Monday, October 31, 2005

This post is in a continuous state of evolution...

I have stopped eating eggs.

This is because I hate the word. Not because I don't like the taste of them, just because I feel strange eating eggs in front of people because I just have a funny feeling about them. There's something strange about them. Apart from anything else, they're chicken's PERIODS. They are, you know, think about it. Actually that in itself is less horrible than the word itself. I don't know what it is, really.

In other news, I am quite looking forward to this gig now. I have decided upon an outfit. It goes like this:

Black basque from Ann Summers.
Black waistcoat from Oasis.
Black pencil skirt from Oasis.
Very high heeled sexy shoes (also black) (vintage)
Red lipstick, nails, etc.
Various bits of jewellery, probably.

Ta da! The effect is supposed to be forties glamour. The basque is my favourite item on the list.

I wrote a song. Well, some lyrics. On Wednesday I'm getting together with the guy who's piano-ing for me and he's going to help me finish it off. Thing is, though, I'm not sure that it isn't really, really shit. Oh well. Better to have something really shit than nothing at all, or than Plan B, which was to do a rap version of "I'm A Little Teapot" complete with actions and costume.

Also, you know my Dad? Yeah, you met him that time you came to tea and we all ended up getting really drunk? No, no, not the time with the strippers, the other time. Yes? Anyway, I think I mentioned that my Dad got a CBE this year. And he was given THREE extra tickets to go to the palace! Buckingham, not Crystal. Three! So. My Mum, my Grandmother. AND ONE MORE LUCKY CONTESTANT!!
Well, I have two sisters. Sophie: Youngest, impish, lives in Paris. Alex: Oldest, smallest, lives in Ealing (London). And then there's me: Me. Middle. Explains a lot.
My Dad created some elaborate lottery system to decide. No drawing bits of paper out of a hat for him, no sir.

I accidentally posted that before I'd finished it. Sorry! (I'm not really sorry)

This lottery system was elaborate. Oh yes. It happened. And... GUESS WHAT?!

I didn't win.

Sophie won. Sophie is going to the palace. Alex and I will be locked in the basement with just some stale bread and water while Cinder-Sophie gets to go and meet the royals. Well, sort of, in that we are going to go to the posh meal afterwards but not the palace. I would have liked to go, but fair's fair, a lottery system was created and my father is a fair man, and Sophie will sneak in a secret camera and will take cardboard cut outs of me and Alex so it'll be like we're all there, and maybe if we ask nicely she'll ask the Queen some inappropriate questions so we'll have some stories to tell.

I might be going to Wales next week. The country, not the biggest of all the mammals. Though that would be cool.

If anyone wants to come to the gig on Thursday so you can see my basque, email me and I'll put you on the guest list. Either at or

In other other news: I am going to a pole-dancing lesson. And I have also applied to the London School of Striptease to do a beginners course. Just for fun. Why not?

Maybe I'll update again, as today I'm feeling whimsical.

I told you.

I need your help. Especially if you're from London and know things. Paul, this is the sort of thing you'd be good at.

I'm doing a quiz thing where you have clues and you have to work out which London station means. You know. Like, for example:

Pale coloured church = Whitechapel.


They can be tube stations or overland ones. I stand to win Champagne, which I will not share but will gladly tell you all about. So here they are:

DATED LANE (Old Street)
REGAL TREE (Royal Oak)
ANYONE FOR TENNIS (Oooh, tricky. Wimbledon)
A DOG CRYING (Barking...? Except that's not crying, though, is it?)

This is the sort of thing I am rubbish at. Champagne, however, is the sort of thing I am very good at, so please help. Thanks.

Friday, October 28, 2005

There is one word to sum it up: TYPICAL.

So the woman from the gig next Thursday which is realy big and exciting and important and called me up yesterday and we had a chat and I mentioned again that I am just preparing some covers in a jazz funk way for the gig because I'm singing with people I've never worked with before and I asked again whether that would be alright and she paused.
I heard the pause. For her it was a moment of silence whereas for me it sounded more like a hundred people saying "you're going to look like an idiot" in an irritating sing-song voice. So after the pause she told me that they don't usually want people who cover other songs because the night's all about fresh new music but, you know, it's TOO LATE NOW and whatever we've got. Which sounded to me like the hundred people from before had just bumped into their thirty-thousand closest friends and family and they had all grouped together for a hearty rendition of "why the fuck did you get into something you can't handle you are going to be laughed at and never invited back" with two repeats and a coda. She then asked if I had ONE song I could do that was my own. To which the answer is no I don't because anything I have written I've thrown away because I've been too embarrassed of it. But to which I responded yes, yes I will do one of my own.

