Can I put all the plastic dinosaurs in the dishwasher?
They are very dusty.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Lofty Thoughts
I'd meant to write up The Perseverance gig yesterday but instead spent almost the whole day moving stuff down from the loft (including bucketloads of dust) and shifting heavy pots about the garden with my nephew, who I employed for the day for his young strength and willingness of spirit.
I found a pile of letters that included a map drawn by John Peel to show me how to get to the place where they broadcast the World Service from; and a set of poems written by my friend Saffie Ashtiany who now spends a lot of time in Iran, finishing her father's animation films. She'd given me the poems to illustrate and I still have some if the drawings somewhere. There was a series of letters from a very funny girl called Pippa who used to write every week when I was in the Chefs, telling me all about her school days (her headmistress banned Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory because the Oompa-Loompas were racist). I can't throw them all away just yet.
The plumber's been this morning; he arrived on his motorbike at dawn, fixed the heating and roared off half an hour later. Heaven will be populated by such people, I know.
So... Saturday afternoon was spent copying Desperado Housewives CDs for Wednesday, in between little houseworklets.
I realised that it wouldn't be a good thing to chop onions for tea, an activity that would have neatly fitted in to the burning-time of a CD, because that particular CD would smell strongly of onions.
Maybe that would have been a good idea- a unique selling point that would add at least a quid in value to the CD.
Anyway, I digress...
Voices of the Fall was brilliant: small but perfectly formed.
Alec Dunnachie rustled about in the corridor, buckling himself into a huge and beautiful turkey costume that he could not see out of and bumping into tables on the way to the stage. He had a turkey-head hand puppet, and did a piece about two headed turkeys baking potatoes, which was fascinating when you could hear it properly (I don't think there was speak-hole in the turkey head).
Dix points for costume and effort Alec!
There was a fantastic African singer (her Myspace name is 'silence' as she sings acapella) called Henrietta Alele, who was utterly charming as well as having a beautiful strong and powerful voice; Sarah Verrinder made us all laugh with her intelligent irony and poet-punchlines; Kath Tait was sweetly brilliant as always and Ingrid held the whole lot together with her rambling band of musicians (which included Eve, who sang one of her songs solo too).
I sang two newish songs, Waltzing Away from Winter which the audience did backing vocals to, and Daisies which everyone seemed to like, as well as Two Little Girls and Me and Autumn Love for an encore (which I fumbled over in an unprepared and unprofessional way!).
Sandie was there, Foolish Girl to those who don't know her, and she handed me DVDs of the Borderline gig which I haven't managed to watch yet as my computer's overloaded but I will make sure I watch them tomorrow and will ask her if I can put them on Youtube or something.
And then, just like this morning's plumber, Sandie roared off on her motorbike.
I found a pile of letters that included a map drawn by John Peel to show me how to get to the place where they broadcast the World Service from; and a set of poems written by my friend Saffie Ashtiany who now spends a lot of time in Iran, finishing her father's animation films. She'd given me the poems to illustrate and I still have some if the drawings somewhere. There was a series of letters from a very funny girl called Pippa who used to write every week when I was in the Chefs, telling me all about her school days (her headmistress banned Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory because the Oompa-Loompas were racist). I can't throw them all away just yet.
The plumber's been this morning; he arrived on his motorbike at dawn, fixed the heating and roared off half an hour later. Heaven will be populated by such people, I know.
So... Saturday afternoon was spent copying Desperado Housewives CDs for Wednesday, in between little houseworklets.
I realised that it wouldn't be a good thing to chop onions for tea, an activity that would have neatly fitted in to the burning-time of a CD, because that particular CD would smell strongly of onions.
Maybe that would have been a good idea- a unique selling point that would add at least a quid in value to the CD.
Anyway, I digress...
Voices of the Fall was brilliant: small but perfectly formed.
