I woke up this morning thinking of the joys of living life without a map, and where the non-roads lead you. I was going to tell you a negative story about the quantity of people I've worked with who have claimed credit for music I've written (no, not you Carl, we worked together brilliantly well) but that's a bit mean-spirited for a Sunday morning. There's a mega-story but I'll save that for another time.
Got lots of gigs coming up- some with Martin about the country which will be great because he is a diamond geezer, and some strange little unplugged ones- one in a private house in Harlesden, another down the Borough with Katy Carr and Sharon Lewis; possibly Gina will do that one too.
Today is a sort of rest day; I have a lot of little chorelets to do- phoning some lost lost women, for instance- but mostly peering at my pale winter face in the mirror (something I don't do much due to time constraints) and looking at the wrinkles, folds and bags in detail. If it wasn't my face, which makes the sight a little distressing, I would marvel at the collection of battle scars and sorrows thereupon. Actually, I do marvel, even though it is my face. I have had one of the frown lines since I was 20 and I don't mind my increasingly-hooded eyes: it will be brilliant to be a sinister old lady. I shall wear crackly black clothing, stumpy steel-toecapped boots and wallop people who offend me with my furled umbrella. The rest? well, I hope my eyesight deteriorates fast enough so I simply can't see it.
That's enough introspection about the exoskeleton.
Last chance to listen to January in Paris- it gets replaced by the all-new Memento Mori tonight.
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