Sunday Evening Song

I started as soon as I woke, rummaging in the dusty loft and bringing down 125 Helen and the Horns albums, two big boxes of Duplo (baby Lego, to the uninitiated) a heavy box of old letters and diaries, and a big bag of ancient baby clothes (now there's a concept: ancient babies!)
No matter how much I remove from the loft, it never looks any emptier!
I thought if I piled everything up in the hallway I would be able to guess roughly how much storage space I'll have to rent, so I brought through some boxes full of old music projects and made a depressingly large heap.
I am beginning to develop a body like Mr Universe, which is exciting in an exotic sort of way. I defy bar chords, as I'm now unnaturally strong and could arm-wrestle an Orang-Utan quite successfully, probably.
With the familiar scratch of dust in my eyes, I sat sown in front of Poirot. It amazes me how many episodes they have made, and how many I have not seen. I identify with him now, those little grey cells and that little black moustache. Absently, I wonder if I should grow one this winter, before remembering that I have a little way to go before I am able to do that. I don't watch TV too much, just the news and an occasional music programme, and the nice thing about Poirot is that it's so gentle you feel it's OK to fall asleep: you know he will solve the murder so really, you don't need to watch it at all.
But I like the clothes.
I spent about an hour trying to video a song on Myspace, gazing out at the ghosts in the darkened garden as I sang. Finally, I got a perfect performance, but found that Myspace had only recorded a few seconds of it. I looked gruesome anyway, tired and pale and anxious, although it didn't sound too bad. Some other time, perhaps.

Martin performed a fantastic trick on me earlier this week. I'd had plans to somehow come by humungous amounts of money and record my next album in a tremendously up-market studio, hallowed and slinky. I would polish my songs to perfection, and be a diva: 'Oh no, not today, my voice is playing up! Let me spend a day in Brighton to take the sea air and refresh my vocal chords! Let me do six weeks of complex singing exercises! Make some beef tea! Bring the smelling salts!'
He opened up his computer one day and recorded it all on Garageband in the twinkling of an eye, and he's going to master it when he gets home after his next few gigs. I can't remember what it sounds like!

The first Desperado Housewives gig is on Tuesday at Liquid Nation on Ladbroke Grove.
The lilac nylon dress is getting excited!