Blimey I'm tired. Yes, yes. I know it's Saturday morning, and the sun is out, and the birds are tweeting cheerfully. I should be bursting forth into the world with a spring in my step and a song on my lips. But really. No. Just no.
I wish I had a dazzling array of adventures to relate, explanations for being so exhausted, but I've got nothing. NOTHING. It's all down to work, boringly. And train fuckwittery, so nothing new there.
As a result of me being asked to help out with a couple of short term projects, I had to change my working pattern, and go up to London for 3 days in a row. I hate doing that. My working week is usually 2 days in London, a day working at home, another day in London, then the final day at home. I can cope with that reasonably well, although by the end of the second day in London I am washed out. Having to get up at 5.45, do my usual 3 hour commute to the office, do some pretty intensive stuff all day long, then travel 3 hours home, only to get up and do it again for 3 days in a row was a stretch.
Things weren't helped by the massive - yes I mean MASSIVE - fuck up on the trains on Wednesday night. I got to Waterloo in time to hop onto the 1750 train, which usually gets me home by 8pm, all being well.
All was not well.
On arrival at the bustling concourse* I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of hundreds, possibly thousands, hell, maybe a million people, all standing transfixed like zombies, staring up at the array of screens. Usually the screens are populated with information about which train is going where and when, all that stuff. Wednesday night, however, was different. Only three of the boards were populated, and they showed local trains. The other dozen or so were ominously blank.
The little teeny TV screen in the middle of the board had a scrolling message, running in an endless, heartbreaking loop.
"Anyone who wishes to travel to the West of England, please take the first train to Basingstoke and change there."
Well arse biscuits.
I ran** onto the platform where the Basingstoke train was parked, and then walked along the entire length of the platform, agog at the number of people who had crammed themselves into the train. It looked like those pictures of the Tokyo Underground, where guards with peaked caps and big hands force everyone in so the doors will close. I decided not to try and wedge myself in, rather to wait for the next train and hopefully find a bit more space.
There was another train waiting on a different platform, far less crowded, so I hopped aboard and found a place to stand. All the seats were full, but there was a fair bit of standing room. Plus the train had air conditioning which was working intermittently, so it wasn't all bad.
Well, that trip to Basingstoke seemed to take weeks. We trundled along at a casual pace, stopping frequently, I assume at signals, although it may have been the driver simply wishing to admire the view. Every now and again the guard's voice crackled through the intercom, apologising profusely for the disruption to everyone's journeys.
At one point he explained that the reason for all the chaos was "a serious fatality at Surbiton." I am sorry to say, readers, that this provoked an unseemly outbreak of laughter in the carriage as everyone tried to understand how a serious fatality differed from a normal fatality.
At length, we made it to Basingstoke, and the train terminated. Everyone got off, and milled about on the platform, peering anxiously up at the information screens. These were not informative.
An announcement told us to go to Platform Two, where a train to Exeter was waiting. Hurrah! The mob surged across the platform, down the stairs, along the tunnel, UP the stairs and onto Platform Two. There was indeed a train, but it was going back to London. A few people got on, then hastily off again.
The electronic board told us that the train was going to Exeter, but we didn't believe it. Sure enough, after a few minutes it headed off, towards London.
A chap next to me sighed, and said sadly "When I was a child, my grandad used to tell me if I was naughty I'd be sent to Basingstoke. And here I am."
We agreed that he must have been very naughty that day.
It got quite pally, all of us standing there on the platform in the sun, watching wasps buzzing about in the roof. Announcements kept scrolling along the electronic board, bearing no relation to either the time, or the number of trains coming and going. After another lengthy delay, someone told us over the loudspeaker that the Exeter train was on Platform FOUR, and would be leaving shortly.
Once more the mob surged down the stairs, along the tunnel and back up the stairs. Everyone, as if choreographed, clambered aboard the train and wedged themselves in.
I got home by about 9.15, having left the office just after 5, in time to have supper, watch half a TV programme, and then crash out so I could get up at 5.45 and do it all again the next day.