To an audience of three hundred people.

I will, between now and next Thursday, pen something fit for consumption by and audience riddled with music industry types and people I know.

I promised that I am going to try to see the funny side of difficult situations, so, with that in mind, I say this:


I have never written anything I have been comfortable singing to one person. I do actually find this quite funny and last night I could hardly sleep at all with the hilarity and amusement of it all.

I think I'm going to pretend I'm in a film. If this was a film I would write the Bestest Song Ever and people would be awed by my musical prowess. Then again, if this was a film, I wouldn't be wearing the same clothes as yesterday* and my hair would be tidier. Unless it was a film about people with messy hair overcoming adversity. I'd probably have to end up with some kind of a love interest as well and that's not going to happen because nobody wants a girl with messy hair.
* I stayed at a friend's house, I'm not just unclean. Not deliberately.

I think it'll be ok, you know. I went to this performance poetry thing the other week which sounds pretentious but was actually good and funny and I thought, hmm. I could do that.
And now? Is my chance. I will write words, like I do here except perhaps with more syllables and less reliance on Random Capital Letters, and then put them to music and do a few exciting things with my voice and that'll be ok, right? Because you see some real shit live music around and I can contribute to that, right?

OR MAYBE I'll just wear a short skirt and a low cut top. No, no, far too Mariah Carey.

This is actually funny, isn't it? Tell me this isn't as bad as all that.

Holy fucking fuck. Anyone got any tips? A spare song kicking around that I can rip off?A hideaway in Mexico I can sneak off to for a couple of weeks? A hairbrush? ANYTHING?

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

No, I'm alright. I am. Really.

I'm just kind of nonchalantly sidling back in with this entry, hoping that maybe you'll have forgotten how mental I am and just think I'm nice and funny again. Look, I'll do a funny dance! And tell you a joke! Now you've forgotten, haven't you? Good.

I don't really need to say this, but I just want to tell you something. On Friday I was feeling FUCKING SHIT (what? You noticed? How very perceptive of you) and rubbish and all those things. Lonely and scared and unhappy and like I was ill with pain. I sat down and wrote the first thing that came into my head. It does go without saying that writing is a form of catharsis, and I think that writing in the public domain is a means of removing yourself from that about which you write. It's a means of communicating non-specifically, and that's why I like it so much. I didn't cut my arms last week. I haven't done that in about six months-ish.

Now, I had a point. I definitely had it here, so it can't be far away, it must be around here somewhere.

Oh, yeah, basically I want you not to worry about my pretty little arms, they are in tact. My head is feeling better, as well. Internet people made me feel so much better. Thank you for that, it was amazing. Like, actually, really amazing. It's crazy how much I felt touched and reassured by Internet help.
But then, you know, I'm crazy. So it's not massively surprising.
But also non-Internet people as well. I am so lucky to have such lovely friends. Who called and texted me, telling me they loved me and inviting me to go places, offereing to cancel plans to help me out. And also, you know I mentioned my ex from when I was in Paris? I know he was ill at the time and I don't blame him. He emailed me to tell me how much I meant to him and some other things. I don't blame him, but the whole experienced scarred me in a way that I have not yet worked out how to reverse. My sisters are the best sisters in the world, even if they are both thinner than me (it's ok, I'm better at... er... being taller and having bigger boobs).

I am beginning to sound like a bad Oscar speech so I'll shut up. When I say 'shut up' you know that I don't mean it, though, because it's a physical impossibilty. It's like saying 'yes, in a minute I'll stop telling bad jokes'. No way.

Over the weekend I had two gigs, both of which were good. On Monday I had a vocal consultation at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, as recommended by my friend. The people said I had taught myself very well (thank you) and my voice was healthy (hurray). They're going to find me a good teacher so I can polish it to perfection. They didn't say polish it to perfection, I added that.
They said I should audition for a post-grad in musical theatre, and asked me why I hadn't auditioned for the West End.
To which I replied "...?" and blushed. I'm so demure sometimes I surprise myself.
THEN they asked me what venue I like singing jazz in, so I replied that I like singing jazz in large venues with good atmosphere, and I like having to work a bit to get poeple's attention.
To which they responded "yes, well, we can see that." Maybe not so demure, then.

