun. Wine with dinner. Endless coffee at work. Peppermint tea with my mate Jess in a shisha café round the corner. Earl Grey tea (no milk). Dark rum and ginger. Gin and tonic. Pint after pint of water.

E - Eating. I made spicy bean burgers last night. This was A Treat for Ben, because usually he is in charge of cooking. I am usually on washing-up duty, which is, as everyone knows, a really shit duty.

F - Furrowing. My brow. I am quite often confused.

G - Giggling. On the megabus a few weeks ago I happened to overhear (read: was eavesdropping intently) a conversation between the coach driver and a few of his colleagues who had joined us at Watford Gap to come the rest of the way to London. Their conversation was a delicious insight into the world of the long distance coach driver. Example 1:

Coach Driver 1: National Express? Nah mate. They don't have a clue.

Coach Driver 2: Yeah. They don't have a clue. I was following a National Express coach round Buckingham Palace the other day. He didn't have a clue.

Coach Driver 1: (chuckles, and nods knowingly) Yeah. They don't have a clue.


Can anyone spot the lesson learned here?

Example 2:


Coach Driver 2: What you have right here is fifteen metres of heavy metal underneath you.

Coach Driver 3: Yeah. We are heavy metal.

Coach Driver 2: (sagely) The ultimate.

Really?

Coach driver 2 is also the only person I have ever encountered who has used the word "phwoar" without even a trace of irony.


H - Hurting. I walk everywhere. EVERYWHERE. (Alright, apart from when I got the coach down to London.) My back does not like this. It rebels.

I - Irritating. To walk along with, because of the above. It means that I have developed what I have termed Pain Tourettes, which involves yelping with pain at random, probably mid-sentence, and then carrying on as if nothing has happened. This is, I have been informed, rather disconcerting.

J - Joking. I have not, however, discovered any new jokes in quite a while. Anyone?

K - Knickerbocker Glorying. We make them at the café where I work. They look amazing, but too much of a hassle to eat. Is this weird? Am I weird? Validate me?

L - Léonie-ing. I have been correcting people on the pronunciation of my name nearly every day. It is a problem which has jabbed me in the ribs on a regular basis for my whole life, but I failed to anticipate how much of an arse it would be on moving to a new city. I hate correcting people, it makes me feel like a twat, but I feel more of a twat when I meekly answer to Lee-OH-nie. Just call me Laney, I say. They nod, sure, and promptly forget. I feel guilty for adding to the no doubt terrible pressures of their everyday existence by expecting to be called by my correct name, so slink off into a corner and feel shit. They brightly beckon me over, sing-songing "Lee-OH-nie" at the top of their voices, at which point everyone else who might be on the brink of pronouncing it right quickly assumes they were wrong and joins in. "Lee-OH-nie". Oh God.

M - Murderous. See above.

N - Narcissistic. "Waah, nobody will pronounce words the way I WANT THEM TO. I am going to have a tantrum on my blog."

O - Oniony. A bit. It is tricky, because after finishing my shift at work I am allowed to make myself a delicious sandwich from the sandwich ingredients cabinet, and this usually leads to me lurching off with a bizarre concoction involving most of the options, sprinkled lavishly with red onion. Probably nobody else would touch it, declaring it "disgusting", maybe, or "an affront to sandwiches everywhere." I can't help it, though. I feel like a child making a sandwichy potion. Yum.

P - Percussive. Or at least I will be. One of the activities I plan to do as music practitioner is Musical Instrument Making. Pringles tubes with lentils, anyone? Ice cream tubs and foil?

Q - Quetzalcoatlus. Well, I'm not, but I wish I was, because isn't that a brilliant word? Although Quetzalcoatlus might be even more difficult to explain over the phone to complaints departments than Léonie.

R - Rained on. Well, this is Manchester. When I was coming back from work just now I passed a woman and a little boy cheerily waving at me from inside a phone box. Given that it has not yet stopped raining (an hour later), I am beginning to wonder whether perhaps I should take them a snack.

S - Singy. Well, yes. Much singing is taking place. Hurray!

T - Truthfully? A bit bored of this alphabet thing now.

U - Up Yours. Not you, no. Unless you are all the people I hated or felt belittled by when I lived in London and worked in shitty offices. Up yours if you are that short, arrogant, moron of a woman who fired me, or that loser recruitment consultant who make me feel like shit. Or many others whom I allowed under my skin, who thought that their way of living is the only valid one. You're wrong, dickheads.

