It Has Been Decided...

I am going to do the Reality TV Audition Thing on Saturday. I honestly just can't think of a reason not to. Well, yes, actually, I probably could think of a reason not to, but I'm going to go anyway.

Partially because I worry that someday I'll run out of funny stories to tell and then nobody will want to go out with me anymore.

No, they will. I have really big breasts and I'm really rich.

One of those statements is not so much accurate.

Tangents about huge knockers aside, I have decided to wake up at reallyfuckingearly o'clock on Saturday and go and queue up and sing really high notes very earnestly at people until they tell me to go away, at which point I will get drunk.

Saturday night I am going to a party at Dan, Sam, Mike and Oli's house. It is their housewarming party, and they are the sorts of chaps who know a lot of people (perhaps because they don't go round insisting upon regaling them with stories of ill-advised auditions for reality TV shows) and as a result of this the party will be full to the brim and much, much fun.

The theme is 'The London Underground', which is pertinent because the house is in London. You know? They are that sort of clever, these boys.

My initial idea was to go with a piece of sheer fabric on my head and go as Maida Vale. Yeah, I know. Fucking brilliant.

However, although, yes, it is a genius idea (my God, AND I have huge breasts/am really rich? What a catch!), I have decided that it might be a little boring. Also I really like dressing up.

So. I am wearing my french maid's outfit and the piece of fabric on my head. Which I suspect I might remove at some point (the fabric, I might remove the fabric), but not before I can do the whole (points at maid's outfit) "maid..." (points at piece of fabric on head) "a veil! Maida Vale! See?" thing numerous times. Then I'll drink some wine. My housemate Rebecca is going to procure herself a trumpet-like instrument of some sort and go as, yes, you guessed it, Tooting Bec. Awesome. She also has really big boobs. My God.

Then on Sunday I have a songwriting workshop. I have no idea what this'll be like, whether it will involve suggesting good and not so good rhymes for the word 'love' (examples for good rhymes: shove; glove; dove, examples for bad rhymes: muff; Swindon; apples)and a small section on "How Not To Be James Blunt" (section one: Why We Don't Hold Our Noses When Singing).

Tonight is the jazz improvisation workshop. I have been mainly imagining lots of people standing around in a room just sort of scooby doo-wah-ing at each other, but there will probably be some sort of structure to the thing. It's being taken by a jazz singer called Anita Wardell, who looks to be pretty cool and experienced. I'm looking forward to it a lot.

Today I have a pain in my left diodes, which is my Douglas Adams-geek way of saying that I have the Pains Of The Curse Of Woman. Ay me. It's not so bad, though. Nothing that some Nurofen won't soothe. I wish I had some Nurofen, though.

I spoke to my little Impish Sister today, who has dyed her hair platinum blonde and cut it to ear-length. She's a cool dude. Just hanging out in Paris with ear-length platinum blonde hair eating cucumber and houmous in her boyfriend's apartment. Cool. She says bonjour.

This is looking to be one of those "my God, she really does write better when she's depressed" sorts of posts, so I will halt in my ramblings and go and practice my 'scooby-doo-wah's and my 'do-re-mi's.

(Also: It's really sunny in London here today. I am going to go outside in a while and put in a good hour of hard graft on the freckles. Excellent.)