Did I mention that I am leaving my job next month?
Other news: Following the appalling tie-dye debacle, I bought some new bedlinen on the Internet. It's lovely, and needs no half-arsed titivation from me.
Yesterday I had my first ever singing lesson. Apparently I have a two and a half octave range, but I have no idea if this is average, more than average, less than average, or what. Anyway, the teacher seemed to think I sounded ok, and I am going back next week for another lesson. I want to learn how to breathe properly, so that if and when I ever get round to performing in public I can get through a few songs without singing myself hoarse or running out of puff.
*I'm trying my hand at travel guide writing. I'll be unemployed soon, I need to get some money somehow.
**Artistic license
Showing posts with label singing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label singing. Show all posts
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Monday, 29 November 2010
In the spotlight
I was reminded the other day of an episode in my life which I think deserves a much, much wider audience than it has had to date. Much.
Dan wrote a post about things how he wished would happen in his life, and one of them involved becoming a karaoke god.
Readers, I have been that karaoke god. Goddess. Whatever. It happened like this:
(Cue wibbly wobbly lines and flashback music)
Picture the scene...
It was the early 1990s, and I was on a training course in glorious Bournemouth. Two weeks in a dodgy run-down seafront hotel, along with about 25 other members of the Civil Service, all there to improve our Interpersonal Skills, like it or not.
Some people, it transpired, had been compelled to attend by their management, as they were borderline psychopaths. The majority of us, however, were there to learn how to deal with Difficult People and Awkward Situations, and to Improve Our Promotion Prospects By Not Punching People Even When They Really Deserve It.
Day 1 passed uneventfully, with lots of embarrassing "ice-breaking" exercises, and stilted conversation between the course delegates. I knew one of the lecturers from a previous training course, and he had already talked to the group about me. I had a reputation, it seemed. A good reputation, I mean. I was being described as a team player, someone who was good fun, and would chip in to keep discussions moving along.
Yes, I was famous for being someone who has an opinion on everything and an inappropriate sense of humour.
Can't imagine why.
Day 2 began, and was a bit slow. The group discussions were lagging, and some of the breakout sessions were painfully silent. I had stopped chipping in quite so much, as even the dulcet sound of my own voice was grating in the flat dead pall cast by some of the other group members. Come lunchtime, the lecturers collared me for a chat.
They were worried that the course was stalling, and it needed to be livened up. What did I suggest? I suggested going out and getting a few drinks down us one night. They agreed that an off-site social event was a good idea, and then one of them said, "There's that karaoke bar down the road. What about that?"
Hell yes.
So, come the afternoon tea break, the lecturers announced that those who wanted to were invited out that night for a few drinks and possibly some karaoke. Remember, this was the early 90s...karaoke was still comparatively new. At least in Bournemouth, anyway. There was a ripple of excitement, and the mood lifted. We were going out. A night on the town.
After dinner those of us who were up for the Big Night Out assembled in the hotel foyer, and we wandered down the road to the karaoke bar.
It was dead. There were a lot of staff working there, but other than our group - maybe 18 people - the place was almost empty. A group decision was made to stay and see what happened later; we got the drinks in, and sat round a big table. Both the lecturers had come along with the majority of the course delegates, so it was nice to have a bit of a chat outside of the hotel.
After a little while, one of the bar staff came over and handed us a big book, a ring binder really, with many laminated pages. It was the Song List for the karaoke, which she told us was due to start "about 9.30-ish." By now, we'd all had at least one drink, and several of us were eagerly scanning the list of titles for songs we knew.
I was determined to get up and sing something.
I was equally determined not to do it on my own.
Eventually, after a prolonged and shouty discussion about how crap everyones musical taste was, I announced that I was going to put my name down for a shot onstage, but that someone had to come with me. The good-natured bellowing stopped, and there was a bit of an awkward pause.
"Aw, come on, guys," I said. "Somebody else come up with me?"
