Empty As A Pocket With Nothing To Lose
That title has no relevance to this post, but it is one of my favourite lyrics of all time, and it has been whirring around my head all day.
My Diet. She is going very well. I am considerably thinner than I was yesterday, and have had to buy a whole new wardrobe in order for my clothes not to fall right off me. (Although buy me a drink and we might still be able to arrange that) (Just kidding) (Although make it good Champagne and we'll talk.)
Last night I was in a pub and I drank water all night. Don't get me wrong, it was of the sparkling mineral variety. I may be On A Diet but that doesn't mean I'm not still fancy.
Part of the reason for my abstinence last night was the nature of the meeting I was having last night. It was a discussion about music, about my music to be more specific. The long and short of it is that I am going to have my album produced for me. My album. Written by me. Not some pseudo-big-shot writer/producer/sleaze chap who will allow me to change a single lyric from 'glove' to 'love', perhaps suggest a couple of harmonies for the backing vocals and then cut off any further creative rights. No, the majority of the songs will have been penned and performed by me, and the others will be collaborations. There is more to this project than that, and in fact the album production aspect is my incentive for getting involved in the rest of it. Which is exciting in itself, so it isn't really a compromise to be on board with.
We'll see. It's nothing to do with the music video next Thursday, which I am excited about in a different way. In a well, it's not going to change my life but how very cool sort of way as opposed to a fucking hell this might actually be something one. Thanks, Pimoti, for your useful sneaky tip in the last comments. I shall stock up. My mother would be cross with me (she is a nutritionist, and therefore disapproves of redbull), but I am rebellious and a bit hip, so I will therefore do it anyway. Afterwards I shall confess all to her in a great tangle of snot and tears, but up until that point I shall be just streamlined and svelte, and ultra cool.
I don't understand something, also. People have been commenting less and less, and yet when I check my sitemeter it reports that numbers of people actually reading have not diminished. (I know this is Not The Point and I shouldn't be bothered about comments and things but I am, whatever.) So what is it? Is it that my posts leave people completely uninspired? Or perhaps that people are so overawed by my depth of perception that they are gobsmacked? Or is it, and I suspect this might be the real reason, that I never reply to comments, because I am a bit of a mean and cold-hearted cow underneath this finely polished veneer of a smooth, highly creative and unnervingly beautiful-in-a-fragile-but-strong-way lady from the Home Counties? It's that, isn't it? Not the second bit, although I can assure you that my delicate fragility sometimes stuns people so much that perfect strangers have been known to walk past me in the street without saying a word.
It's just that I always start to write replies to comments and then I suffer from a bout of under-confidence and delete them. Then I feel guilty. For some reason I suffer much more from Isoundlikeaknob-itis when writing comments than I do when writing all kinds of unspeakable drivel here.
I am way too hot still. Luckily this evening I am going for a swimbeque at Tom's house (not the mansion in Islington [read: Holloway Road] but the one in Twickenham). In case you are not familiar with the concept of a swimbeque I will tell you, it is a barbeque where you get to swim because there is a pool. Do NOT EVER swim just after the barbeque because you will certainly get cramp and die, probably. A swimbeque, therefore, is a dangerous sport, like extreme barbequing, but I am going to brave it because I have been hotter than Satan's electric blanket for about six brazillion years now and it's really starting to grate.
My chair is sticking to me. It's my fault, really, because I'm wearing a short skirt, but I can still complain. Mainly because I just can, because I say so.
(Things I am electing not to blog about today, number 7 in a series of 329,758: How there was cake just now, in the office, and I had a teeny, tiny, inconsequential bit just to see what it tasted like. Answer: Oh, dreamy.)
I have to stop typing now because I strongly fear that this blog will slide rapidly from a Diet Blog to an I Love Cake Blog.
(Aside: That whole issue from the update yesterday is all sorted. I no longer want to think about it.)