V - Violent. I am beginning to worry. See above. Also I just threw the cat on the bed with a bit more enthusiasm than I had intended, and now he is looking at me, hurt, confused and a little bit cat-like.

W - Waiting. For Ben to finish his rehearsal and call me, so I know what time we're going out later.

X - X-tremely. Tempted to move the letters on the Scrabble board he has carefully laid out. This would be naughty, as it is not just any game of Scrabble, oh no. It is For A Show about gangster Scrabble. I would be in trouble if I moved the letters, and assigned to washing up duty for the rest of my life. Much like Cinderella, except without the helpful fauna (the cat is not looking very keen) and nobility and good that will out in the end.

Y - Yeah. I just moved a letter.

Z - Zzz. If I pretend to have been asleep he will assume it was the cat.

No Pors Here

I am in an Internet café and the keys are sticky. There is a sign above by head that reads:

"ANY CUSTOMER FOUND VIEWING ANY FORM OF POROGRAPHY WILL BE ASKED TO LEAVE"

It is duly signed:

"TE MANAGEMENT"

I voluntarily removed myself from Ben's house today, as he is busy applying for jobs and things, and so does not need me hanging around putting the cat on his head. All three of us tire of that quite quickly. We also tire quickly of me diving onto the computer as soon as he so much as lifts his hands from the keyboard. So I have left him in peace. Although I strongly suspect that as soon as I shut the front door he was frantically searching for some illicit porographs.

I like Internet cafés. I find the proximity of strangers makes it easier for me to blog, and write in general. Perhaps because, over the years, most of my blogging has taken place whilst avoiding work in busy offices. This is better, though, because I don't have to constant threat of senior members of staff asking awkward questions that force me to lie badly about a report that is "nearly done" or fabricate some kind of "problem with the photocopier".

Guerrilla busking was cool. I found it very nerve-wracking, what with all the daylight and in-the-middle-of-the-street-ness, but I'm so glad we did it. We were without a loop pedal in the end, but it didn't seem to matter. It was a bizarre feeling, singing to people in anoraks, leaning against bicycles or pointing cameras through the light drizzle. Some people stopped and put money in the hat, others just looked away quickly, as if somehow making a spectacle of oneself in the street might be catching. I loved the whole atmosphere of it, though. It felt so naughty. Although later on I was told that at no point did anyone try to stop any of the acts. It might have been more fun if we'd had the chance to stand up to some angry policemen, but that, I have been assured, was not the point of the day. There was some music played and money raised for an excellent cause.

The following day (Saturday) I went to work. To get to the café I walk through Piccadilly Gardens, and there I saw something that made me feel quite shouty. A big P.A. system, a huge red banner, and about thirty people wearing red t-shirts. Emblazoned across the t-shirts and the banner were the words "JESUS SAVES! (Manchester)." People were whooping their applause as one man finished speaking into the microphone by saying "If Jesus wasn't alive, I wouldn't be either!" He passed the mic on to someone else and he began in a similar vein. "I love Jesus! Who here loves Jesus?" More applause, and a bit of hugging.

Shoppers were crowding around, clutching bulging Primark bags and looking baffled. Probably about one hundred people had gathered so see what all the fuss was about.

Now, Piccadilly Gardens can't be an easy place to set up a camp like that without council permission. There is no chance that this demonstration, the message booming and echoing around the busiest part of Manchester on the busiest day of the week, was not sanctioned. Somebody looked at this proposal and thought it would be appropriate for a Saturday afternoon in one of the UK's most ethnically and religiously diverse cities, to allow people to spout their particular brand of propaganda into microphones turned up to eleven.

Jesus Saves! Fine, I thought, speak your beliefs. Fine, if the council thinks it's acceptable to have this group speak, then that's alright. (Although it isn't.) But, in the name of equality, surely they must offer the same opportunities to everyone else with a belief system. The Muslims, can they have a go? How about the Buddhists? And, pray tell, are you extending your microphones to the Scientologists?

I am all, as they say, for freedom of speech. But get a sandwich board and a megaphone, like the rest of the fucking crazies. If the council is allowing one group to take over a city centre on a busy shopping day, but not another, that is discriminatory and wrong.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I came to spend my Saturday night writing strongly-worded emails to the council. I wonder, have I got this wrong? Is it no worse than a big advertising campaign, coming down to who has the money to buy their way into people hearts and therefore wallets? I couldn't find anything about who it was, or why that particular day, so if anyone knows or can tell me anything about it I would be very interested.

So this Saturday I am singing at a wedding for someone in Coronation Street, in Salford Catherdral. Yikes. My solo is "We've Only Just Begun." I am quite scared.