They all looked fixedly at their drinks, the temperature dropped perceptibly. Tumbleweed drifted across the table. Eventually, I caught someone's eye.
"Dave, you'll come up with me, won't you?" I asked. He nodded, too shy to say no.
"Great! Let's pick a song and I'll go and put our names down!"
I was quite excited. We flicked through the book again, and settled on the Chrissy Hynde/UB40 version of "I got you, babe." A classic duet. I scampered over to the karaoke DJ, handed in the slip of paper with our names and the song title, and rejoined the group, all miraculously chatty and cheerful again.
I had another drink. Dave had another drink. Dave got progressively more and more anxious, his hands shaking as he held his drink. I sidled up and said "You don't have to come and sing if you don't want to - I'll go on my own." He shook his head and insisted that he was coming too. He'd agreed to sing "I got you, babe" onstage with me, and that was all there was to be said.
After what felt like a very long time, our names were called by the karaoke DJ. Dave and I headed through the crowd - an influx of people had taken place and the bar was suddenly packed - to the stage. The rest of our group followed, till everyone was stood right up in front of the stage, waiting expectantly. The DJ handed Dave and I a microphone each, grinned and started the music. I was very nervous, and I could see Dave standing like a rabbit in the headlights to my left, staring fixedly into the distance.
The intro played, and I launched into the first line of the song. It was ok, I knew I was in tune at least.
Dave's turn came. Dave missed his cue. Dave didn't sing at all. Dave didn't open his mouth. Dave stood there motionless, staring at the sea of faces, the microphone held tight in both hands in front of his face.
Oh fuck.
I looked at the crowd, at the group of people from our training course, at all the many others who were dancing and smiling, and I just thought "Hell's bells, here we go..."
I sang the entire verse on my own. Both parts. After the first chorus Dave started to jig up and down a bit, bobbing along in time to the music. Encouraged, I took his hand and danced with him as I sang the next verse. He looked at me, and then, miracle, started to join in with the next chorus. He was behind the beat, and almost inaudible, but he was doing it.
By the end of the song he was giving it all he had, singing and jigging up and down on the spot, a huge HUGE grin on his face. We finished to rapturous applause, bowing and waving to the audience, showboating. We were swept offstage by our coursemates, and were making our way back to the table in triumph. A large man in a smart suit barred our path.
"Scuse me," he said. We all stopped in our tracks. Well, you do when a big scary bloke is stood in front of you.
He looked at Dave and I, both grinning and a bit sweaty, and then handed us a bottle of champagne.
"Compliments of the management," he said. "You were bloody brilliant."
On the way back to the hotel one of the lecturers took me to one side.
"We were a bit worried when you got Dave to get up and sing," he told me.
"Why?" I asked. "He was a bit nervous, but he was fine when he got going."
"Yes. But he's actually on this course as part of his therapy - he had a nervous breakdown recently and is trying to get his confidence levels back up."
Fuck.
I'd dragged that poor man onstage in front of about a hundred people and made him sing "I got you, babe."
The next day we opened our prize at coffee time and had a glass or two.
"More champagne, Dave?"
"Don't mind if I do, Lucy. Any more biscuits to dunk?"
By the end of the course we were all much more relaxed with each other, even the psychopaths. Dave gave me a huge emotional hug and told me I'd changed his life. He did that himself, but it was a lovely thing to say.
Everyone exchanged phone numbers, work numbers, anyway, and promised to keep in touch. Some of us did. Dave told me he was going to buy some karaoke tapes for his car to help him get into a positive frame of mind when he drove to work in the mornings.
For about 5 years after that, every now and again my office phone would ring. I'd answer it to hear Dave's excited voice "Lucy! They're playing our song!" Sure enough, "I got you, babe" by Chrissy Hynde and UB40 would be on the radio in the background.
And to this day, every time I hear it, I think of that night in Bournemouth, and Dave, and I smile.
Dan wrote a post about things how he wished would happen in his life, and one of them involved becoming a karaoke god.
