okay, so here is what i was wondering...my favourite stephen king novel is actually a short story called, 'the long walk' wherein a group of people prepare to walk a race which only one of them can win. i first read it in university and i remember feeling so INSPIRED when i finished it. it was like a clarion call to arms to those of us who had deep, passionate dreams we wanted to fulfull and who viewed the world as limitless in possibility and didn't truly know the realities of scope. i felt like the story was meant as a personal message to me and swore that i would never forget how i felt and would never, ever stop trying to achieve my dreams.

well it just so happens that there are three things i have always wanted to do since i can remember (around age 5 is when i first recall that distinct hunger that came from deep inside...standing in the school playground vowing never to have an 'ordinary' job like my teacher, but to make songs, write books and be an actress. Those three things have always been what i desire most. However as the years have progressed i've fallen a bit out of love with acting (all that waiting around, the almost impossibility of getting hired in the UK when i steadfastly cling onto my north atlantic accent, and the distaste of imagining all the lewd love scenes i might have to grimace through while 'paying my dues'.....so no...i put that to one side.) As for the writing, although i've kept journals my whole life, and indeed have gotten a few pieces published here and there, i feel that writing is something i shall do until the day i die and I do not really feel like devoting every waking hour to painstakingly carving out the plot of a novel i might lose interest in halfway through.

No, music is my baby. It's the thing that makes me feel most alive, most real, and quite simply, most happy. All my life i've been making up songs - when i was a child i would relish the times i was alone in the house so i could play at being on an imaginary stage and belt out my recent compositions. ( I would like it to be noted however that i never, ever, attempted dance moves..even from that early age hop-stepping around, gyrating and general sexy lewd manoeverings were never my thing. Girl band fodder i am not!)

I am however, one of those people who have had a soundtrack accompany them throughout their lives. i never just went grocery shopping. i always had a tape player/cd player/mini disc/ipod jammed into my ears and would keep time with the drums and bass as i went about my life. Music makes the world truly 3D. It gets me high. It keeps me sane. It moves me like nothing else can, or ever will.

So anyway, recently i re-read 'The Long Walk' and it kind of freaked me out. The story hadn't changed, but i had. The flush of anticipation upon finishing it was exchanged for a deep-seated feeling of dread. I'm older, wiser, and more jaded. My naivety has been somewhat replaced by realism. Is it too late? When is it too late? But you know what......?

If one person - preferably someone i don't even know...might one night, play one of my songs and feel something...anything...then i will have succeeded. Then I will somehow be connected to all that music (and the musicians) who have sustained me and my spirit over the years. That's all i want.

oh yeah, and a big fat record deal so i could produce my songs properly also wouldn't go amiss :)

better sign off before i get too heavy (but maybe it's too late for that)

laters

me

TREADING WATER

I've been quiet for awhile. A combination of having had a lot going on in my personal life and not feeling like i've had anything terribly important to say. I'm going through my 'Treading Water' phase at the moment. Don't misunderstand - i'm not saving the world or busy volunteering at a charity...nor am I out caning it every night or working too hard at a job i despise. No, i'm simply caught up in the prickly business of living. And not doing terribly well at it in my opinion.

There is one interesting thing I've realised. When i was younger, I felt utterly swept away on tides of emotions. I'm sure some of it was hormonal, chemical, substance-induced, whatever....But I was also more prone to turbulant tossing and turning if circumstance had been kind/unkind to me. I literally felt like a helpless prisoner and just tried my best to stay above water so to speak, and ride the waves. These days though, I am so self-aware (not entirely a good thing, but whatever) that I know what phase I'm in when I stop and think about it. That's why I mentioned earlier that I'm in my 'Treading Water' phase. This particular part of my unique (possibly warped) cycle, indicates that I currently have no energy for pursuing new things/friends/endeavors at the moment. I don't just mean that I'm devoid of physical energy, but that emotionally and mentally I've navel-gazed myself into a familiar hole and now, much like a disgruntled polar bear i've got to wait out the hibernation until i feel ready to tackle the world again.

