Saturday, 8pm.

Waiting to start the gig, waiting for the musicians to arrive.

Wearing my long black dress with the slit arching up the side. Sipping Champagne whilst reclining on a sofa in Claridges hotel. Flicking through the words to the twenty or so jazz standards, I rest my glass on a small table upon which three small candles flicker. I can hear the buzz from next door from the voices of the seventy dinner guests, and I watch as the waiters snake in and out of the dining room, bearing plates of elaborate food and copious bottles of wine. As I cross my legs I can feel the dress sliding off them, and the eyes of the waiters flicking over in my direction. I feign a lack of self-consciousness as I slowly pull my dress back to cover myself, shifting slightly as I hear the waiters murmuring to each other in French. I try not to listen as I mouth the words to the songs to myself in between sips from my cool glass. I stand up and walk to the mirror, more for something to do than to check my appearance. I am conscious of my whole physical being as I walk in my four-inch heels. Pushing my shoulders back I feel tall, enjoying the sensation of feigned elegance. I walk through the hotel for no reason, feeling that I am keeping a secret, imagining that I am wrapped in mystery. I pretend that I am enigmatic, that I have excitement in me that I cannot share.

The musicians arrived, we played for a few hours and it went very well. As soon as we began I felt confident. I think I forget sometimes why I am so intent on being a singer, I worry that I have made it up, and that I cannot sing at all. It is only when I actually perform that I remember how it makes me feel, and why I want to spend my whole life doing it.

Yesterday Dan drove over to see me. It was so wonderful not to have to get on a train to see my friends, to not have to worry about getting back or staying over somewhere. We wandered around in the town, regularly moving cafés so as to avoid the armies of screaming infants, and finally ended up eating some pizza and talking about porn, which is quite normal. After that Dan came back to my house where we sat around drinking tea and looking through my old photos. He had to leave to get back in time for the Sunday night viewing of Top Gear then 24 then Lost, which is completely understandable.

Today I am going to the studio in Muswell Hill for four o'clock. Last time I was there for hours and hours and hours, so I suspect that will be the case this time. It is very hard work, because forced creativity in a confined environment is tricky and kind of exhausting, fancy coffee machine or no fancy coffee machine.

Tomorrow evening I am meeting a guitarist I met on myspace (im 16 years old!!! It will B gr8!!! :)!!!) to talk about collaboration and things. Luckily I am rather experienced at meeting People From The Internet so I'm not scared. I think he will probably think I am an idiot who knows nothing about music, but thankfully I am experienced at that, too.

Finally, I would like everyone to send Happy Pony Thoughts to my Impish Little Sister Sophie, because she is going through a bit of a tough time. I know that Paris is quite a long way to send Happy Pony Thoughts, but do try anyway. She is very special and probably the nicest person you could ever hope to meet. Way less of a narcissistic drama queen than I am, generous and funny with very good hair to boot. Send them, quick sharp, please. Thank you.