An Exercise in Exercise-Avoidance

On the radio weather forecast this morning the lady had an excitable tone. "...reaching the mid-teens in some parts of the country!", she sang, delighted at the prospect.

For me, this is not enough. It is bad enough to be lurking around dismally in a Northern city, let alone with no prospect of the sort of excellent weather that turns public transport into sticky hell and pavements into rivers of burning tar. Frankly, I am disappointed. I am not helping myself, though, by clicking woefully through other people's Facebook albums of foreign holidays, weeping at yet another snap of someone I haven't seen since 1999's toes shimmering away against a backdrop of a delirious, tropical sea.

I have a mantra of "the Edinburgh Festival is worth it" that I am testing out, and it is sort of working, or at least it works until another set of photos winks up on my Facebook feed, promising glimpses of some ex-colleague's Amazing Trip To Aruba.

As much as I totally am complaining, I am also not complaining. I mean, clearly I am, definitely, complaining, but I am also completely aware that these are the choices I have made and so I must live with them and feel grateful for weather that shuffles decrepitly into the mid-teens like an ancient, three-legged terrier.

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Eggs Collective did a brilliantly mental stint at Islington Mill, taking the concepts of taste and refinement and chewing on them thoughtfully before throwing them up dramatically. It was fun! We wore gold things, put fake eyelashes on, made a tardis, screamed abuse from atop the bar and generally had lashings of fun. There was a moment (about four hours), after we had done a technical rehearsal and before we were meant to go on, where we looked at each other with pale, horrified expressions and seriously considered whether, actually, we had really gone too far this time. "But is it funny?" is always the question. In performance, controversy on its own is boring, assuming you can shock people with your scary words is dull, there must be more to it. In that space of time we just couldn't really work it out. Was it funny? Was there a reason? The only conclusion to draw is, well, we're doing it now. There's no point worrying. Anyway, as it turns out, it went down well and the bits we were worrying most about got the biggest laughs. Afterwards we drank Red Stripe out of the the can (but through a straw) and danced the dance of beer, relief and adrenaline.

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I did a storytelling night at Tales of Whatever, where I learned the following:

1. I can do, but not necessarily maintain, a Welsh accent.
2. I am the only one who passes the time reading American Mommy Blogs.
3. I cannot be on stage without bursting into dramatic song*.
4. Real-life stories do not have punch lines.

*I definitely already knew this.


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Geddes Loom did a gig at the Royal Exchange! Mostly to promote Ben's show, next week. But, wow, it was a cool gig. I mean, not 'cool' in the sense of loads of wasted people in a field chewing their faces off to the beat and face-diving in mud. More kind of, lots of people ready and waiting for us to begin, everyone listening to every word, incredible acoustics, people coming up and being lovely afterwards. I signed an autograph. Hang on, let me try that one again. I SIGNED AN AUTOGRAPH. It is totally irrelevant that the guy didn't seem to know who I was ("um, I was the one who was just singing?") and that he asked me a few times if I had an album in the shops, kind of suspiciously like I might have been an imposter. I still signed an autograph ("All the best, Léonie x) and got in a bit of a tangle about how many kisses you are meant to put. I have so much to learn. Maybe I will text Mariah and ask for advice on how to deal with being an internationally-acclaimed vocal artist.

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I'm writing this morning. My show. My SHOW which is a real thing don't try and tell me it isn't. However, I also have to go for a run. Yes, it is sunny outside and yes, I am working from home and have the freedom to go and leap about in parks for an hour, and yes, the temperature is in the MID-TEENS and it might never be this hot again, but no, I do not feel like it. Life is so hard.

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I am going to stop rambling now, and go for a run like a massive warrior (metaphorically, of course. I am not going to don a suit of armour and beard and clank around Hulme in a fit of red-faced blood-lust.)

I hope your Monday reaches the mid-teens.