But my fear will have to wait, as I have been here now for over an hour and I've got a hankering for some hardcore porography, so I'll have to go home.

Gorillas! Busking!

Do you live in Manchester? Do you have a job that allows you to work whenever you like or, if you so choose, not at all? Do you have an appreciation for crispy duck pancakes with a musical accompaniment?

If you have answered 'yes' to the above questions, then I really must insist that you make you way down to the pagoda in Manchester's glittering China Town at four thirty this afternoon. There you can witness me and my be-hatted companion, Ben, performing a twenty minute set of our own devising, to the rain-smeared streets and, I imagine, a certain number of bemused-looking Chinese people. (Although if you are not free then, there are plenty of other acts on around the city - have a look.) In spite of a small but fairly drastic hitch when we realized that there is no power for the loop pedal, we're excited about it. We're doing two of my songs ('Song for Lori' and 'Surrender'), one of Ben's poems ('Bullets') ('Bullets'! He's so street!) and a mash-up version of Summertime. In one of the verses of Summertime I am going to beatbox! Well, I'm not, not really. I am going, in fact, to sing the bass line while Ben sings the lead, but to me it totally counts.

The drastic hitch arose this morning, when Ben was scurrying about packing things for his workshop. He frantically texted about it, trying to sort it out, whilst I sat on the bed, said "um" quite a lot, and tried to compose my facial features into 'concerned but not panicking'. It is still uncertain whether we will get the extra power. If not then we will just have to not use the loop pedal (there is an amp and two microphones, so it will not be so bad).

Over the past few days I have been down to That London and back, singing at the Dorchester, seeing friends, seeing my Mum and Dad. I managed to cock up my travel arrangements on a fairly massive scale, which culminated yesterday in my lovely Mum* driving me to Milton Keynes to try and bypass the Peak Times Of Death. I had an off-peak return Manchester-London, but had forgotten that those arch-warlords at National Rail deem that anyone travelling after three-fifteen in the afternoon should be forced to pay double the fare. I remembered this whilst having lunch with my Mum. I sat bolt upright, clutched my head and shouted "PEAK TIMES!". (She later told me that in the thirty seconds before I told her the source of my considerable consternation, she thought maybe I had forgotten to buy a copy of some little-known publication centred around the goings on of a National Park in Derbyshire. "I thought maybe they'd done an article on Ben... or something.")

Being the wonderful and kind person that she is, she drove me to Milton Keynes, an expedition that turned out to be completely fruitless as they charged me a peak ticket there as well.

Feeling glum and carrying a big rucksack and a heavy amp, I trudged to the ticket barriers, which were being manned by two identikit, acne-ridden teenagers with mid-nineties haircuts and suits that they were clearly hoping to "grow into".

I put my amp down to retrieve my ticket from my purse. The one on the right barely glanced at my ticket, but took a big sidelong look at the amp. He took a moment to think of something witty to say.

"That's a big amp" he eventually managed.

I looked at him and nodded slightly.

"Yeah. It's pretty heavy, too."

He had nothing left to add, clearly having exhausted his mental capacities earlier on in the conversation. I sighed and made a show of picking up the amp again, and began to make my way to the platform. Luckily his mate was there to pick up from where he'd left off.

"Cheer up, love."

I turned and stared at his sullen, twatty little face and laughed, bitterly. As I walked away, I said (under my breath) "What would cheer me up would be an offer of help with what is, as was helpfully pointed out just a moment ago, a very heavy fucking amp. Not being told to cheer up by a spikey-haired little cock monkey like you."

Luckily I got a good seat on the train, bought a gin and tonic, and took my frustrations out by telling the woman across the aisle from my to turn her music down. I suspected that when I got up to go to the toilet she turned it back up again, but the initial victory was mine.

So I am off to decide what to wear for my busking debut! I suspect it will involve bright colours, as today the sky has chosen "Manchester Grey" for its palate. I actually wanted to find two gorilla costumes, although Ben's would have to be rather longer than mine. I would wear mine with stilettos instead of feet, and Ben would have to wear a hat.

I have three hours to make it happen.

*Look! My Mum's on TV! (She's the nutritionist.)

Australia (Warning: This Post Is Almost As Long As The Film)

It's May and things are going from good to better, to bad to worse, to great, to alrightish-once-I've-had-this-cup-of-tea-and-oh-is-that-a-muffin? to just life. I have far too many things to say in one post, so I will attempt to whittle them down. (I have failed to do any real whittling. More wittering that whittling, really. Sorry.)