This stage could last hours, days or weeks. I've really no idea. Sometimes, not dissimiliar to that old game of 'Snakes n' Ladders' I can slide down to the depths suddenly and without warning (ie. get some bad news...experience a big personal setback). Or coversely a set of steps might magically appear before me (an unexpected windfall....a great job...some amazing news) lifting me immediately out of this place into the better and far happier land of 'Anything Might Happen."

This is my favourite place. It's where I feel most amazing, and wait for good fortune to find me. I am at my most 'smile-iest', i exude confidence (if for no other reason than I AM confidant), and I notice that people are more drawn to me because I'm radiating such positive energy.

And therein lies the crux. Just like you need money to make money, you need a bit of good fortune or good luck to kickstart an otherwise humdrum life. Maybe it's an amazing job you aren't necessarily qualified for that you somehow manage to bag...or maybe you meet the most amazing person completey as a fluke and realise that they are the 'soulmate' you've never believed existed...or you're cleaning out your drawers and come across an envelope stuffed full of notes that you completely forgot you had...or your agent rings you out of the blue with an amazing job which will pay you a fortune and turn you into a player once again....or.....or just something which takes your from your current mundane state and turns you into a 'contender'. In literature I believe it's referred to as, 'Fortune smiling down upon you'.

Is it selfish to wish for more than you have? Certainly in this day and age it is. There are starving, tortured souls scattered around the world. But by the same token, there are individuals around the globe who are living fulfilled, captivating lives. They are making a difference, meeting extraordinary people, seeing their dreams come to fruition, or maybe even just having so much fun it's criminal. It really depends on where you want to place yourself on the human map. Do you want to carve out a cosy, comfy existence for yourself...a niche where you and your mates can block out the rest of the world, drink wine and proliferate on all things amusing and strange? Create your own 'Neverland' and coast through life blissfully chilled with the psychological buffer of lots of friends and lots of laughs? Nice one...you're lucky if that's an option.

Maybe you want to sell up, consolidate your life and take off on an amazing journey around the world...becoming someone of no fixed address and no idea where you'll be in five years (let alone five months). If this is so, then I salute you. There is a big old world out there with more adventures than you could ever experience in a million lifetimes, so you may as well tuck in and get started.

Perhaps you are in a job or career where you've smashed the glass ceiling and are flying high into the unknown and are in a position to do better than you ever imagined you could. You're a mover and shaker set to acquire riches, win that coveted title, or retire early; maybe even start up your own successful business....the stratosphere awaits and in that case what is there to say but 'go for it'.

There are a million possible outcomes for even the most mundane of lives. It's the duty of each of us to find our own way and pursue our own inevitable destiny. Only some of us don't believe in that, and merely try and survive this life. Others believe in 'it' when we're young and slowly the reality of life beats it out of us until we no longer remember ever believing in more than we can see in front of our eyes. Still others will always be aware of a niggling feeling deep inside. Some inkling of burning dissatisfaction which will remain with us till the day we die. That 'could have been/would have been/should have been' other destiny which our lives merely alluded to but never fully explored. This could end up being tragic unless you learn to live with it or reconcile yourself to never knowing and no longer caring.

As for me, I fall into the broad category of 'tortured artist' (sigh) but am filed deep down into my own sub-section of tragi/comic angst. Yes, I'm a cliche. I'm a living breathing 'wannabe'....but I don't wannabe anybody but the person I'm supposed to be. Only sometimes it all gets too exhuasting and confusing and I feel like I really can't be bothered ('Treading Water'). As i've mentioned in earlier blogs, I've had the same dreams since i was five years old, and I have no real excuse for not achieving them. In my case ignorance would be bliss, but given that I am devoid of such an excuse than I'll just have to hobble along, hoping for a bit of good fortune, a helping hand, a kindred spirit to bolster my faith, some sign that i'm on the right path and everything will work out in the end. I'll try and 'keep the faith' regardless of the fact that I sometimes feel like holding my breath till i pass out.

WHY CAN'T I BE YOU...LALALALALALALALA

he other day I was in a department store, strolling around, ipod plugged in, minding my own business - when all the sudden I was interrupted by an over-eager, lipglossed and cherry-cheeked lass trying to block my way and gesticulating wildly. I popped out my left earphone and this rather cheeky girl asked if I wanted to try out a 'new look'. Umm...no i didn't. Why oh why do cosmetic companies hire garish looking girls to flog premium beauty products? And why on earth would I let someone who looks like a demented clown loose on MY face?