I am taking that as a compliment because otherwise I will have to take it to mean that I am a brazen show-off and that's NOT so complimentary.
Or true.

(Does a spin and takes top off)

My point is, I suppose, that I am feeling better but only just. I have a lot on in the next few weeks and I am still a bit overwhelmed by it all.

I am, however, seeing the Funny Side of things. I will see the Funny Side, even of it kills me. Actually, no, not if it kills me, because that wouldn't be funny. Unless I died in a funny way, or dies laughing. Actually I'm not going to go down this route. No suggestions for comedy deaths, please. Really.

Friday, October 21, 2005

This post was written in one go without stopping and is therefore rubbish so please don't read it.

What the hell is wrong with me. That is a statement, not a question. I write it as a question by putting the word 'what' at the beginning of the sentence, and yet refuse to round it off nicely with a question mark. It isn't even a rhetorical question. It's a statement that is implying that there is something wrong with me, but also allowing room for there to be nothing wrong with me.

"But" you may insist "that is bollocks! Léonie you are a massive idiot."
A ha. Yes. Maybe THAT is what is wrong with me. I am a massive idiot. That would certainly explain a thing or two.

You may have noticed that this post is meandering gently along on a little path just over on the wrong side of sense.

This is because what I really want to do is to write about myself in that self-indulgent manner that I have. I want to ask questions and expell my demons into this old PC sitting in front of me. I want to tell it that I'm feeling bad, that I'm feeling lonely and hurt and upset. I want to expound on my pain. I want to tell people how much I need warmth, affection and comfort but how scared I am that, if I ask for it I might get it and then I'd feel guilty and humiliated and sick. I am scared because I can see the contradictions in my instincts but I can't help them. I am confusing strength with coldness, confusing self-assertion with hard control.


Is how I'm feeling. I want to tell everyone to fuck off and leave me alone, but I want them to know that what I really mean is please, please. Help me.

I think I'm feeling this today because I have have seen the results of my pride and refusal to deal with my pain and I have seen the ease with which some other people admit they are hurting and accept it. They aren't ashamed of it, they cope and deal and then it can run its course and go away. I want this. I want to know this: why does it make me guilty and angry and riddled with the bullet holes of my own inner battles?

In the past when I have felt depressed and angry and hurt I have cut my own arms with a razor. When I went to the doctors the first time I stumbled in there as a result of a promise made to my boyfriend at the time. I didn't care about it myself but I DID care about how much it upset him so I went. I sat sullenly in the office of the local GP and stared out of the window, at the crayon drawings on the walls, at my knees. Anywhere but the face of the man sitting opposite me. He asked what the matter was, the standard question. I think perhaps I'm depressed, I replied, a question mark in my voice. I sometimes cut myself on my arms. I turned over my left arm and showed him the lines, these fine red slices which were, on closer inspection, ragged and raw. Oh, he said. I see. Well. Why are you doing that?
I thought about it.
I don't know, I replied. I suppose, well. Why not?
Are you unhappy?
I don't know. I suppose, no? I don't know.
Hmm, came the response. He paused, staring at my face.
Timewaster, I could feel him thinking. Stupid, melodramatic idiot.
God, I was thinking. I hate this. I hate the doctor's. I'm only here because of Dan. I'll go soon.

Finally he said something. Triumphant.
It's summer soon. He pronounced the words slowly as I tried to work out where he was going with this. You won't like it.
I looked at him. Just, looked.
I know what you girls are like, he continued. Oh, ok, I thought. I know where he's going.
Pretty girl like you, you'll be wanting to wear short sleeved tops and the like, because of summer, and then you won't like that. He gestured at my torn arm with a vague sweep of his large, doctorly hand.
I smiled. I won't care, I said. I don't care.
You will, he intoned, gravely. You will.
No. I won't. I don't. And I won't. I stared at him. Amused and let down all at once. And kind of relieved.

I am a self-destructive person. I hated the person that told me repeatedly that they didn't like my unhappy side, that I should just put it all aside. I think, though, what I really hate was the implication that it was possible to change, because if it is then I should but I feel like I can't. I cling fiercely to my own capacity for furious pride and self-loathing, as if it makes me different and strong. I know that's a contradiction. I am capable of such fury, anger and passion, but it is mainly directed inwards and I am fucking bored of it but I can't help it.