Australia flew by in a flurry of dismal attempts to be upgraded on planes, gingham tents in garages, small, energetic dogs, beaches, kangaroos, sunsets, beer, sushi, birthdays and suspended vegetarianism. It was marvellous. My impulse when attempting to describe three weeks of holiday in a few sentences is to launch into detailed descriptions of the weather. I am going to resist, though, and try and tell you what the holiday itself was actually like. I will aim for brevity. (Again, FAIL.)

There were four of us visiting - Ben, his Mum, his Dad and me. Laura (Ben's sister) and her partner Rob live in a wooden floored house in the suburbs of Melbourne. Ben and I stayed in a delightfully-constructed gingham gazebo in the garage. (However, unlike any that I have seen, this garage was free of dusty boxes of crap, which made the experience considerably more pleasant for us.) Some days Laura and Rob were working, so we all took ourselves off on adventures around Melbourne. I hadn't realized quite how nice a city Melbourne would be. I have been to Sydney, Cairns, Brisbane and Darwin, and I must say I preferred Melbourne to all those places. It seems small and friendly, whilst also managing to be lively and a bit glamorous. What a clever balance to strike. At first I was a bit suspicious of all the happy, trendy people in the bars and cafés. It all seemed a little too perfect. Laughing trendily and sipping at excellent wine, they all had a joie de vivre that confused me. It seemed odd to me that nobody was screaming at their children or swearing at passers-by. Their skin was tanned, and not at all the shade of grey to which I have become accustomed. The sun was out, and yet all the men appeared still to be wearing their tops, and none of them were proudly sporting third degree burns. It was baffling.

I quickly found that, even without these simple home comforts, I felt pretty relaxed in Melbourne. Ben and I traipsed about taking pictures of the amazing graffiti in the lanes, and went to the achingly cool Until Never gallery. We did this on our own, so as not to bore his parents and sister with our joint love of street art, but there were plenty of family trips as well. We spent a few nights on Phillip Island, where we watched the penguins on their twilight journey from the sea to their hillside nests. We sat on the beach with our binoculars, peering at the little birds as they huddled together and ran across the sand. The following day we went to a wildlife reserve. By that point I had started to feel a little interesting-animaled out (we had seen some extremely soporific koalas that day), so trailed into the wildlife reserve without a great degree of enthusiasm. I was wrong, though, as it turned out to be brilliant.

Kangaroos and wallabies boinged freely about, eagerly nibbling the feed we had been given to offer them. At first I found the kangaroos inexplicably scary. I think it was the way that they could be right over there, looking idly at a piece of grass and contemplating life, then suddenly, at the merest rustle of a paper bag, they would have bounced over in a single, terrifying leap, nosing into your hands and slapping their great tails in the dust. I did a lot of hiding behind Ben's arm, until he managed to shake me off and I was on my own, nervously being eyed by ten hungry marsupials. They paled, though, in comparison to the emus, who were also freely stalking the sixty acre park. Huge, ungainly things, I couldn't help but interpret their cold stare as that of a gangster who is planning to wreak some terrible revenge on you, but who will psychologically torment you first by silently standing behind you while you are warily feeding kangaroos. Walking through the mob of emus (that is the actual collective noun, I looked it up) all I could think was I CANNOT OUT RUN THEM. THERE IS NOWHERE TO HIDE. Ben fed one, and it nearly snapped his hand off. I crept back to the kangaroos, who suddenly seemed like adorable newborn kittens in comparison.

My birthday was lovely. Ben made french toast for breakfast, complete with maple syrup, strawberries and cream, and delicious coffee. The rest of the family went off belt shopping, while Ben and I caught the tram into town, and wandered about, happily going to galleries and sipping Champagne. We saw some of the most amazing photography I've ever seen, an exhibition called On The Quiet Water by Yang Yongliang. (The photos on the website do not do justice to the incredible power of his work. It is somehow at once peaceful and apocalyptic. He combines ancient and modern methods to create awe-inspiring, delicate pieces that held us enraptured as we walked around.) After a delicious day, we needed to go back to Laura's, to meet up with the family, have a small slice of the lemon cake Ben had made for me the previous day, and go out for dinner.

We walked through Flinders Street station, and at once heard the telltale sounds of a group of beatboxers and rappers, otherwise known as a cipher. We watched for a bit, and then, after a bit of nudging from me, Ben joined in, energetically adding his own beatbox sounds to the group. I stood at the side, took pictures and grinned, wishing for the millionth time that I too could magically beatbox without actually having to do the hours of practice it would take for me to be any good.