Along the same lines, I fail to see how people are taken in by chubby telly-stars flouting 'get-fit' videos. Even the ones who are working a new, 'improved' body are taking the piss given that they've either been airbrushed within an inch of their lives, have just had liposuction, or have been on a ridiculous slim-fast starvation diet and will beef up again twice as large while their dvds are still selling at Woolworths. And there will be millions of dejected suburban housewives chugging away in their front rooms, pressing rewind and munching on jaffa cakes, wondering why they're not looking like their favourite star yet?

All the magazines these days are filled with images of celebrities going about their lives with rather nice clothes, expensive sunglasses and sumptious arm candy in form of handbags costing as much as secondhand cars. Fair enough if you suffer envy once in awhile for such nonchalont wealth on parade - that's normal enough. But to envy such vacuous, trite 'celebra-sluts' their lives and personas, and try to emulate them in every way going is a bit sad methinks. I mean, all these stupid perfumes that come out (every celebrity worth their weight in botox have one) are simply a marketing tool devised to make an overpaid famous sort even MORE wealthy. The scents are rank and not a little tacky. Not the best way to relieve yourself of £29.95.

Let's get one thing straight you famous folk out there: "I do not want to smell like you, dress like you, talk like you, act like you or live your life!" Once in awhile it would be nice to have nothing more to worry about then fitting into skinny jeans and dining in public whilst consuming no more than 35 calories. But i do not buy into the fact that now you're famous I should want to BE you.

But hey - the big house, personal chef and first class flight tickets? Sure - hand 'em over.

THE EYES HAVE IT

THE EYES HAVE IT

I find myself thinking about 'eyes' tonight. It's extremely difficult to hide your true self when someone is looking deep into your eyes. Maybe that's why so many rock stars wear shades. It's not just the 'cool factor' - it's the desire to keep the most real and vulnerable side of yourself hidden from adoring fans and nosy journalists. It would also explain why peoples eyes often dart about when they're lying or are nervous.

I have this horrible problem whereby when i'm speaking passionately about something close to my heart, a bit of sentiment creeps out unbidden from my eyes and if the person i happen to be speaking with is observant, they are likely to catch a glimpse of my vulnerability. But vulnerability and emotion doesn't always come via ones peepholes I suppose.

A few years back I was at a Morrissey concert and was taken aback by the sheer number of fans who had paid their respect by wearing flowers in breast pockets and sporting rather elaborate quiffs. Some fans looked like builders and others like office geeks, but the sincere flattery displayed was as intense in either case. Their devotion was laid bare with almost a cathartic element to it. Idol worship normally acted out behind bedroom doors with hairbrush 'mics' was on show for all to see .

For some, showing up at a Morrissey concert dressed like their hero is akin to letting someone catch a glimpse of real emotion in their eyes. It's no less potent - betraying a touching devotion and vulnerability. Maybe they lack the words to aptly convey their adoration. Or maybe cloning themselves after him is the best way they can honour him and the poignant memories of their youth which are conjured up when they hear his songs.

You'll never find me playing 'ecstatic punter' or waving a lighter in the night air while a heartfelt ballad is being played out on stage. Nor will you ever catch me paying homage to my musical heroes in any outward, fashionista-type way (though i don't look down on those who do). No, you're much more likely to find me mesmerised with a far-away look in my eyes while listening to my favourite songs. It's my Achilles heel. My weak point. Damn those eyes...

WHO LET HER OUT?

The other day i was baking a lemon poppyseed cake from scratch and as i transferred it piping hot from the loaf tin onto a plate (because i had slightly overcooked it and didn't want it to get any harder) it fell apart into pieces. I had a huge strop and slammed my fist on the kitchen counter before storming off to have a HOT, HOT bath - scalding in fact. My bad mood lasted around 18 minutes or so, and as I sat fuming in the bath, skin red and no doubt drying out at an alarming rate - i realised that I had serious problems if a failed cake could send me plunging into the depths of despair.

Now in all fairness, a lemon poppyseed cake is fairly involved to make. You have to painstakingly grate the lemon rind (such a pain as you often catch your skin on the grater and it really kills - not to mention how dreadfully slow and thankless a task it is), then squeeze fresh lemon juice, and measure all sorts of piddly measurements for the other ingredients - it calls for 1 and a half eggs and that is such a bitch to do!