I don't know what is wrong with me. I see a stark contrast every day between myself and the people that see things how I want to see them. Those who don't put more pressure on themselves than they would put on other people. I am my own pushy mother, playing down things I achieve as soon as I achieve them, setting each goal a bit further away as I draw nearer to the last one. Even my sense of humour seems bitter and cold now, and that is all I have.

When I lived in Paris when I was 18 I was so miserable. I had no friends apart from this strange flatmate who was nocturnal, who occasionally took me to the theatre to see Kafka plays in french. He sometimes organised my drawers when I wasn't there, which was a little disconcerting. I had a boyfriend back at home who I missed furiously but who was ill and making my life hell. Some of the things he said to me and about me during that time still ring in my ears. The things he made me feel are still in me, filed away and ready to be plucked out for inspection at any given moment of self-torment. I should have gone home. I should have walked away, when the pain in my stomach became screaming agony, when I had endured weeks on end with no contact with anybody apart from a far away, abusive voice, accusing me of things I'd never heard of with people I'd never met, and telling me it wished I'd just die.
Just fucking die.
I wish now that I had gone home, accepted that I wasn't happy and that I could make the decision to escape. I wish I hadn't tortured myself the idea that escape was running away, and that running away was giving up, and giving up was weak. I felt weak anyway, for not making the most of it. I felt disgusted at myself.

I should have just cut my losses.

There are many things I feel I could've done differently had I cut my losses. Cut myself some slack. But I never do either of those things. What I do, instead, is wait until the pain of pressure gets too great and then just cut myself. Perhaps to compensate for all the losses and slack I should have been cutting before. I cut my arms and it releases something, it validates something else and there is a moment when I feel like I'm alright. Just, alright. Not failing, not striving, not justifying desperately to myself or anyone else what I'm doing with my life and why I'm doing it, but just being.

Again, a contradiction. Endearing, isn't it?

I really feel like I need someone to help me. I can't do this on my own. I can't but I have to. I want help but when someone sits and watches me cry and tries to help me I want to push them and tell them to stop. I don't want help. I don't want to be told it's all going to be alright, I don't want someone to tell me they love me and that I'm not a fucking stupid fucking idiot bitch because I find it too humiliating that they see me so vulnerable. This, I am beginning to suspect, may not add up.

I dread the nights I wake up every hour on the hour shaking and soaked, and panicked because there is nothing to panic about and yet, and YET I am panicking. I see people I love and want them to hold me, to hug me, and yet I don't know why and can't ask. I don't want them to touch me. I am relieved when I can be on my own again because then maybe people will stop expecting things from me. Maybe I can stop expecting to be able to figure everything out myself.

Oh I don't fucking know.

Please disregard. The funny will be rejoining us shortly, it just popped out for a breather.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

The state of stuff.

This week. Three gigs. Two paid.

What shall I buy with the profits? A dragon! That would be pretty cool. I could keep it in a little bag that I could carry about with me a la Paris Hilton, and then when people were nice to me I'd let them stroke it and it would purr, and when they were mean to me I'd make it breathe fire at them and singe their eyebrows! Or maybe I'll get a new coat.

I'm doing a gig on Saturday night at the Academy For People So Much More Discipline Than Me It Is Laughable. Because they're having a Fancy Ball of some kind. Which means all the girls will have much nicer dresses than me, even though mine's only five years old and therefore just a wee pup of a dress. I have learnt that when I mistakenly arrive at occasions where people are a lot posher than me, I inevitably have dress-inadequacy issues which only serve to make me drink lots and tell bad jokes. Hang on, I'm not sure that's the dress-inadequacy doing that. But anyway.

Then I'm singing at a posh party the next day. In Gloucester. Which is somewhere that isn't London. Apparently the people whose party this is are BILLIONAIRES.

You know like in Annie? When Annie says to Grace with eyes like ginger curly saucers "What? Mr Warbucks the millionaire?" and Grace smiles down at her with the smile of a woman who is sleeping with her very rich boss and tinkles "No. Daddy Warbucks the BILLIONaire!". That sort of thing.

I always felt like she didn't really need to say that, though. Annie doesn't care, really, does she? She's a fucking orphan for fuck's sake. A million, a trillion, a fiver, she doesn't know the difference. Grace is just showing off, and frankly, I don't find it very becoming.

Er. Anyway, so I'm doing this gig on Sunday for billionaires, so I am going to steal some silver or at least a bread roll or something because, come on. If you've got a billion you're not going to really miss a fork are you? Or a wholemeal bap? No.