Eventually we caught the train back, and after a quick turnaround and a bit of gift giving/receiving, we walked along the road to a lovely Japanese restaurant, where we devoured miso soup and edamame, after which they brought out three of those wooden boats piled high with sushi and sashimi. It was amazing, and by the time the taxi cam to whisk us into the city I was heady with sushi delirium.

Ben had found a place called Bennett's Lane Jazz Club, at which was performing a man called Mr Percival. We hadn't heard of him before, but the descriptions on the site of his use of loop pedals and vocal dexterity attracted us. We were not disappointed. As soon as he started his set it was clear just how wonderful his voice was, smooth and effortless. He started by looping the backing to Ain't No Sunshine, building it up with harmonies on top of harmonies. By the time he came in with the first line, we had been waiting in exquisite agony and so burst into applause. He continued like this, using three separate microphones and connected to three pedals, recording and playing back his voice as he leapt across the stage to manipulate the sounds. The most impressive thing, though, was that while he was doing all this, he was chatting with the audience, merrily inviting our participation and jokily making everyone feel completely relaxed. It was beautiful, but also seemed that we were witnessing myriad feats of engineering, using the technology to eliminate any need for anyone else to accompany him.

All throughout the first set, Ben and I were on the edges of our seats. Ben uses his loop pedal a lot in his work, and I love layering up vocals on my tracks, so we were both in awe of Mr Percival as he played with the pedals, and his voice, so expertly. It was no surprise then, I suppose, that in the second set, when Mr Percival was singing Superstition and asked whether anyone wanted to come and sing, I scrambled to my feet and practically bit the microphone out of his hand. Laura shouted out that it was my birthday, so after that he made a few more references to me. Later on, he decided to get a man up on stage, and selected Ben (as the Birthday Girl's boyfriend), who he seated on stage and forced to sing, while Mr Percival came to where I was sitting and began dancing with me. Ben sat, eyes squeezed shut, singing, until he had clearly had enough, and started to beatbox. Mr Percival's head whipped around, and he promptly threw me aside from the ballroom pose in which he was holding me and leapt up on stage.

They did a duet for the next few songs, and the audience couldn't believe it. Ben is an amazing beatboxer, and not unused to being up on stage, so together they whipped up everyone in the room into a voice-wizardry-induced frenzy.

After the show we chatted to him, and he and Ben gazed into one another's eyes, clearly each a bit in love with the other. I smiled, and tried to pretend that I didn't mind that Ben had totally stolen my thunder ON MY BIRTHDAY. I was secretly just really, really proud. Then we all went drinking.

It was a bloody marvellous birthday, all in all.

Actually, it was a bloody marvellous trip. I hated the flights as much as I always hate flights ("Ben, wake up. Wake up. My feet have turned into bear feet. I've got paws! Wake up!") but other than that I loved all of it. We ate in wonderful restaurants and saw some excellent comedy (Tim Minchin, marry me). I developed an allergic reaction to guide book speak ("browse the enchanting language of the enticing tourist information pamphlets, carefully crafted by people who think you're a moron to provide you and your family with an unforgettable experience that will transform you into people trying to work out the best way to end your own lives using a copy of The Lonely Planet"). I loved spending time with Ben and his family, and I love Melbourne.

Manchester had become green in the time we'd been away. Rainy, yes, but greener. Since being back I have found a nice little café job in the Craft and Design Centre, have a few gigs, including doing some Guerilla Busking this Friday. Ben and I are writing a proposal for a commission about words and music, which, if we manage to win it, would be shown at the Summer Sundae Weekender festival in Leicester. I am moving into Ben's house soon, as soon as there is room for my clothes, computer and terrifying costume jewellery collection.

Australia was brilliant, but I found myself glad to be back. Manchester is becoming home now.

I have to go and lie down now, after this epic post. Oh, and also because I have a cold so I need to go and moan quietly to myself whilst trying to learn words and come up with a groundbreaking idea for a commission proposal. Sniff.

Sunday Meanderings

I am testing out some new shorts. By 'new' I mean that I have borrowed them from a friend. And by 'testing out' I mean that I am wearing them whilst sitting at the computer because they were the closest things to me when I decided to clothe myself this morning. They seem to be in good working order.

I am in Ben's house. (This is normal.) The cat is stretched out on the bed, luxuriating in the hot tile of sunshine that is dappling the duvet. Ben went to Devon early this morning, for a meeting. Some terribly nice people want to give him a residency and support him, so he has gone to meet them. He is excited, and has taken his bike for cycling around the countryside when he is not having his meeting. He has also taken lots of books and things to do on the seven hour train journey. He's coming back tomorrow, by which time the cat and the sun may have moved but I may well have not.