Readers, I have been that karaoke god. Goddess. Whatever. It happened like this:
(Cue wibbly wobbly lines and flashback music)
Picture the scene...
It was the early 1990s, and I was on a training course in glorious Bournemouth. Two weeks in a dodgy run-down seafront hotel, along with about 25 other members of the Civil Service, all there to improve our Interpersonal Skills, like it or not.
Some people, it transpired, had been compelled to attend by their management, as they were borderline psychopaths. The majority of us, however, were there to learn how to deal with Difficult People and Awkward Situations, and to Improve Our Promotion Prospects By Not Punching People Even When They Really Deserve It.
Day 1 passed uneventfully, with lots of embarrassing "ice-breaking" exercises, and stilted conversation between the course delegates. I knew one of the lecturers from a previous training course, and he had already talked to the group about me. I had a reputation, it seemed. A good reputation, I mean. I was being described as a team player, someone who was good fun, and would chip in to keep discussions moving along.
Yes, I was famous for being someone who has an opinion on everything and an inappropriate sense of humour.
Can't imagine why.
Day 2 began, and was a bit slow. The group discussions were lagging, and some of the breakout sessions were painfully silent. I had stopped chipping in quite so much, as even the dulcet sound of my own voice was grating in the flat dead pall cast by some of the other group members. Come lunchtime, the lecturers collared me for a chat.
They were worried that the course was stalling, and it needed to be livened up. What did I suggest? I suggested going out and getting a few drinks down us one night. They agreed that an off-site social event was a good idea, and then one of them said, "There's that karaoke bar down the road. What about that?"
Hell yes.
So, come the afternoon tea break, the lecturers announced that those who wanted to were invited out that night for a few drinks and possibly some karaoke. Remember, this was the early 90s...karaoke was still comparatively new. At least in Bournemouth, anyway. There was a ripple of excitement, and the mood lifted. We were going out. A night on the town.
After dinner those of us who were up for the Big Night Out assembled in the hotel foyer, and we wandered down the road to the karaoke bar.
It was dead. There were a lot of staff working there, but other than our group - maybe 18 people - the place was almost empty. A group decision was made to stay and see what happened later; we got the drinks in, and sat round a big table. Both the lecturers had come along with the majority of the course delegates, so it was nice to have a bit of a chat outside of the hotel.
After a little while, one of the bar staff came over and handed us a big book, a ring binder really, with many laminated pages. It was the Song List for the karaoke, which she told us was due to start "about 9.30-ish." By now, we'd all had at least one drink, and several of us were eagerly scanning the list of titles for songs we knew.
I was determined to get up and sing something.
I was equally determined not to do it on my own.
Eventually, after a prolonged and shouty discussion about how crap everyones musical taste was, I announced that I was going to put my name down for a shot onstage, but that someone had to come with me. The good-natured bellowing stopped, and there was a bit of an awkward pause.
"Aw, come on, guys," I said. "Somebody else come up with me?"
They all looked fixedly at their drinks, the temperature dropped perceptibly. Tumbleweed drifted across the table. Eventually, I caught someone's eye.
"Dave, you'll come up with me, won't you?" I asked. He nodded, too shy to say no.
"Great! Let's pick a song and I'll go and put our names down!"
I was quite excited. We flicked through the book again, and settled on the Chrissy Hynde/UB40 version of "I got you, babe." A classic duet. I scampered over to the karaoke DJ, handed in the slip of paper with our names and the song title, and rejoined the group, all miraculously chatty and cheerful again.
I had another drink. Dave had another drink. Dave got progressively more and more anxious, his hands shaking as he held his drink. I sidled up and said "You don't have to come and sing if you don't want to - I'll go on my own." He shook his head and insisted that he was coming too. He'd agreed to sing "I got you, babe" onstage with me, and that was all there was to be said.
After what felt like a very long time, our names were called by the karaoke DJ. Dave and I headed through the crowd - an influx of people had taken place and the bar was suddenly packed - to the stage. The rest of our group followed, till everyone was stood right up in front of the stage, waiting expectantly. The DJ handed Dave and I a microphone each, grinned and started the music. I was very nervous, and I could see Dave standing like a rabbit in the headlights to my left, staring fixedly into the distance.