So, including the one tomorrow that's three. You can come to tomorrow's if you want. Check out the details on my other site.

Apart from the gigs I am tired as I went out last night and had some beer and then a jug of mojito. Not all to myself, though, so I'm alright.

Do you ever get that creeping feeling that you've just spent far too many minutes of your life writing a meaningless post that seems to be suspiciously full of references to films starring curly haired children with cheeky grins and an exciting-when-you're-under-ten-and-let's-face-it-still-now helicopter sequences at the end?

No, me neither.

I think I definitely prefer The Sound Of Music. Except the bit when the old nun sings Climb Ev'ry Mountain because it's really boring, although it's actually quite exciting because she's really telling Maria to go forth and have lots of the sex with the Captain. He he. Climb Ev'ry Mountain. Good one, sister.

Mary Poppins, though, has the advantage of having Dick Van Dyke in it. And his 'cockney' accent. And the DANCING! Is a joy.

There's a part of me that knows I should just stop typing because this post is becoming increasingly like a James Blunt song (that is, boring and more than a little irritating) only with possibly less mention of the word 'beautiful'. The thing is, my fingers won't stop so I'm going to type things that come into my head.

My bra is digging in to me a bit.

Radio 1 gets really boring this time of day.

I have a slight earache.

I think I might quite want a cup of coffee.

I have developed a rather dangerous obsession with writing things in my diary that have already happened so I can tick them off. With a flourish and a small nod of organised satisfaction.

My top five celebrities that I would sleep with are (not necessarily in this order): Zach Braff, Hugh Jackman, Steve Jones (from T4) Johnny Depp and Dave Grohl. Eclectic group, I know. I might exchange Dave for George Clooney.

My foot still hurts.

Today I have a stud in my nose instead of the usual ring.

I just went to get coffee. Mmmm... Coffee is my friend.

I am scared that the guy I wrote about in my last post - the one with the text messaging madness - will be there tomorrow night and that he will be mean to me and I will cry. And I won't even have bought my dragon yet so I won't be able to singe his eyebrows. I am actually genuinely scared about this. Maybe will someone come with me and protect me?

My nails are an interesting shade of blood red. Rest assured, however, it is NOT blood on there, it is, in fact, Rimmel nail varnish.


I had sushi for lunch. It was nice but I am rubbish at using chopsticks so it took ages for me to eat. I like sticky rice.

I am going to go to bed early tonight. I will possibly also partake of some kind of bath.

This is silly. I'm boring. You say something. What's your favourite colour? If you had to wear the same hat everyday for the rest of your life what sort of hat would it be? And why?

Monday, October 17, 2005

File under: Things that have been said many, many times before and far more elegantly.

There are a few things I would just like to have a quick word about.

I really hope at this point that my parents don't read this - I suspect they do. If you're reading, either of you two, please do me a favour and stop now. You don't have to, of course. This is in the public domain so you, like everyone else, are free to read. I would, however, appreciate it if you didn't.

Go on, bugger off.


I want to talk about men, relationships and things like that. Confusing things. Things that I cannot work out and suspect I won't be able to until I am all old and grey and I suddenly understand it all with dazzling clarity one morning at about 11.15 during This Morning, but won't be able to find a pen and will get distracted by a nice cup of tea and a Hobnob and promptly forget what it was. Or something.

I don't understand people's reactions to me and I CERTAINLY don't understand my own reactions to other people. I don't understand men. At this juncture I would like to say that I am not talking about anyone specifically, there is nobody to whom I am covertly referring. Seriously.
It's just that sometimes I feel connections with people, with men, and I can't tell whether they feel it. Sometimes people feel a connection with me that I cannot feel at ALL. Last week, at this gig I did, there was this guy. He was a singer too and he had an incredible voice. We sang 'Ain't No Sunshine' together, and then talked for a while, then I went back to stay at my friend's house. By the time we got back to her house I was shattered, and I had actually spent the last half hour, whilst talking to this guy, trying to stop yawning and resist the urge to plump up the luxurious velvet cushions and fall face first into them and sleep like the Sleeping Champion 2005 on sedatives. But this guy, call him M, sent me a text (I don't remember giving my number) (I'd had ONE glass of wine so it wasn't drunken amnesia) saying how much he felt a connection, how special he thought our connection was, and things like that. Lovely things, but a touch confusing, because I think all I was doing was nodding and agreeing with him, whilst making 'let's get out of here please because I think my consiousness needs to pop out for a while' motions at my friend.
So, yeah confusing. And THEN I got a series of texts from him, the last one being bordering on the angry, about my refusal to see a potential relationship and how that made me a horrible person. Or something. To which my reaction was something along the lines of "er... wha..?".