The other day Ben brought Last Chance To See back from his Dad's house, at the sight of which my eyes leaped out of my head and did excited dances, what with it being the only Douglas Adams book I've never read. He had already started to read it, so I expected him to have taken it for his train journey, but when I got up I found that he had left it out for me. It seems that have found a man who knows that I cannot wait to read a Douglas Adams book. I am a lucky girl indeed. (Either that or he forgot to pack the book. I do not really care which way round it is. I have the book.)

The cat is shifting, pushing his head back, green eyes fluttering.

I am making preparations to go to Australia! I am trying to think about things in an organized fashion, trying to write lists and plans. Realistically I know that all this means is that for months to come I will be finding small scraps of paper with the word 'Passport' written in them. I have, however, acquired shorts, and found some flip flops. I spoke to a woman I know who works at the airport, about upgrade tactics. I have been giving my skin pep talks, in a bid to explain to it that, though I will try to protect it from Evil Rays, it really must toughen up. Getting all pink and het up after exposure to half an hour of watery Manchester sunshine last week was not, I have informed it, an excellent start. Anyway, I have suncream. Every so often I contemplate getting a haircut for the trip, but then remember that I still have zero money, and have to just hope nobody takes any pictures, or if they do that I can pass myself off as a messy-haired local koala bear.

I am super-excited. Having the trip to look forward to has caused an eruption of enthusiasm in me, which is has been quite fun. It also means, though, that I have things to do before I go. Music to listen to. I am listening to a CD with music to write to and it is very cool, I love it. I am already scribbling down ideas. I also have a website to create. I promised to turn my hand to the site even in spite of the fact that I'm not great at technology. I've had this blog going for nigh on four years and have made no attempt to fancy it up, or indeed even change the "is" in the title so that it begins with a capital letter, as would be proper. (This annoys me every time I see it.)

The other afternoon I went out to meet one of the guys that I did a gig with, who, confusingly, is also called Ben. We exchanged CDs with samples of our music on them (this is the CD I am currently listening to), and I got myself a pint to join him and his friend in the sunshine. Another guy I know turned up for a bit, and my friend Aisling came along as well. We hung around in the sunshine for as long as it took for us all to realize that it was actually no longer warm, then went inside. I had a brilliant evening, not least because I kept looking around and thinking, wait a minute, I made all these friends myself! They're like, people I am friends with! In Manchester! I spent the evening exchanging little coy smiles with myself. In retrospect this may not the best way to maintain friendships.

Ben was down in London, and I was up in Manchester hanging around with my friends. It was a bizarre but excellent feeling. I chatted to lots of people, was inappropriately honest to a woman I'd just met about a man she was interested in ("If he doesn't take your number when you offer it to him, I would say he isn't interested. It's not worth it. Move on."), met a guy who plays with Single Cell Collective and have been in contact since about getting involved with a guerrilla busking thing they're doing, and generally had a wonderful time.

Ben returned from London on Friday, after having spent his time at the G20 protests. We went out in the evening, to Saki Bar for a night called Not4Prophet, which was great, except for the fact that during most of the performances people kept standing in the wrong places so they couldn't hear what was going on. During Ben's set there was a rather rambunctious gentleman in the crowd who decided that the very best thing he could do with himself was to gyrate up against Ben in the manner of every single British man who has ever gone on a Lads' Holiday to Faliraki. There was a moment of uncertainty, when he turned around and handed his beers to his mate, as to whether he was going to dance or smack Ben in the face, but thankfully he chose the former. I'm not sure quite why he took it upon himself to dance quite so provocatively, but Ben threw himself into it as well, and soon we were all watching that most ancient of northern English traditions: two grown, heterosexual* men miming sexual acts to an audience, whilst one of them recites poetry. It was difficult to tell quite how much either of them was enjoying it because both of them, in keeping with real northern protocol, still had their coats on.

*I can only be certain about one of the parties involved.

In two weeks time (on the 24th) I will turn twenty-seven years old! My goodness. I started this blog only a few weeks before my twenty-third birthday, when I was sad. When I didn't know this little cat, his owner, or what it might be like to live in Manchester. I had no idea what the years that have trundled by would contain. I knew I wanted to sing, but no idea what that would involve. I still don't, really. I think that I was less resilient, that receiving an email like the following would have hurt me:

"Whilst you think that I was agressive when we had previous relations
in music.. it was more out of frustration that I ever attacked you..
My reason for this email is this.. I think your writing on Half Full
was great.. And something which people respond to very well.. But you
didnt nail this track.. Your chorus is very sloppy... Did I force this
chorus on you? I dont think so.. you had plenty of time to think about
this track... Music should come from the heart and you certainly have
the talent.. If you can correct the time frame issues I would love to
work with you again."

