In which I have a horrible left elbow, it turns out.

After writing about my ravishing left-elbow yesterday, I decided to inspect it in order to see whether it was as gorgeous as I made it out to be. It turns out that there is a scar on that elbow. It is not ravishing. It is scarred.

I remember, now. I was about fifteen and on holiday with my family in Corsica. We were with another family who had children about mine and my sisters' age, and one night all of us went to a local discothèque where they were holding a foam party. Which just sounded like the most fun ever.

Dancing away in the foam, I was, blithely getting drunk on vodka procured from the bar by means of a combination of big boobs for my age and a lazy bartender. Some Corsican chap dances up to me. I carry on dancing, moving slightly towards the big clouds of foam and away from the Corsican. He moves towards me, and before I can do anything about it he picks me up, strides into the middle of the foam cloud and drops me. Onto the floor.

Now, I assume that, somewhere in his pea-sized fucking non-brain he imagined that perhaps the foam was bouncy, and that in some way it would catch me and prevent me from landing solidly onto the hard, unforgiving floor and whacking my elbow so hard that there would still be a highly visible scar nine years later.

If he had imagined this, and I think you may have guessed the next part, he would have been very, very wrong. Idiot.

Anyway, to sum up, my left elbow isn't that great after all.

My right one, though? Sexy as hell.

Tuesday is treating me somewhat better than Monday did. I don't know what was wrong with me yesterday, I really don't. I just felt all rubbish and yucky. People all over the world are truly suffering, in misery and torment from having no food or shelter, and I sit and whinge to the Internet about feeling "all rubbish and yucky". Good.

Next Tuesday is the day of recording, it has been decided. I am so very looking forward to doing it and having my tracks recorded. I hope nothing gets in the way between now and then.

This weekend they are holding the Talent Search (Not Pop Idol, Damn It) for the Sound of Music thing. I cannot for the life of me decide whether to go. The pros are: I might get through, and get to be Maria in The Sound of Music in the West End! The cons are: Standing in a queue for a million hours surrounded by strangers; I might get through, and then I'd have to be Maria in The Sound of Music in the West End; I would have to get up really early on a Saturday.

Tricky. I can't decide whether to go. Thing is, I can't go along and not be competitive about it, it isn't in my nature. If I do it I will be Miss I'll Wipe The Floor With You Bitch 2006 for the day, even though I am quite apathetic about it really, and then when I fail I would feel all cross.

I'll decide on Friday. It'll be fun, probably, and I'll meet fun people in the queue, perhaps. Also I can't think of a very good reason not to. Can you? Don't cite 'dignity' at me, because we all know I have none of that.


Before I go, here is an insight into The Thrilling Life We Lead In Our Flat.

Last night we watched Four Weddings and a Funeral (for the [counts on fingers] six billionth time) then we were bored. We have no TV, we'd run out of DVDs and had no money to go and get resonated. We did what any group of well-educated, articulate twenty-somethings would do faced with that situation. We played Mallet's Mallet*.

Unfortunately, despite being all well-educated and clever and possibly brilliant in our chosen fields, we were rubbish at this game and all three of us now have serious whacked-over-the-head-with-a-kitchen-roll-related injuries.

A MESSAGE TO SOPHIE (IMPISH) (PARIS-LIVING):

In response to your comment on the last post. I didn't know you picked up a wasp with my tweezers. I forgive you, but you mustn't do it again. EVER. You buggering off to Paris is worse, because I miss you. I forgive you for that as well, though, because you are sweet and sometimes lend me clothes.

*This, for those who never watched kids' TV in the UK in the eighties, is a word association game. There was a man called Timmy Mallet who dressed in fluorescent stuff, and he presented this show in a studio which was fluorescent in horrible but exciting ways. Two kids would sit opposite each other and he would start one of them off with a word ("Sally! Veruca!") and that kid would have to come up with an associated word ("Foot!") until one of the kids stumbled over a word or hesitated, or gave a completely unrelated word ("um... Paleontology?") at which point they would get whacked on the head with a massive foam mallet. This was... very popular.