I am fed up of all of this bollocks. Of being hurt and of hurting people. I have hurt people on the past and I HATE it. I am truly sorry for it. People have hurt me and I am not a massive fan of that either, to be honest. I have an inkling that I'm not the first one to say this, right, but why does it have to be so fucking complicated? It doesn't seem very fair, really. And it's nice to be fair about things.

You know?

(Also, FYI, my foot is now swollen and very painful but I am scared of doctors so I'm still trying to walk it off because, it turns out, I am a complete idiot.)

Thursday, October 13, 2005

If I were to have a full frontal lobotomy and then write a post and put it on the Internet it would probably go something like this:

Right. Not much time. Not much brain. Not much.. er.. anything of note.

More gigs, so great! More stress, yeah, less so. Could've gone on holiday. But, gigs! So, no. I mean, gigs are great. Singing = childhood dream, yes I know. But holidays? Holidays = oh GOD so needed and lovely and I WANT ONE NOW. No, though.

They're booking EasyJet flights, but not for me.
They're buying factor thirty suncream, but not for me.
Though beaches call me near,
I must think of my career
So they're just not for me.

That is my song. I made it up with only minimal help and suggestions from professional songwriters.

My foot did not fall off. There was a close call at one point when I looked down and I thought I only had one foot, but it turned out I was doing an elaborate ballet move at the time and my other leg was above my head and therefore only temporarily out of sight. I felt silly then, I can tell you. But look what Mike made me to make my foot better! He is clever.

I went to see a play last night with Chris (who was reviewing it) and Bec (who also wrote notes even though she wasn't reviewing it). I came up with my own review on the train home:

This play was rubbish. Some things happened, but they have now temporarily escaped my mind because I spent the majority of the time doing A Very Hard Sum in my head because the suspense involved in finding out what happened at the end of that was more appealing than finding out what happened at the end of the play (the answer was 12975483.5, in the end, which I totally did not see coming). There was even sex-on-stage, which usually sparks interest. But not so much with this one.
To sum up: You know it's a bad sign when the interval happens and you turn to the person next to you, who simultaneously turns to you, and you both say, in tones of stark disbelief "No WAY. I thought that HAD to be the end. SHIT."

And that's being generous.

I had some wine in the interval, though. And before. And after. And a little bit in the second half. So that was alright.

Mmmm... wine.

Oh God got to go so much to do and things to organise and I am NOT CUT OUT to be an organiser does anyone want to be my manager please because I'm tired and people are horrible and I think maybe I need a sandwich with maybe some sort of cheese and possibly ham in it.

And Finally: OWWWWWWWWW! Period pains. Are my nemesis. But not to worry because HURRRRAAAAY! Nurofen. Is on my side.

And that? Is all I have.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Not so much with the things to say.

Do you ever wake up in the morning and find that something was inexplicably and mysteriously painful? Like your foot?

I do. And did. This very morning, in fact. I think it might be broken. I mean, I can still walk on it, it's not swollen, and it only hurts a bit, but still. I pay my taxes, and I want an ambulance. What if it falls off? And I wouldn't know because I'm wearing boots, and the boots would keep the foot in, until I took them off when I got home and SHAZAM!* out tumbles a foot.

*I'm not entirely convinced that SHAZAM! is the right word for when your foot falls off. But I'm not sure what that would be. BEDUNK! perhaps? MAKUMP! is another possibility. Have a think.


I had a bit of a mental weekend. I'm not going to go into it because it's not my shit to go into, but suffice to say I've Given Up On Love now, for good. I've seen too much. No interest. Although if you send me some sellotape to fix my foot with I might reconsider this and marry you. Staples would be even better.

I had a meeting about my gig. We are doing jazz funk covers of songs. Including Black Hole Sun by Sound Garden and In Bloom by Nirvana.

Holy crap I do set myself challenges.

Nothing else to impart, except I would like to tell you that I had an amazing cookie yesterday from Ben's Cookies on High Street Kensington and it was chocolate melty drippy squidge-y but in a nice cookie way lovely. Then I felt a bit sick but it was generally agreed to have been worth it.

That's all.