Alec Dunnachie rustled about in the corridor, buckling himself into a huge and beautiful turkey costume that he could not see out of and bumping into tables on the way to the stage. He had a turkey-head hand puppet, and did a piece about two headed turkeys baking potatoes, which was fascinating when you could hear it properly (I don't think there was speak-hole in the turkey head).
Dix points for costume and effort Alec!
There was a fantastic African singer (her Myspace name is 'silence' as she sings acapella) called Henrietta Alele, who was utterly charming as well as having a beautiful strong and powerful voice; Sarah Verrinder made us all laugh with her intelligent irony and poet-punchlines; Kath Tait was sweetly brilliant as always and Ingrid held the whole lot together with her rambling band of musicians (which included Eve, who sang one of her songs solo too).
I sang two newish songs, Waltzing Away from Winter which the audience did backing vocals to, and Daisies which everyone seemed to like, as well as Two Little Girls and Me and Autumn Love for an encore (which I fumbled over in an unprepared and unprofessional way!).
Sandie was there, Foolish Girl to those who don't know her, and she handed me DVDs of the Borderline gig which I haven't managed to watch yet as my computer's overloaded but I will make sure I watch them tomorrow and will ask her if I can put them on Youtube or something.
And then, just like this morning's plumber, Sandie roared off on her motorbike.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Last Perseverance
It's the last 'Voices' tonight at the Perseverance: 'Voices of the Fall.
It will be a great night!
11 Shroton Street, Marylebone, NW1
Kicks off at 8
£3.50 or less
It will be a great night!
11 Shroton Street, Marylebone, NW1
Kicks off at 8
£3.50 or less
Friday, October 09, 2009
Quirks
Yesterday I found myself teaching study skills to a gaggle of disorientated urban dance students, while the dance lecturer was bonding with a group of hip-hoppers that should have been mine.
It was all OK in the end; just as last week I sat waiting for the students at one end of the University while they sat waiting for me at the other, these things happen and get ironed out if you say sorry but not in a frightened way.
In the middle of it all, the estate agent phoned. He has now decided he can boss me around, which is silly, because I'm employing him to sell the too-big too-expensive house.
'Phone your solicitor and tell her we want to sign contracts next Friday', he commanded.
I have had enough of him. I am paying the solicitor to help to sell the house, and the estate agent to sell it. They must sort it out between them now; I have a job to do, two Offsprogs to be a mum to, and music to make.
And packing, too.
No more Mrs Nice Guy!
Ths pile of stuff to go into storage grows daily, and the cats think I have made a wonderful cardboard edifice specially for them to sharper their claws upon. Every time they pass the boxes, the smell of cardboard diverts them from their intended destination and they veer over towards a box marked 'Old Musicals Etc' in black felt-tip and claw at it like demented JCBs excavating an urgent building project. Tattered boxes?
What-ho, who cares!
Today was another typically University of the East Day; I had prepared a really interesting lecture, part of which circled around the difference between Eric Clapton's and Bob Marley's versions of I Shot the Sheriff. I was going to begin by asking the students to make a time-line charting the emotional journey of the vocal in I've Been Lonely For so Long, and I was going to play them Poly Styrene as an illustration of hollerin' and declamation, and Sinatra as an example of crooning.
Just to be prudent, I went to my teaching room half an hour early.
Hole and below, the DVD player that we use to play CDs was jammed. 'Aha', thought the early bird, 'Plenty of time to phone Technical Support and get it fixed or replaced'.
I went to the phone on the wall and picked it up. it was dead, and its socket had been completely destroyed.
I tried my mobile: no signal.
A student came in and I begged to borrow his. The Technical Helpline number rang... and rang,... and rang.
Heartily, I described the tracks to the students, and led them down to the room for their practical songwriting session.
The room was locked.
You see, a morning like that makes the journey back round the slow and dirty North Circular a journey of perfect bliss.
Every cloud has a silver lining!
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Larst Night
Well that was a funny night, wannit!
Satnav Man got me lost north of the canal, making a neat box with its green arrows and telling me I was at Ladbroke Grove when I was in the middle of a small estate. I panicked and phoned my friend for the street number, and Satnav Man gave in and got me there eventually. I have it set to 'Australian' because the English voice is so obnoxiously realistically bossy.
