Because it most definitely runs in the family.

You'd think that after yesterday's hellish hangover-ridden entry I would have taken myself home to bed promptly, had a good solid lump of sleep (do you know what? Lump is one of my least favourite words. It actually makes me feel a bit sick.) and woken up all refreshed prepared to start the day with a spring in my step and a song in my heart.

However, if you were thinking that you clearly don't know me at all.

I had no choice. My little sister Sophie was back in London from Paris for a bit, having come back to go the Glastonbury Festival, and I had to go and have some Sophie-time. Because, you know, Sophie-time? Is just another way of saying Crazy-time.

I went and met her in a pub in Soho, where we sat and had pints (yes, yes I know) and caught up. She talked about Paris, about her French and Italian friends, about music and parties and how she still gets stuck when she has to ask for something really basic in a shop but is absolutely fine when in a high-brow conversation about existentialism or the like, because she is my sister and just perverse like that (it's in the genes). I, in turn, told her about my singing, how I've got a gig coming up, how I have moved into a flat in Shoreditch, the gigs I've been going to and the people I've been meeting. I also told her about my not-so-recent-anymore break up, my crush, and, of course, the fact that I write about my life on this Internet and that people (sometimes) read it.

This confused her, I think.

Anyway. Sophie's a singer as well, and we sing together when we get the opportunity. When we're washing up, when we're watching TV, in fact pretty much whenever we can. Even when we're arguing. It's like Jerry Springer: The Opera (which, by the way, is one of the funniest musicals I've ever seen. You want to see the Ku Klux Klan tap dancing? Go and see it.).

So we left the pub last night and had the following conversation:

Sophie: Oh wonderfully marvellous Big Sister?
Léonie: Don't call me big.
Sophie: Oh. Alright then. Oh wonderfully marvellous (and beautifully slim) Sister?
Léonie: Better. Yes?
Sophie: I miss us singing together!
Léonie: Oh I miss that TOO!
(nb. Sophie and I don't usually talk with exclamation marks all the time but it we felt last night was an occasion that warranted it)
Sophie: (impishly) Let's sing now!
Léonie: Stop being impish! You know it disconcerts me. What? Sing? But, Smaller-Sister-who-has-the-propensity-to-be-rather-impish-at-times, we are in the middle of the street! In Soho!
Sophie: Yeah? So? We do it ALL THE TIME in Paris. It's quite the done thing. (She didn't really say 'it's quite the done thing'. She doesn't live in an Oscar Wilde play.)
Léonie: (refusing to be outdone by Sophie's French-y cool je ne sais quoi) Then we are doing it now.

And sing we did. We sang (in harmony, with a fair bit of showing off because we are both dreadful show-offs) Summertime, Lady is a Tramp, Ain't No Sunshine (sorry, Paul), Amazing Grace, You Make Me Feel (Like a Natural Woman) and various others. We sang in Soho, where we had a small crowd of two Irishmen and another man (nationality unknown), who gave us money and clapped loudly. We sang on Poland Street, where we got a huge round of applause from two girls leaning out of a window and various other people walking past. We sang on Oxford Street, where nobody batted an eyelid because we looked like a couple of tramps. We then sang a little bit on the tube, until Sophie got off at Holborn ( I had to stay on till Liverpool Street). I have a very clear image of Sophie standing on the platform as the train pulled away, arms flung open wide with total abandon, singing at the top of her voice (and that's some loud singing, right there) "I Love You Léonie! I Love You!".

I tell you what. That is an image that makes me happy.

I miss my naughty impish little sister.

So, no, I didn't rest or take myself home like a good girl. But after last night's Crazy-Sophie-time, I most definitely have a spring in my step and a song in my heart.

Have a lovely weekend.