Dnekeew.

Another weekend flits by, then, leaving in its wake a plodding, grudging working week.

I think I might be a little whimsical in this account of my weekend and do it backwards. Not like dnekeew ym saw siht, although that would indeed be whimsical. I will just do it in anti-chronological order. Because, yes, I find that sort of thing a bit fun. I'm going to try and do it in a kind of 'like 24 but backwards and with less intrigue and not as much American and also with a considerably less attractive cast' type of way. It seems almost inevitable that I will quickly get bored of doing this and delete the whole post, but I will try.

Sunday.

10.30 pm: Off to bed. Feeling hot, a bit dizzy, and very tired. Open all windows in my room to try to escape the sticky-hot heat. This does not work.

9.30 pm: Arrive home in a taxi from the pub (I know, you are MASSIVELY surprised at this turn of events, but try not to die of shock). Decide to watch some episodes of Spaced. Laugh, albeit tiredly.

7.30 pm Arrive at pub. After brief discussion with Pippa a bottle of wine is purchased. The next couple of hours are spent diligently consuming the wine and being sociable.

7.oo pm: Leave Rugby Sevens (ah HA, intrigue - you see how I introduce this without giving you any background? It's because I enjoy messing with your head) feeling a bit drunk, a bit over-sunned, and a bit overwhelmed by the passion that can be induced when you put loads and loads of VERY sexy rugby players on a field and make them run around and play sport, often with no tops on.

3pm: Arrive at the annual Harpenden Rugby Sevens tournament. Try to remain cool whilst resisting the desire to lick all of the beautiful hunks of burning rugby player that are casually wandering around inciting lust in every woman within a fifty mile radius. Spend a lovely, lovely few hours strolling around in the company of friends, of which the female variety were marvelling at the sharp-intake-of-breath-inducing, frantic-application-of-lipgloss-engendering sexiness of the players and the male variety were mumbling things about maybe starting to do some sit-ups and how, oh my GOD, we weren't even looking at their FACES and one or two mentions of us being shallow bitches. Yeah, whatever, get back to me when I can grate cheese on your abs*. I also drank some beer out of squishy plastic cups. There was also some rubgy.

*I would like to point out at this juncture that I am not really that fickle. I'm NOT. Sense of humour and personality are the most important things. It's just that, when you come (no pun intended) that close to specimens that glorious, it's DIFFICULT to think about conversation of any kind.

1.30pm: Meet Pippa, Andrew and Nick in a pub. Consume beer.

10 am: Wake up. Exhausted. Try to get back to sleep. Fail despite attempts at some home-made meditation techniques and giving myself firm talkings to. Grudgingly get up, wander downstairs and watch TV for a bit, venemously berating myself for not sleeping enough. Get distracted by an episode of Charmed.

2am: Get in. Exhausted. Despite sobrerity crawl into bed, sobbing.

Saturday:

Midnght: Try not to cry as it becomes clear that the car I am in is going the wrong way up the M11. Towards Norfolk, NOT away. NOT towards London-and-the-South-East. Successfully resist urge to cry, and instead concentrate on finding Alex (the driver) an alternative route that makes the most of our million mile diversion.

9.30pm-or-thereabouts: Leave Norfolk for London.

8pm: Wake up. Feel enormous sense of relief as I realize I can drink Diet Coke without vomiting. Watch the second half of Ben Hur, wondering vaguely why I was watching it and also why all the chariot-races were filmed in Real Time.

5.30pm: Crawl into a spare bed in a Alex's house in Norfolk, trying not to move my head and placing a can of Diet Coke on the bedside table, praying that at some point I would be able to hold that, or just some water, or oh-God-please-some-paracetamol in my stomach for more than a minute. Close eyes tightly and wait for the glorious oblivion of sleep.

4.30pm: Get back to Alex's house from the party house. Try and watch some soothing episodes of Charmed but am unable to open my eyes without wanting to die.

3pm: Wake up in a house in Norfolk.

9am: Fall restfully into a spare bed in a huge house somewhere in Norfolk. Try to drink some water. Fall asleep before I can quite manage it.

6am-ish: Watch the sunrise over the narrow pencil line-like strip of sea on the horizon. Listen in awe to the silence of the real countryside and then the slowly increasing noise as the birds wake up and sing without being drowned out by the buzzing hum of a capital city. Contemplate sleep and opt for more gin based concoctions, viewing it as the more sensible option.

2am-ish: Get back to the party house. Spend the next lots of hours drinking various gin/tonic/ice cream combinations and being asked to sing to people who must've been on something to have wanted me to sing that much. I don't care, I like the attention. In retrospect, the gin and ice-cream thing might've been a unwise choice. I SWEAR it tasted nice at the time, though. The party was in an ideal party house, full of huge, spacious rooms, with an open-plan tile-floored downstairs in which to whimsically dance and smash glasses. A large 'deck'-like balcony and extensive gardens. These sorts of houses are people's second homes. My family does NOT have a second home, but I was still allowed to go to the party. Go me.

1.30am: The party in the big fancy converted barn finishes.

Friday

11pm: Finish singing. Spend the next 2.5 hours hitting the free bar whilst trying to find someone to talk to who is willing to talk to me for more than five seconds. I don't know why this was so difficult. They were REALLY posh. Like, all public school* people with enormous hair and and loads of money. Which, obviously, I have no objection to. I SWEAR, though, a couple of people asked me which school I went to, and when they hadn't heard of it, lost interest in talking to me. But, you know, free bar, so whatever. People kept looking at me and braying "Ohhhh.. you're the jazz singer? Yah, yah, excellent singing. Yah. Loved it. Just going to snort some more coke and therefore reduce my attention span even more. Byeee dahhhling!". They didn't really say the bit about the coke, but they might as well have.

*Public school = private school in UK. Fee-paying.

8.30pm: Start singing, with Alex on keys, Carl on sax, Patrick on bass and Chris on drums. I don't know these people very well. Well, I have sung with Alex a bit in London so I DO know him. As a gig, it went very well. It was fun, and the money was good. I'd almost go so far as to say that the money was very good. Sang lots of different songs, my favourite I think being Night and Day, and Love For Sale, both of which can be done in a really sexy bossa-style. I also LOVE singing Summertime, because I just do. So, fun.

2 pm: Get picked up from Central London by Alex, having left work early. Get driven up to Norfolk.

And, I suppose, that's about it.

I'm not sure I like that style of writing about my weekend, but, you know, experimentation is such FUN. I have an audition tomorrow, and have been asked to potentially do another gig in Leicetser Square soon. I fear that one will take a LOT of organization on my behalf, but I can do that. Will you all come and watch, if I do?

I hope you had a lovely weekend. I'm going to go and practise for my audition tomorrow, and then sleep.