The other Housewives were there in their hats, sitting with Jessica and watching a series of singer songwriters and small bands hit the stage.
The venue itself reminds me of a shopping centre, or a tube station concourse, or perhaps the foyer of a very large Tescos.
It has that sort of ambience- people passing through and buying cheap things (the cocktails are only £2.50) or not as the case may be. It ran more than 30 minutes late, so we were all rather sleepy when we got up to play, following a guitar-hero band who were as long in the tooth as us but didn't realise. Actually the drummer was a bit younger and seemed like a good drummer until about the third song, when he did the same thing that he'd done in the first two songs again, and resembled more a baby sitting in a high chair whacking the tray with a couple of bananas.
We lined up our tall stools, and set off, one song from each of us at a time, and believe it or not, it worked! We even pulled some punters down from upstairs, which was a relief as the place had emptied out as it got later and later. It was nice to sit next to Jude and Kath in that way, almost as though we were having a musical conversation. We had planned a thread going through it, starting in the country and ending in the city. We have that and another one planned for Wednesday.
Next Wednesday will be much nicer as it's our own gig.
Shockingly, as I sang the last song, Banana Whacker got up on stage behind me and started taking bits of his gear to pack up. Rarely do I call a chap a w*nker on this blog, but he thoroughly deserves the moniker.
Verdict: I thought we played a classy set in a venue that has a very odd atmosphere and a transient audience, there for the cheap booze rather than the music.
Satnav Man got me lost north of the canal, making a neat box with its green arrows and telling me I was at Ladbroke Grove when I was in the middle of a small estate. I panicked and phoned my friend for the street number, and Satnav Man gave in and got me there eventually. I have it set to 'Australian' because the English voice is so obnoxiously realistically bossy.
The other Housewives were there in their hats, sitting with Jessica and watching a series of singer songwriters and small bands hit the stage.
The venue itself reminds me of a shopping centre, or a tube station concourse, or perhaps the foyer of a very large Tescos.
It has that sort of ambience- people passing through and buying cheap things (the cocktails are only £2.50) or not as the case may be. It ran more than 30 minutes late, so we were all rather sleepy when we got up to play, following a guitar-hero band who were as long in the tooth as us but didn't realise. Actually the drummer was a bit younger and seemed like a good drummer until about the third song, when he did the same thing that he'd done in the first two songs again, and resembled more a baby sitting in a high chair whacking the tray with a couple of bananas.
We lined up our tall stools, and set off, one song from each of us at a time, and believe it or not, it worked! We even pulled some punters down from upstairs, which was a relief as the place had emptied out as it got later and later. It was nice to sit next to Jude and Kath in that way, almost as though we were having a musical conversation. We had planned a thread going through it, starting in the country and ending in the city. We have that and another one planned for Wednesday.
Next Wednesday will be much nicer as it's our own gig.
Shockingly, as I sang the last song, Banana Whacker got up on stage behind me and started taking bits of his gear to pack up. Rarely do I call a chap a w*nker on this blog, but he thoroughly deserves the moniker.
Verdict: I thought we played a classy set in a venue that has a very odd atmosphere and a transient audience, there for the cheap booze rather than the music.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Desperado Housewives First Gig
Tonight, at Liquid Nation, opposite Ladbroke Grove tube station
We're the last act
We're the last act
Katy Carr: Coquette
Greg Kurstin and Inara George (otherwise known as Bird and a Bee) must be weeping into their mirror-mirror-on-the-wall!
Here is Katy, challenging them for their pop-electronica crown, but with some of the most beautifully-recorded string arrangements I've ever heard- not so much lush and blossoming but twiggy and just resonant enough to remind you that there are real people there playing real wood with real horsehair; meanwhile, her voice sparkles with joie-de-vivre, confident, pure, flexible, controlling the complex arrangements that have more hooks than Can't Get You Out Of My Head but still manage to sound left-field.