Now it does not. I understand the meaning behind it, and can merrily post it on the Internet without giving it a second thought. (It is quite funny.) ("Time frame issues?" Excellent. What a cock.)

I didn't know what my life now would be like, how I would recover from some things and find others to mourn. I am so thrilled that this blog is still going, though.

Nothing like a birthday and an insulting email to make one go all reflective. Time to go and listen to some excellent music, I think.

Chimps and Barbies

What's that quote? "Good girls keep diaries, bad girls don't have time".

I assume they don't have time because they're off doing scandalous things. Leaving the lid off the Marmite, perhaps, or antagonizing the cat.

I am not such a girl. My lack of blogging hasn't been due to my wild and dastardly lifestyle, but more due to the fact that every time I think about writing a post my brain fills up with things that I want to say but can't seem to find ways of saying them.

I know! Categories!

Job/Money/Employment

I don't know if you've heard, but there's this thing on at the moment. What's it called again? Oh, yeah, um, recession. Credit crunch. Worldwide economic meltdown. Did you know? I only just heard, because I don't go out much and they haven't really mentioned it much in my bi-monthly copy of "Horse And Pony" magazine. Anyway, what this means for me is that I haven't got a job. I am still Well-Mannered, Articulate Dole Scum.

I did land a job at one of Manchester's infamous gay clubs. However, when I got there it transpired that there would be no actual bar-work involved. The role was comprised of pushing through crowds of teetering women wearing hen night sashes, lurching around to Dancing Queen while their fake tan dripped down their faces to mingle with the spilled Bacardi and Diet Coke that pooled on the increasingly sticky floor. Collecting glasses, basically. Oh, and keeping an eye out for any vomit on the dance floor. The manager eyed me. "Best to keep a pair of rubber gloves in your back pocket at all times" he smirked, as I tried to conceal my horror. "And check the toilets. People block them, so you have to unblock them. Basically."

Twenty minutes, I lasted, before I announced that it wasn't really "for me" and skulked back to Ben's.

"You smell of hen sick" he announced, as he opened the door. I congratulated him on the line that had only taken him half an hour to come up with, and walked inside.

"I smell, I think you'll find" I said, accepting the glass of wine he was proffering, "of self respect."

Music

Choir is still brilliant. I sang at Old Trafford, which is some kind of sports-related place, apparently. We did a concert at an awards ceremony, and I opened with a solo. My knees shook and I forgot the words a bit, but it was brilliant, and I bloody loved it. Oh, and we're on TV on Thursday! On Channel M, on the breakfast show. Also they have a professional agency affiliated with the choir, for which I am auditioning on Monday. I haven't decided what song to sing, but I am considering penning my own for the occasion. Perhaps entitled "Choir Is So Great And Fun And Super-Brill!".

As you can tell, I haven't managed to curtail my extreme keenness. I suppose I must just accept it, and understand that I will always want to sit at the front, sing loud and know all the words. It is a fact of my life. I must try to think of ways to be cool in other ways. (Suggestions welcome.)

I did a gig with a band, and am going to do some writing with one of the guys from it. I sang at a gig in an Oxfam shop, and have been asked to go back to the Dukes Theatre in Lancaster to do a gig in their autumn season. Actually, Ben and I have been asked to come up with a show (that includes my music and his poetry) to put on in their theatre space, which is in the round and seats about three hundred people. I would also like it to involve a unicorn and me being lowered down in half a giant disco ball while Ben circles the stage in roller skates reciting haikus, but it is still in early stages and we are still in talks with the unicorn's agent, so we will have to see.

Friends

I have some! One is leaving to go and live in Birmingham. She is a Bad Influence, always suggesting just one more glass of wine or some extra cake (it is never me). She is an actor, and funny and cool, and I like her, and now she is going to live in another city and I cannot help but take it a bit personally.

