Singing, Sleeping, Eating and Drinking.

This is how my days are comprised at the moment. I get up at some point, go into the studio at some other point, come out, go back in, come out again and then, after sufficient time has passed to eat something or drink some wine or wonder whether anyone has texted me, I go back in again.

There is no schedule, there are no fixed hours.

Today I wrote a song in ten minutes then spent three hours thinking it was shit only to be frogmarched back in by my producer, re-record it and have to concede that it sounds alright now.

It is fair to say that my life is all turned upside down.

Also today I went to some charity shops in Eastbourne and purchased a (fake) fur stole, some shoes and a glitzy handbag, with a view to my costume for the weekend. I think the editor of the New York Times would have a glitzy handbag and a fur stole. I think someone named Busty LeRoux would have a cleavage-based outfit and some red lipstick, but luckily I am a brazen tart and have many varieties of both of those things. She would also wear shoes, and I have only the twelve million pairs to choose from so I was forced into buying some more, albeit for five quid from Help The Aged.

On Wednesday I am being thrust back into the company of people my own age and spending a Day Of Fun with two of my favourite people, Dan and Luke. I am not sure what we'll do, but I hope it will merit the use of capital letters. Day Of Fun. Day Of People Who Are Fun (And Me). Day Of Weekday Merriment. For Merriment Please Read Drunkeness. Brilliant.

I am going to go back now and re-listen to the new song and no doubt conclude it is rubbish, then go to bed in a haze of uncertainty, but looking forward to coming back to London.