The intro played, and I launched into the first line of the song. It was ok, I knew I was in tune at least.
Dave's turn came. Dave missed his cue. Dave didn't sing at all. Dave didn't open his mouth. Dave stood there motionless, staring at the sea of faces, the microphone held tight in both hands in front of his face.
Oh fuck.
I looked at the crowd, at the group of people from our training course, at all the many others who were dancing and smiling, and I just thought "Hell's bells, here we go..."
I sang the entire verse on my own. Both parts. After the first chorus Dave started to jig up and down a bit, bobbing along in time to the music. Encouraged, I took his hand and danced with him as I sang the next verse. He looked at me, and then, miracle, started to join in with the next chorus. He was behind the beat, and almost inaudible, but he was doing it.
By the end of the song he was giving it all he had, singing and jigging up and down on the spot, a huge HUGE grin on his face. We finished to rapturous applause, bowing and waving to the audience, showboating. We were swept offstage by our coursemates, and were making our way back to the table in triumph. A large man in a smart suit barred our path.
"Scuse me," he said. We all stopped in our tracks. Well, you do when a big scary bloke is stood in front of you.
He looked at Dave and I, both grinning and a bit sweaty, and then handed us a bottle of champagne.
"Compliments of the management," he said. "You were bloody brilliant."
On the way back to the hotel one of the lecturers took me to one side.
"We were a bit worried when you got Dave to get up and sing," he told me.
"Why?" I asked. "He was a bit nervous, but he was fine when he got going."
"Yes. But he's actually on this course as part of his therapy - he had a nervous breakdown recently and is trying to get his confidence levels back up."
Fuck.
I'd dragged that poor man onstage in front of about a hundred people and made him sing "I got you, babe."
The next day we opened our prize at coffee time and had a glass or two.
"More champagne, Dave?"
"Don't mind if I do, Lucy. Any more biscuits to dunk?"
By the end of the course we were all much more relaxed with each other, even the psychopaths. Dave gave me a huge emotional hug and told me I'd changed his life. He did that himself, but it was a lovely thing to say.
Everyone exchanged phone numbers, work numbers, anyway, and promised to keep in touch. Some of us did. Dave told me he was going to buy some karaoke tapes for his car to help him get into a positive frame of mind when he drove to work in the mornings.
For about 5 years after that, every now and again my office phone would ring. I'd answer it to hear Dave's excited voice "Lucy! They're playing our song!" Sure enough, "I got you, babe" by Chrissy Hynde and UB40 would be on the radio in the background.
And to this day, every time I hear it, I think of that night in Bournemouth, and Dave, and I smile.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Creased
In the car park at the big Tesco in Shaftesbury we saw a builder's van with the name "Crumpler and Son" on it.
What other trade would I want a Mr Crumpler to turn up for, I wonder?
Origami?
Ironing and laundry services?
Plate glass installation?
Panel beating?
Gift wrapping?
Tarmac laying?
So many possibilities. If I ever change my name, I think I will become Lucy Crumpler.
Also, why has nobody created a childrens' television series/book/top trumps game called "Combat Wombat"? I might have a crack at it myself.
There's no plot development or indeed character ideas beyond the name, but if "18 Wheels of Justice" can get made, hell, this must have a future. I bet they started with the title and worked back from there. Mr WithaY refers to it as "The Truck of Shame" which is not a bad title either.
Other news: Finally, finally received the long-awaited letter from the law. It's only taken them 4 months to convey it 20 miles. Still, it draws a line under some of the SSFH* loose ends.
That's a bizarrely mixed metaphor. Sorry.
Also: Twitter. Hmm, not sure I have got the hang of it yet. It seems terribly lonely and one-sided. I like the blog thing, where you write stuff, other people read it, and then comment to tell you (and everyone else) what they think. It feels like a cheerful and friendly way to communicate. Plus I get to do most of the talking. Perfect. Twitter is like dropping meringues into a black hole** and there is no sense that anything you say is registering anywhere else. Maybe I'll get used to it.
