I Am The Following:

-In Eastbourne.

-The proud owner of two post-break up songs, one of which is, rather inexplicably, about sandwiches and therefore might not be used on the album. Also because it is only ten words long.

-Absolutely fine.

-Overwhelmed by all the people I met on Saturday. I did my usual amount of talkingtoomuchbecauseI'mnervousandifIjustkeepgoingImight-
eventuallysaysomethingcleverorpertinenteventhoughhistoryhastaughtmethat-Iprobablywon't, and met some amazing people.

When I see a large group of people I always find myself wondering how that group know each other. They're family, maybe, or perhaps they're having a University reunion. A Lloyd-Webber appreciation society, perhaps (you can tell because of the higher-than-average number of hearing aids and gormless expressions).

On Saturday I wondered whether anyone else in the pub had at any point wondered to themselves how we were all connected. If they had overheard conversations they might have guessed by the fact that everyone had two names ("Léonie. From Sometimes Funny Is All I Have") (How I wished I had named my blog something different. "Never Funny, Honest, You Won't Have Read It" somehow felt much more appropriate) or maybe if they had caught my only-two-glasses-of-wine confession to someone that I had read her whole blog from top to bottom like a massive loser, they might have figured out that we weren't just people who at one time or other had worked in the same branch of Dixons.

I had brilliant time. I was very relieved to leave before I got even more drunk than I was, because I was teetering dangerously close to the edge of telling all my secrets, and in fact did tell one to one person, who I will be paying a fiver a year to as long as she keeps it all to herself.

I really am fine, as well. Thank you for shoe/compliment/hug-related comments, I appreciate it.

For the next few days I will be in the studio recording more songs. Not, I suspect the one about sandwiches, although there is something distinctly catchy about it.

(Wanders off singing, idly.)

("O, love you are fickle,
Like ham, cheese and pickle...")