All in all, even if it did take over an hour to prepare, the fact that it had fallen to pieces and then i had quickly followed suit, would mean that i was either a) suffering from a severe eating disorder whereby the sense of anticipation cut cruelly short by the destruction of a much longed-for treat meant that i came unhinged and should therefore be closely observed for other signs of anti-social behaviour ....OR..... b) I was projecting my anger and/or disappointment about something else onto my failed cake and was therefore only marginally disturbed and should be approached with bemusement not caution.

A few days later i found myself in Covent Garden queuing up to use the Lloyds cash machine and there were two queues to choose from and i chose what i thought to be the shorter one when in fact i got stuck in the slowest queue I've ever been in(!) behind two sets of equally annoying tourists (one an Italian mother/daughter combo who looked like they may have well been the village idiots and didn't have either a grasp of the concept of pressing buttons on a machine or indeed the fact that money should be withdrawn in ONE go not several withdrawals of £20...I lost count).

As the other queue moved briskly along I could feel my blood pressure rising and I began to get more and more annoyed, but was too stubborn to change queues, even though people would walk by, stand behind me for a few minutes then change to the other queue, take out their money and walk away, smiling at me sympathetically. Bottom line was when i FINALLY got to the front of my queue I had completely lost the plot and was muttering under my breath about how moronic the people in front of me were - using rather imaginative but horrific terminology, and I was attracting a few stares so maybe it was slightly more audible than i thought, but i didn't care. I realised i was looking like a crazy person as I withdrew my money and stomped off - but i was too far gone to put a halt to it. Clearly, again I had to conclude that I was either a lunatic or merely projecting some internal frustration onto some hapless (and terribly annoying) tourists who may have been unthoughtful but surely didn't deserve the death penalty.

I suppose it must be said that underneath my usual chilled, slightly cynical but nonetheless harmless exterior, lurks a lot of displaced passion which needs an outlet. I need to do the creative equivalent of a bungee jump. I need to throw caution to the wind and allow the pieces of my life to rain down on my head in little shreds which i can then use to paper mache together something incredible. I need to write a new song. It might well be time to move from electro to heavy metal.

HERE'S ONE I THOUGHT UP EARLIER

OK, here's a little thought. Might be total bollocks but at the moment i'm sticking with it. You know how there is a general concensus out there that 'true artists' can only create when they are miserable/tormented? I grew up thinking that, and i suppose most everybody else did too (hence the prevalence of black garb amongst youth of a certain age and the unrequited love directed toward bands like The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Morrissey, etc...when you're seveneen)

Anyway, for me it was true to the extent that i only finally got serious about making music when i was in a really dark place. It was what 'saved' me at that particular time. I won't be so melodramatic as to imply that i was headed towards an overdose, or fashioning nooses out of old bedclothes in my spare time. I was merely depressed. Not enought to warrant a prescription for Zoloft, but nonetheless I was merely 'getting through the days' and wishing my life away. Nothing particularly excited me and I sought invisibility on every level. Cut myself off from former friends, dove into the imaginary world cococted by literature and film, and generally went about like a giant LOSER (this isn't a view in retrospect - i was keenly aware of how lame i was at the time and didn't give a damn).

One day i happened to wander over to the Yamaha CS1x keyboard my partner had lying around the spare room, and i absentmindedly started playing with the keys and messing around with the effects. It amused me. Then suddenly as if i'd been smacked in the face, a tuneful melody started playing inside my head, and i found myself writing a song. It later became a tune called 'Aching Hearts' (haha...sounds like it was a soppy ballad but actually it was a rather 'Pet Shop Boys-ish' sounding electro treatise against sex, violence, fame and money....but i digress)

The point i'm trying to make (and rather clumsily at that) is that music swooped back into my life just when i needed it, and i spent the next two years doing very little else but writing songs. I'd barely finish the next one when i would hurriedly move onto the next tune waiting to be made. I was exhausted and couldn't keep up with the creative assembly queue in my head sometimes. I began to go days in my pajamas, matted hair and subsisting on crunchy nut cornflakes and sweets. The curtains would stay drawn, and only occasionally would i take a break, put my feet up, and watch the world go by on the busy street outside my window. The 'real world' ceased to interest me at all. All i cared about was beats, strings, vocals and transposing the music in my head into cakewalk on my computer.