Tried playing my guitar this evening, and still can't sing, which is a bugger. If that chest infection has lost me my voice I will be very upset indeed. And my guitar playing wasn't too good either.
*Shit Storm From Hades
**The re-runs of the origianl Star Trek series are brilliant, aren't they? Those tortured metaphors. Those wigs. Kirk's shameless camera-hogging. The boots. Just great.
What other trade would I want a Mr Crumpler to turn up for, I wonder?
Origami?
Ironing and laundry services?
Plate glass installation?
Panel beating?
Gift wrapping?
Tarmac laying?
So many possibilities. If I ever change my name, I think I will become Lucy Crumpler.
Also, why has nobody created a childrens' television series/book/top trumps game called "Combat Wombat"? I might have a crack at it myself.
There's no plot development or indeed character ideas beyond the name, but if "18 Wheels of Justice" can get made, hell, this must have a future. I bet they started with the title and worked back from there. Mr WithaY refers to it as "The Truck of Shame" which is not a bad title either.
Other news: Finally, finally received the long-awaited letter from the law. It's only taken them 4 months to convey it 20 miles. Still, it draws a line under some of the SSFH* loose ends.
That's a bizarrely mixed metaphor. Sorry.
Also: Twitter. Hmm, not sure I have got the hang of it yet. It seems terribly lonely and one-sided. I like the blog thing, where you write stuff, other people read it, and then comment to tell you (and everyone else) what they think. It feels like a cheerful and friendly way to communicate. Plus I get to do most of the talking. Perfect. Twitter is like dropping meringues into a black hole** and there is no sense that anything you say is registering anywhere else. Maybe I'll get used to it.
Tried playing my guitar this evening, and still can't sing, which is a bugger. If that chest infection has lost me my voice I will be very upset indeed. And my guitar playing wasn't too good either.
*Shit Storm From Hades
**The re-runs of the origianl Star Trek series are brilliant, aren't they? Those tortured metaphors. Those wigs. Kirk's shameless camera-hogging. The boots. Just great.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
All the way home
I've been travelling. I went down to see my lovely Mum on Thursday night, and called in to see Youngest Sis and family as well, which was nice. I listened to the Mark and Lard show on Radio 2 on the way home. They make me laugh.
Saturday morning we were up bright and early to drive up to Suffolk (look on a map, American readers) to see our mate Tall Richard and his unfeasibly stylish wife. As we headed out without having any breakfast (most important meal of the day blah blah blah) by the time it got to 12-ish we were starving.
We'd told our mates that we'd be with them by early afternoon, so had plenty of time to stop for some lunch. We decided to stop at the next service station and get some food.
We ended up here where we enjoyed huge fat boy breakfasts. Mmmmmm fried bread.
Once more, I am profoundly grateful that I chose not to have children. There were people there trying to reason with 4-year-olds. The father of the family sat the whole time with his head in his hands, more or less ignoring the wife and 2 small boys he was with. After 20 minutes sitting on the next table, I could see why.
Suitably fortified, we continued to the party house. Our mates made us welcome, we ate like fat greedy kings, I drank myself into a state of invincible superstardom, and we all sat round singing loudly until gone 1am. I played my guitar for hours and hours, and boy were my fingers sore the next day.
And boy, was I hung over.
After a quiet, slightly trembly, breakfast, we headed up to see some lovely relatives who live in that neck of the woods, and enjoyed a visit with them. We headed back onto the road South at about 3-ish and were home by about 6.30-ish which wasn't bad at all. The bulk of the traffic was going in the opposite direction so we more or less kept moving all the way home.
Been at work today, where people keep making references to sinking ships, rats, planks, and so on. It's wearing rather thin.
Next Friday is my last day in the department, which is quite a thought. I have sent out an email invite to a few colleagues to come out for a drink at a local pub to celebrate but other than that it'll be pretty low key. No being driven off the site in an armoured car for me, I think.