Other

I am going to Australia next week! With Ben and his family, to visit his sister. They have had it booked for ages, but it was decided that Ben would be no fun without me, what with all the crying, drawing pictures of me in his diary and general pining, so in a fit of unprecedented generosity his wonderful Dad has bought me a ticket. Can you believe it? This happened two days ago, and we leave on the 8th of April. Hurray! I have been dressed as a kangaroo ever since my ticket was booked for me, which is fun, albeit a little impractical. Luckily the buses all have those ramp things for people in wheelchairs, so I can hop up those. The pouch, it must be said, is handy for grocery shopping and an environmentally-safe alternative to plastic bags.

Life is good. I have had a few panicked, sitting-on-benches-staring-at-pigeons moments, and my living arrangements are still in a constant state of flux. I flit between my grandmother's house and Ben's, both of whom are "happy to have me there", but in my darker moments it feels like I have no home. I struggle with that feeling. I am trying to build my life, doing training for things, courses and music, still refusing to do things I hate and live a life I don't like.

I am going to Australia! Pass me the flip flops and throw some more chimps at some Barbies! (Is that the phrase?) Laura (Ben's sister) lives in Melbourne, so we are going there. I have been to Sydney, and up the coast to Cairns. Also Darwin, I have been there, but I am excited about Melbourne! I am excited about going away and about the films on the plane that I otherwise would not have bothered watching! It will be my 27th birthday when we are out there, which is exciting. Also exciting is the fact that before it had been decided that I would come out as well, Ben arranged a birthday-day for me tomorrow, fueled by love/guilt, so has booked a surprise theatre trip and dinner at a "fancy restaurant".

I am a lucky girl. Now I must go as this kangaroo suit is rather hot and cumbersome and it is becoming increasingly tricky to type.

This Post Is A Security Risk

I was in Manchester library last week. It is a cavernous, domed building, and it is beautiful. I've been in there a few times now, just to sit and read. I love big libraries, listening to the muffled sounds of people working, shuffling the books from the shelves, each in pursuit of his or her particular brand of knowledge. It is a bit like being inside the Internet, only without so much porn.

When I lived in Paris I used to go and sit in the Pompidou Centre library for whole days, to avoid the cold anonymity of the city outside. In a library you can find familiarity in books, and silent solidarity with the people sitting all around you. I love the curious looks people sometimes give each other in libraries. In Paris I read the entire work of Jane Austen in a fortnight and then moved on to the Bronte sisters. I found it endlessly comforting.

Last week I decided to find some books on fairy tales. I perused the shelves until I found some that looked interesting, and took a seat at a table in the main dome. I had just started to make some notes and indulge in some library-echo listening, when my phone flashed. I took the call in the stairwell, leaving my coat and small suitcase tucked underneath the chair.

It was Ben, with bad news. I spent a while on the phone, to him and then to my sister.

When I returned to my seat, my bag and coat had gone. The women sitting on the desk nearby leaned over.

"Were you sitting there? Sorry, we didn't see. The security man came and took your bag and coat."

I went to the Information Desk. The woman was on the phone, and gestured that she would be with me in a minute.

Five minutes later she listened as I whispered my plight. She sucked her teeth briefly.

"If security have it they'll have taken it round to the back. You have to go outside."

Clutching a biro-scratched map I stepped outside, internally grumbling.

Why'd they have to take my bloody coat? It's February, for fuck's sake, and they're making me run a freezing gauntlet as punishment for leaving my stuff unattended for twenty minutes. I can understand then taking my case, but my coat? Did they think there was a bomb in the pocket? Fuckers.

Consulting my map, I climbed the steps to the security booth.

Two middle-aged, rotund men looked up from their heavily-pawed copies of The Daily Sport and smirked.

"Someone took my stuff." I said. "I was on the first floor, and stepped out for a phone call, so security took my bag and coat."

I waited. The closer one raised a greasy eyebrow.

"It wasn't taken, love. It was removed for security reasons."

I stared at him.

"You should never leave your items unattended."

A pause.

"Security reasons" he added, in response to my blank expression.

I shivered. "Sorry, I wasn't aware that my coat posed a security risk. I will be more careful in future. Can I have it back now?"

After a bit more telling off and some light perving I escaped with my things.

Anyway.

This week I am going to London, as Ben has a gig on Wednesday. Unfortunately on Friday we are going to a funeral, at which I am singing. I am very, very nervous about this. The nerves are outweighed by the feeling that I do want to do it, but still. Since I was asked I have been lying awake at nights, thinking about it. Not really worrying, just thinking. I feel it is the least I can do, so I want to do it.

But, yikes.

When I am back up in Manchester I am going to go to the library every day and leave innocuous things on a desk, to see what security deem as a "risk". A scarf? A scale model of the security booth? A dead pigeon? It will be an interesting experiment.