This does not merit a title. No, sir.

The main thing I would like to talk about is the one thing that I am so bored of talking about and thinking about that every time I start to talk/think about it I want to take up a hobby, knitting sausage dogs out of spaghetti, maybe, or walking grapes*.

*Sometimes I worry about how my brain works. Or, as the case may be, doesn't.

Yes. Of course. The Gig. What else could it be?

(world weary sigh, ill-befitting one so young and with such nice boots)

(I said boots)

(sicko)

It's a case of there being nothing else to do to prepare other than eat as little as possible for the next 48 hours so I feel all slim and sexy. Although I am much more of the 'keep your strength up' school of thought, mainly because it means I can eat biscuits. High strength with biscuits as opposed to slim and sexy with no biscuits. Sensible and wholesome, I am.

I am worried because of the following things:

- Look. LOOK! It's too scary for me. All I really want is a quiet corner and a book.
- What if I forget the words
- What if I get laughed at because I'm doing mainly covers
- What if I fall over on stage
- What if my friends have a rubbish time and blame me
- What if the rest of the band have a rubbish time and hate it and never want to play with me again
- What if word goes out how shit I am and the music industry hates me for ever
- What if my hair goes funny
- What if I accidentally try to make a joke instead of singing and it doesn't go down well at all

And loads of other bits and pieces and knits and fleeces.

It's so boring so I will tell you other things.

I stole a Diet Coke from Pret. I was sitting there and I had a sandwich and was reading my book and there was a can of Diet Coke that had been sitting there for an hour! Ish. People came and went and nobody took it and I thought HA! Fuck you, corporations! And nicked it.
I don't even like Diet Coke, but I'm drinking it in little sips, as I may not like the taste of watered down fake sugar, but I sure as hell DO like the taste of victory.

I have RED KNEE HIGH boots on today. They are flat, though, which negates the hookerishness of them. Probably.

It is 16.37. And DARK. Like night. Like my soul. Or something. Whatever.

I am drinking the (illegal) Diet Coke in bigger sips now. I definitely don't like it. But it reminds me of my best friend Jenny, who loves it and would swim in a big, big cup of it if she could, and if she could have a shower afterwards. It also makes me feel a bit rebellious and like a convict on the run from the law. Which I am not because I rarely steal stuff or kill people, and am always polite and smile at policemen, which, if you are wearing knee high red leather boots, sometimes looks a bit suspect.

I am staring at a massive signed framed photo of Kylie. I do this everyday. Then I eat biscuits. Oh, just so you know, the photo is in front of my desk, on the wall, it is not just a strange ritual.

The Diet Coke, and also this post, is done. I like neither, but have nevertheless finished both.