Well, unless I try nicking any paperclips.
Saturday morning we were up bright and early to drive up to Suffolk (look on a map, American readers) to see our mate Tall Richard and his unfeasibly stylish wife. As we headed out without having any breakfast (most important meal of the day blah blah blah) by the time it got to 12-ish we were starving.
We'd told our mates that we'd be with them by early afternoon, so had plenty of time to stop for some lunch. We decided to stop at the next service station and get some food.
We ended up here where we enjoyed huge fat boy breakfasts. Mmmmmm fried bread.
Once more, I am profoundly grateful that I chose not to have children. There were people there trying to reason with 4-year-olds. The father of the family sat the whole time with his head in his hands, more or less ignoring the wife and 2 small boys he was with. After 20 minutes sitting on the next table, I could see why.
Suitably fortified, we continued to the party house. Our mates made us welcome, we ate like fat greedy kings, I drank myself into a state of invincible superstardom, and we all sat round singing loudly until gone 1am. I played my guitar for hours and hours, and boy were my fingers sore the next day.
And boy, was I hung over.
After a quiet, slightly trembly, breakfast, we headed up to see some lovely relatives who live in that neck of the woods, and enjoyed a visit with them. We headed back onto the road South at about 3-ish and were home by about 6.30-ish which wasn't bad at all. The bulk of the traffic was going in the opposite direction so we more or less kept moving all the way home.
Been at work today, where people keep making references to sinking ships, rats, planks, and so on. It's wearing rather thin.
Next Friday is my last day in the department, which is quite a thought. I have sent out an email invite to a few colleagues to come out for a drink at a local pub to celebrate but other than that it'll be pretty low key. No being driven off the site in an armoured car for me, I think.
Well, unless I try nicking any paperclips.
Sunday, 9 March 2008
...if you want to rock and roll
Did it. Sang with the band. Just one song, not especially brilliant, but not dreadful either.
Hurrah for me.
Next time (assuming they let me do it again) I will play guitar as well, and see how that goes.
Mr WithaY came along to offer moral support, which was great. A few of our neighbours were there as well, so it was nice to know there were some friendly faces in the audience.
Mind you, I did get the impression that everyone who was there knew the band in one way or another - parents, workmates, friends, fellow guitar pupils. So it was always pretty unlikely that the chickenwire stage* protector would have been needed.
Their lead singer is superb. He's very young, like still at school young, but has a voice and a half on him. And real stage presence too. I like to imagine that in years to come when he is headlining at Wembley I can say "Oh yes, I sang with him when he was just starting out."
Heh.
Other news: Work is still hectic, and looks set to continue that way, but at least I have some more people in the team now.
Mr WithaY and I are on an "Eat less, you greedy fat bastards" diet, which is working. We are now using portion control when we cook, rather than just using huge quantities of everything, and both of us agree that we are not hungry, and are probably eating about 2/3 of the amounts we were.
I need to be very strict about getting out of the office in time to get to the gym after work though. I get hooked up in late meetings, so by the time I get away it's 6pm and the last thing I feel like doing is waddling and wheezing on the cross trainer for 30 minutes.
Excuses, excuses. One day at a time.
Ooh yes - the rooks are back. Within about 2 hours of Mr WithaY filling all the bird feeders in the garden we were inundated with many, many birds, which is excellent. And shortly after that, a gang of rooks turned up and sauntered about under the apple tree, eyeing up the fat block**. And the next time I looked out, the fat block had gone.
Whilst buying bird food in the pet shop, Mr WithaY had a chat with the pet requisite vendor. Apparently another customer had asked him "Why would anyone buy food for birds they don't own?"
I can't imagine what kind of mindset you would need to ask that question. It's like saying "Why would anyone smile at people they don't know?" or "Why would anyone take part in any kind of voluntary work?"
Left us all rather bemused.