It was a huge technological learning curve and I never quite mastered it, but I did produce a lot of songs in that time - some of which are still my favourites.

Eventually I created myself into a happy place, and for awhile I resurfaced in the real world again - content somewhat and full of pride for what i'd accomplished. Even if no one had heard the songs, I enjoyed listening to them and they made me feel good.

I noticed that I had gone from extremely miserable to extremely fulfilled and had barely noticed the transition. It was easy to create in this state as well, as i was spurred on by my personal satisfaction and desire. So began the seeds of my theory:

It is easiest to create artistically when you are either miserable/tormented OR ecstatically happy/successful.

It's the land of mediocrity which saps your energy. It's rhyming the words 'love' with 'above'. It's strumming another major chord. sipping yet another cup of sugary lukewarm tea and looking out your sunny window wishing you were picnicing in the park. It's realising that you're working on an average sounding song, with average (boring) lyrics, and feeling uninspired. That's when the muse disappears and you question everything and cruise monster.com for some 'creative job' which will net you loads of cash and make you forget that you haven't produced anything worthwhile in quite some time and aren't likely to...ever again.

So maybe if you can figure out how to surf between the agony and the ecstacy you'll have it made. Or made I'm completely wrong and just ranting because it's midnight, i can't sleep and i'm loving the hypnotic tip-tapping of my brand spanking new Apple Macbook. Hmmm..

THE CULT OF CELEBRITY

I've been thinking lately about how the majority of people are envious of the rich and famous. It's just the way it is. Celebrities are paraded in front of us like choice meat: strutting down red carpets, being whisked past the hordes into first-class by over-eager assistants, being given preferential (and dare i say deferential) treatment at the hands of practically everyone, and having their airbrushed physiques laid out tantalisingly in magazine spreads for us to pore over and envy.

The most minute and mundane details of their uber-exciting lives are recounted and recalled with irrepressable glee by awestruck writers.

"Nicole Richie shaves her own legs"

"Gwyneth Paltrow is plagued with ingrown toenails."

"Madonna's son eats sugary lollipops"


As amusing as the celebrity world can be (it's all those divine dresses, embarrassing pics and outrageous rumours which i personally fall prey to) it is in reality terribly vacuous.

I daresay that for the most part, more fun is to be had at a raucous dinner party with ones oldest and best mates than most of these 'pay and display' PR functions where an obligatory grand entrance is made before pocketing a hefty sum, striking a pose and scuttering away with a goodie bag.

Doctors for instance (and i'm not just saying this because my darling dad is an orthopaedic surgeon) spend years eshuing frivolity and hedonism in favour of studying and research and the dreaded interning. Yes, they are eventually monetarily rewarded - but nowhere near the amount a young starlet is paid to flash her cosmetically enhanced bosum on celluoid for ten seconds.

One of the songs I have up on myspace ("I'm All Over You") is not an ode to an ex-boyfriend, but rather the plea of a deluded fan to his/her celebrity idol. The idea came about after reading HEAT magazine one day (yes - guilty as charged - need it for the tv listings innit) and an article about how some fans were let down by not getting an autograph from their beloved movie star.

Ah there's the rub. It's not enough to produce decent music/films/art/fashion/etc. for your adoring public. You also have to look amazing, be accessible, yet still maintain that air of the unattainable. Perch seductively on your pedastal but make sure to hop down now and again for a bit of hokey-pokey with the great unwashed. A thankless job. At least they get handsomely paid for it.

WASTED YOUTH PART 2

So i wrote that little 'rhyming thot' the other night before bed. Did it in about 5 minutes - stream of consciousness kinda thing - not meant to be 'Dylan-esque' or anything ;)

I guess i've been consumed with thoughts of regret, hindsight, nostalgia, aching for that time of no responsibility when i was only accountable to my parents. When the world was helpfully marked out in 'easy to navigate' structures: go to uni, party, discuss bollocks at great length (and rather earnestly), buy clothes, smoke fags, drink, dance dance dance, daydream, flounce around in ridiculous fashion (and fashions), travel, meet anyone and everyone, have adventures....ahh, there's the rub.