This is an absolutely beautiful album. I have heard lots of these songs in their simple live form and they absolutely flower in the studio.
Katy has been fond of 'mad' women performers like Tori Amos and Kate Bush for a long time.
But with this album, she shows us that it is the rest of us that are mad and it is Katy that is sane. There is a special place for women performers with a vision, and Katy has reserved herself a worthy position there. this is about the fifth time I have listened to this collection of songs, and I'm still hearing new and inspiring details in it every time.
I used to be Katy's teacher years ago: the pupil has far outstripped the teacher, which is exactly as it should be.
Katy, I am proud of you!
Here is Katy, challenging them for their pop-electronica crown, but with some of the most beautifully-recorded string arrangements I've ever heard- not so much lush and blossoming but twiggy and just resonant enough to remind you that there are real people there playing real wood with real horsehair; meanwhile, her voice sparkles with joie-de-vivre, confident, pure, flexible, controlling the complex arrangements that have more hooks than Can't Get You Out Of My Head but still manage to sound left-field.
This is an absolutely beautiful album. I have heard lots of these songs in their simple live form and they absolutely flower in the studio.
Katy has been fond of 'mad' women performers like Tori Amos and Kate Bush for a long time.
But with this album, she shows us that it is the rest of us that are mad and it is Katy that is sane. There is a special place for women performers with a vision, and Katy has reserved herself a worthy position there. this is about the fifth time I have listened to this collection of songs, and I'm still hearing new and inspiring details in it every time.
I used to be Katy's teacher years ago: the pupil has far outstripped the teacher, which is exactly as it should be.
Katy, I am proud of you!
Sunday, October 04, 2009
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!
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!
The Internet
I discourage my students from using the Internet, and specifically Wikipedia, which is simply wrong, more often than not.
I know this because their entry about me, yes, ME, the bigheaded artistmusicianacademic, is wrong.
Being a Blogger, I understand the need to fill space with nonsense in order to validate life and communicate with unseen people.
Sometimes it all reminds me of Dr Seuss' story of Horton the Elephant, who finds a tiny world floating in the air one day.
The people in the tiny world have all got together and are shouting 'We're HERE, We're HERE!' through a giant megaphone attached to the top of their tallest building.
Our writings gain an authority (an unauthorised authority) by being posted electronically to be searched and seen.
The students still use it for serious research in spite of exhortations to use the library books where established theorists and philosophers argue against history, so I've decided to re-christen it various names that should pop into their heads at those lax moments when they can't be bothered to open a book.
I'd thought about 'Loner's Lies', but ended up deciding on 'Cranks Rants'.
I know this because their entry about me, yes, ME, the bigheaded artistmusicianacademic, is wrong.
Being a Blogger, I understand the need to fill space with nonsense in order to validate life and communicate with unseen people.
Sometimes it all reminds me of Dr Seuss' story of Horton the Elephant, who finds a tiny world floating in the air one day.
The people in the tiny world have all got together and are shouting 'We're HERE, We're HERE!' through a giant megaphone attached to the top of their tallest building.
Our writings gain an authority (an unauthorised authority) by being posted electronically to be searched and seen.
The students still use it for serious research in spite of exhortations to use the library books where established theorists and philosophers argue against history, so I've decided to re-christen it various names that should pop into their heads at those lax moments when they can't be bothered to open a book.
I'd thought about 'Loner's Lies', but ended up deciding on 'Cranks Rants'.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Loo
The plumber is here, changing the innards of the dribbly loo.
People say I'm mad spending money at this late stage when we might have moved out in a few weeks, but they don't live with the dribbly loo and its potential waterfall capabilities!
There has been drama; it's an East-European designer mini-loo with no compatible parts.
Maybe this won't fit, maybe it will, it doesn't, it does, where is the stopcock, I can't find it, yes I can...
I'm beyond drama, because I'm wondering if the mortgage company who promised me a mortgage are going to pull out. Suddenly they have asked for more documents, and more, and more.