*Front of pub alcove
**Block of fat, in a little metal cage thingy. In case you were wondering.
Hurrah for me.
Next time (assuming they let me do it again) I will play guitar as well, and see how that goes.
Mr WithaY came along to offer moral support, which was great. A few of our neighbours were there as well, so it was nice to know there were some friendly faces in the audience.
Mind you, I did get the impression that everyone who was there knew the band in one way or another - parents, workmates, friends, fellow guitar pupils. So it was always pretty unlikely that the chickenwire stage* protector would have been needed.
Their lead singer is superb. He's very young, like still at school young, but has a voice and a half on him. And real stage presence too. I like to imagine that in years to come when he is headlining at Wembley I can say "Oh yes, I sang with him when he was just starting out."
Heh.
Other news: Work is still hectic, and looks set to continue that way, but at least I have some more people in the team now.
Mr WithaY and I are on an "Eat less, you greedy fat bastards" diet, which is working. We are now using portion control when we cook, rather than just using huge quantities of everything, and both of us agree that we are not hungry, and are probably eating about 2/3 of the amounts we were.
I need to be very strict about getting out of the office in time to get to the gym after work though. I get hooked up in late meetings, so by the time I get away it's 6pm and the last thing I feel like doing is waddling and wheezing on the cross trainer for 30 minutes.
Excuses, excuses. One day at a time.
Ooh yes - the rooks are back. Within about 2 hours of Mr WithaY filling all the bird feeders in the garden we were inundated with many, many birds, which is excellent. And shortly after that, a gang of rooks turned up and sauntered about under the apple tree, eyeing up the fat block**. And the next time I looked out, the fat block had gone.
Whilst buying bird food in the pet shop, Mr WithaY had a chat with the pet requisite vendor. Apparently another customer had asked him "Why would anyone buy food for birds they don't own?"
I can't imagine what kind of mindset you would need to ask that question. It's like saying "Why would anyone smile at people they don't know?" or "Why would anyone take part in any kind of voluntary work?"
Left us all rather bemused.
*Front of pub alcove
**Block of fat, in a little metal cage thingy. In case you were wondering.
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Rock Chick
Yes, really.
Had a superb guitar lesson this evening. Learned The Hives "Hate To Say I Told You So", Jefferson Starship's "Jane" and we did a cracking version of Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" - me on rhythm, my lovely teacher providing the (and I quote) face-melting guitar solo. We also did a fine version of Neil Young's "Rocking in the Free World"
Bloody excellent.
And I made him listen to Whitesnake's "Child of Babylon" which he hadn't heard before. I sang that in a folk club once. When they asked if I'd like to perform, I stood up and belted that out.
There was a bit of a stunned silence, then the compere said "Um...very good. Who's that by?" He looked a bit wounded when I said "Whitesnake".
People should sing more. It's good for the soul.
Had a superb guitar lesson this evening. Learned The Hives "Hate To Say I Told You So", Jefferson Starship's "Jane" and we did a cracking version of Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" - me on rhythm, my lovely teacher providing the (and I quote) face-melting guitar solo. We also did a fine version of Neil Young's "Rocking in the Free World"
Bloody excellent.
And I made him listen to Whitesnake's "Child of Babylon" which he hadn't heard before. I sang that in a folk club once. When they asked if I'd like to perform, I stood up and belted that out.
There was a bit of a stunned silence, then the compere said "Um...very good. Who's that by?" He looked a bit wounded when I said "Whitesnake".
People should sing more. It's good for the soul.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
So kiss me, and cry for me....
...tell me that you'll wait for me, hold me like you'll never let me gooooooooooooo
etc.
Right. Bag's packed, guitar is safely stowed, spare pick in my handbag, phone charger remembered.
I'm off for a bit.
See you when I get back, all being well.
...I'm leeeeeeeeaving in a 4by4
etc.
Right. Bag's packed, guitar is safely stowed, spare pick in my handbag, phone charger remembered.
I'm off for a bit.
See you when I get back, all being well.
...I'm leeeeeeeeaving in a 4by4
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