I think i've just had a 'Eureka' moment. I think that's what is bothering me these days. I crave adventure and excitement. I want to have an unguessable outcome to my days. I want to wake up and not be sure where i'm sleeping that night, who i'll see, and what i'll get up to (and no - this does not mean i hanker for homelessness...just realised i sound like a middle-class moaner).

What i'm trying to say (and not terribly well) is that i crave SOMETHING. I want to be surprised, I want to have my head turned, i want to be confounded. I want to feel that flush of wonder like i used to feel when i was really young.

In those days i felt like my future stretched endlessly out before me. I decadently put goals aside, making a mental note to get back to them when i had finished having fun and really indulging myself in every way. I travelled the world for two years, i rode a motorbike all across India, i basked in foreign sunsets, i danced years away in nightclubs, I 'played' at being an adult in various jobs and professions (everything from advertising to encyclopedia salesperson to actress to 'media babe' (haha) - my last and final professional incarnation.

Now i am (cough) an aspiring musician. I say aspiring because i reckon until I get an album out to the world that that is what i'll only ever be. It's not that i need fame or recognition to validate my music - more like i'd feel vindicated and finally feel the glow of accomplishment and satisfaction that comes from being able to eek out a living (even if it turns out to be modest) from doing what i love...and what i feel i was meant to do.

So i'll plod on...navel gazing from time to time...and hope that in the words of my wise old ma, "The best is yet to come".

WASTED YOUTH

WASTED YOUTH







I want to be eighteen again


I want to be a flirt


Flaunt long tanned legs


And puff on fags


Date a lot of jerks.





I want to be eighteen again


Survive on three hours sleep


Drink cheap lime vodka alcopops


Go out and pull out all the stops


Not look before i leap.





I wish i was eighteen again


I had so much damn fun


I'd do it better this time though


With hindsight many more oats i'd sow


Youth's wasted on the young.

MAKE ME A BRIT

Well i took the first step today in becoming a proper British citizen. Have been a Londoner for 13 years now and have been too lazy/busy to bother getting one of them pretty red burgundy passports...until now. Not really sure what prompted this sudden pragmatic behaviour - rather unusual for me - but i suspect it had something to do with one too many hideous experiences at Heathrow/Gatwick customs. While everyone else whips through the EU/UK queues, I get jammed amongst hordes of wide-eyed American youths who smack me with their over-loaded 'backpacks' and earnest Canadians with flag emblems sewn onto their fleeces - their big white toes jutting petulantly out of newly-purchased birkenstocks. They are harmless enough but not when you've been crammed in economy with the Great Unwashed for 9 hours.

So off i went to Elephant & Castle shopping mall today (that place alone deserves an entire novel), where up on the top level is a dodgy looking place called 'The Sunrise Academy'. Academy is a bit optomistic. More like a stuffy, depressing waiting room for Hell. It was full of a dozen or so confused looking people waiting to take the 'Life in the UK Test'. I paid my £34 (it had to be in cash and i didn't have it so bolted out the door, ran to Tesco's, grabbed some easter creme eggs and stood in an static queue for 10 minutes before giving up on the cashback idea and racing to a machine outside. Slipping in right before the doors locked, I was mildly amused to note that we test-takers were subjected to a clumsy version of 'musical chairs' in an attempt to keeping cheating at bay. No offence to anyone there, but i reckon i was the one to cheat off of - the rest of them seemed to have difficulty responding to the roll call.

I was finished the 45 minute test in 7 minutes - and that included going back over my answers twice. I have to say, it wasn't the easiest test i've ever taken. I had to memorise a load of boring bollocks last night about this wonderful country. I bet you, like myself, were unaware that the Welsh like to open their back doors and let out the OLD 'New Year' before opening their front doors and letting in the NEW New Year...fascinating stuff. You'll be pleased to know that i passed, but am now cursed with a throbbing brain full of rather boring statistics about civil servants and women in the workforce (yawn).