Apart from that it seems to be very warm in London today. With sun and everything. We'll pay for that later, you mark my words.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Because when I'm this tired it's the equivalent of being drunk.

Eyes can be tricky. Some people can't see through them without the aid of bits of glass and stuff. Some people only have one, and as a result have to wear a patch, a black one, and then they are forced into pirate fast track schemes and then someone cuts one of their legs off and they develop a peculiar penchant for bandanas as a result.

I don't have this problem. My eyes are being tricksy with me only in that they won't stay open quite as well as I might quite like them to today. And if I do succeed in keeping them open I have trouble seeing round the matchsticks.

The gig last night was great. It was in this bar just off Regent Street. It was really rather plush, lots of red velvet curtains, chandeliers, candles, dark brown leather seating and a huge gilt mirror behind the small stage. It was cool. I sang. I'm too tired to describe the night properly. There was one guy whose piano skills were incredible. Then this other guy whose singing was incredible. Loads of my friends were there, and actually one of the reasons I feel so tired is the sheer socialness of it. I love that socialness, it just exhausts me, and causes me to be tired and then to start making up words hither and thither (see: socialness) and using extremely outdated phrases that nobody has used for about fifty years (see: hither and thither).

Tonight I need the sleep. The straight-on-the-train-home-after-work, crappy-TV-watching, bed-early variety Friday night. Tomorrow I'm meeting some people to discuss November's event, and then I'm going down to Brixton to meet some friends here to go to this.

I'm tired now, though. Not as tired as I was on the hour long nightbus journey across the whole of London last night, but still up there with the worst cases of sleep-deprivation torture known to man. Probably.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Now I have TWO!

It's provisional.

But you can look if you like!

What do you think?

(Thank you Euan...)

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

An Exercise in Self-Motivation

I mentioned that when something really exciting happens, or might-potentially-if-I-work-really-hard happen, I panic. I suppose that everyone has a fear of the unknown, a yearning for the familiar. Mine is not an unusual reaction, nor is it particularly severe. I usually have a bit of a panic internally, then pull myself together, give myself a bit of a shake and get on with it. Never have I panicked and given up, if I am sure that whatever it is is worth persevering with. In fact 'tenacious' was listed as one of my 'qualities' at 'school'. Oh, I mean, school. Getting carried away with the 'inverted commas'.

I feel a bit overwhelmed at the moment, though. A bit, you know, in over my head. There is this gig in November that will be an amazing opportunity for me. Big. A half hour slot in a huge venue on a night to showcase nearly signed and just signed talent in London. There will be all sorts of industry people there, as well as some people who have professed specific interest in me. Me. Fuck.
I have the gig, no problem, I have been assured. Only thing is, I don't want to do the things I've been doing for the last year. I want to to branch out from Trad. Jazz and do more funky-jazz. Which means finding the people to make up my band. Which, ok, I've found some, in a kind of tenuous way. But, I have to chase them, work out the set, work out the tech spec, work out rehearsals, work out every-fucking-thing, and I'm not sure I can organise this all on my own. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. None. I am winging it. Talk about the unknown.
So, simply put, I have this amazing opportunity, that I fought for in the first place. It is now just a case of making the most of it. Of getting the right people, playing the right music, being rehearsed enough and doing a really impressive job.

Shit. Shittity McShit.

I have NO IDEA how I'm supposed to do that and it is scaring me shitless.

I wrote the title for this post thinking that I would write in a flurry of words, and that, as usual articulating my fears on 'paper' would act as a kind of catharsis. That I would emerge refreshed, confident, and self-assured. It hasn't worked yet, so I guess I'll just keep writing until it does.

I think I need to acknowledge that I actually need help with this one. I need to ask people in the know how to go about doing it. I have done that, but I think I asked the wrong person and it just made me more confused.

Maybe I take a day off this week, meet up with someone (I do have someone in mind for this, I just have to ask him nicely) and work out all the questions I need answering, in order to find a way of answering them. Then after I have it all clear in my head I can start acting on it all. I think I just feel like I should be acting NOW, which is stupid, because I need to know what I'm doing before I start doing anything. So if I write a list of what I need to know, then it will be more clear what I need to actually start DOING. Right?

This, as the title suggests, is more one of those 'for my benefit' posts than anything else. I would appreciate any advice anyone has. Not necessarily specific to the problem in hand, but more in terms of how to think my way around something that seems totally overwhelming.

I'll just be sitting here, reading my book, waiting for suggestions.