Jazz-in-Boots (not the pharmacy)

IMPORTANT BOOT-BASED UPDATING INFORMATION:
Tonight I shall be strolling forth from work, at six o'clock, with the cool, relaxed demeanor of a speeding bullet from a gun. Why? I shall tell you.
I spoke to the nice lady in the Office shop on Carnaby Street. Somehow she managed to interpret my excited, high-pitched, I'm-not-sure-but-I-think-it-might-be-Christmas squeals and subsequently tell me that she has found the boots, in a size five, and she is holding them for me herself until I burst through the doors at full speed this evening, elbowing old ladies and limbless orphans out of the way, and hand over my £65. She also assured me that, yes, they WERE made by fairies, and conceded that there was also a faint possibility that they were made from fairies as well.
Then she hung up. I may or may not have done a small dance of joy.

IN OTHER, LESS BOOT-RELATED, NEWS:
I have a gig on Thursday. It's another jazz showcase. The other one was very cool so come to this one and listen to those high-pitched squeals in person.
Here is the link. You are all invited!

ALSO (NOT TO DO WITH FOOTWEAR):
I have a gig in November, which is much more exciting, in terms of location and audience. AND I spoke to the lady I know at a certain Very Big Record Label With Three Letters For A Name, and she wants to come down and watch it. And watch me. Which is great. Really, really good news.
Why, though, am I so scared? Why is it that whenever something potentially life-changing happens, all I really want to do is sit in a corner and read a book?
I am a contradiction.

Ay, me. The only consistency I have in my life at the moment comes from a pair of boots I don't own yet. Can't help feeling that there might be something fundamentally, you know, wrong about that.