Maybe i'll be able to incorporate some of the stuff i learned into a number one pop single. Maybe i can sell it on to someone like Charlotte Church. She's a ballsy girl and is fairly good at singing 'odd pop'. Caught a bit of her show tonight simply because i was unable to move from the sofa (that would be too many self-congratulatory Godiva truffles i consumed on account of my passing my Life in the UK Test....well of course i passed it - i'm not a moron). Darling Charlotte can talk a mean streak, though she was sporting some rather huge, ill-fitting trousers tonight....couldn't take my eyes off of them. But who the hell am i to talk? She's fabulously wealthy, has travelled the world, met everyone who is worth meeting on this planet of ours and has pretty much accomplished more so far in her short life than most of us ever would - even if we were cats (follow me here..the nine lives thing...). Still, shame about the trousers. Someone should shoot the stylist. I'm off to bed. Did you know that the Scottish Parliament has 129 members?

GOODBYE NINE TO FIVE...HELLO AFTERNOON MOVIE

I remember when i had a 'real' job. A full-time, salary paid into bank account, show up for 8 hours a day JOB. It was in music television, it was creative, and for the most part i enjoyed it. But I was always distinctly aware, for the five whole years that i worked there, that it was NOT what i was meant to be doing. I'd spend countless hours logging interview footage from intellectual morons, vacuous dollybirds, 'taking-themselves-too-seriously Artistes' and so called musicians who hadn't even written their own songs yet waxed (un)prolific about how 'all-consuming' it was being a musician. Every sentence was peppered with "Ah...Ya know....Well...Like". Yawn.

I'd have to put catchy, enticing promo's together to lure unsuspecting teenagers and wasted, 'sound-turned-off-but-gyrating-pelvis-in-technicolour' twenty-something viewers into tuning in for yet another 'Britney Spears Weekend' or a compelling 'Ronan Keating' special. I started to make my pieces quite ironic, taking the piss out of these artists in my own sneaky way, and yet i was never called on it. I grew to exploit this even further and put hidden messages in - either lyrically in the promo soundtracks or visually in footage i had shot myself and snuck in. Still i never got caught. I soon grew very bored indeed.

I remember my last official day at work. No one knew it was my last day of work. I don't think even i suspected that it was. But the incompetant moron i called my boss finally stepped over the line one day and surprising myself as i did so, i calmly but furiously walked out of that office forever.

I initially felt high - elated even. If i recall correctly, 'You Got the Love' by Candy Station was pounding through my earphones as i exited the building and jumped on the tube. I was a hero of the oppressed. I was acting with integrity. I was...well, i was out of a job.

I won't bore you with the details but i went through hell for a few months, then emerged out the other side with two choices: get another job OR pursue my dream. Easy. Choose the impractical but oh-so-artistically-fulfilling option.

Do i ever regret it? Not yet. Somedays it's hell. I have a creative block, my computer erases a piece i've been painstakingly working on, i suddenly decide i hate a song i thought i loved, or maybe i just get BORED and LONELY. It's so trite but it's true. What often sustains me is something i read on an obese woman's t-shirt at Disneyland Florida when i was a kid: "If it were easy everyone would be doing it". It may have taken a few reads navigating her enormous and wonky cleavage, but it left a huge imprint on me.

Maybe it's true that there are those lucky few who just happen to get 'discovered' by a hotshot agent while working in a bar and become a Hollywood star. Maybe there are those lucky bands who can barely play their instruments but are 'discovered' by an enthusiastic Record Exec who just happens to duck into the little pub they're playing. For such a rare occurance you do hear a lot of these 'success stories'. But for those of us who haven't just 'happened' to have been discovered yet, well, i think tenacity is the name of the game. Good old perseverence. IF you love it, IF you're good at it, and if you absolutely HAVE to do it or you'll never truly be happy, then i reckon (perhaps foolishly) that something will happen. Do it or die trying, I say.

Sometimes i go for walks and see other people on the streets, strolling somewhat aimlessly like myself...or lone souls with laptops quietly tapping away in various Cafe Nero's (i can't tell you how many hundreds of loyalty cards i've gotten through by now...my local barrista is a good mate now) and i wonder "are you all like me? have you stepped off the straight and narrow and are in this giant waiting room of uncertainty? are you skint? are you full of both self-doubt and uncompromising belief? Do YOU regret it?"

Answers on postcards please...