They are a corporation, and don't care about the human being at the end of their decision line.
I can't bear to talk to anyone; there are great good things in my life, but a big bundle of badness threatening it all like a heavy thundercloud, potentially disrupting everything, and I never know if or when that's going to happen.
I knew it would be like this, with slow progress at a snail's pace. I have had to learn to contain my anger and frustration and think about the future and not the past.
People say I'm mad spending money at this late stage when we might have moved out in a few weeks, but they don't live with the dribbly loo and its potential waterfall capabilities!
There has been drama; it's an East-European designer mini-loo with no compatible parts.
Maybe this won't fit, maybe it will, it doesn't, it does, where is the stopcock, I can't find it, yes I can...
I'm beyond drama, because I'm wondering if the mortgage company who promised me a mortgage are going to pull out. Suddenly they have asked for more documents, and more, and more.
They are a corporation, and don't care about the human being at the end of their decision line.
I can't bear to talk to anyone; there are great good things in my life, but a big bundle of badness threatening it all like a heavy thundercloud, potentially disrupting everything, and I never know if or when that's going to happen.
I knew it would be like this, with slow progress at a snail's pace. I have had to learn to contain my anger and frustration and think about the future and not the past.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Ringtone
The Stripling Nephew and the Wardrobe
Wardrobe Man came back yesterday evening with his Stripling Nephew. They removed some more bits from the wardrobe's body, and braved my eagle glare as they inched it towards the door without scratching the floorboards.
The exciting bit was the stairs, and I had to join in to prevent them smashing the window on the landing.
I noticed that every time I held on to a bit of wardrobe, the Stripling Nephew let go.
Aaargh!
At one point I was sitting on the stairs muttering between gritted teeth:'The wardrobe is resting on my knees. If you let go, my legs will break'.
At another: 'The wardrobe is resting on the banisters. If you let go, the banisters will break'.
The Stripling Nephew did not listen to women. He completely ignored me and did not make any eye contact.
Occasionally he listened to his Uncle, but mostly he tried not to lift anything, merely resting his hand gently on the wardrobe as if to pat it for being a good piece of furniture.
The Uncle was convinced that I had built the wardrobe upstairs, but I assured him that it had moved house with me several times.
On several occasions, the three of us stood there on the stairs, stuck and panting.
Finally, it stood in the hallway laughing to itself at our exertions.
They struggled it to the white van and drove off, after a dignified pause to collect themselves.
I don't think the Stripling Nephew has a future in furniture removals, somehow.
BTW, Richard Cundill sent me this link to a Chefs feature on his friend's blog
http://fruitierthanthou.blogspot.com/
I might tell you the story of the non-appearance of The Chefs CD this weekend.
The exciting bit was the stairs, and I had to join in to prevent them smashing the window on the landing.
I noticed that every time I held on to a bit of wardrobe, the Stripling Nephew let go.
Aaargh!
At one point I was sitting on the stairs muttering between gritted teeth:'The wardrobe is resting on my knees. If you let go, my legs will break'.
At another: 'The wardrobe is resting on the banisters. If you let go, the banisters will break'.
The Stripling Nephew did not listen to women. He completely ignored me and did not make any eye contact.
Occasionally he listened to his Uncle, but mostly he tried not to lift anything, merely resting his hand gently on the wardrobe as if to pat it for being a good piece of furniture.
The Uncle was convinced that I had built the wardrobe upstairs, but I assured him that it had moved house with me several times.
On several occasions, the three of us stood there on the stairs, stuck and panting.
Finally, it stood in the hallway laughing to itself at our exertions.
They struggled it to the white van and drove off, after a dignified pause to collect themselves.
I don't think the Stripling Nephew has a future in furniture removals, somehow.
BTW, Richard Cundill sent me this link to a Chefs feature on his friend's blog
http://fruitierthanthou.blogspot.com/
I might tell you the story of the non-appearance of The Chefs CD this weekend.
Early
I set off at seven this morning for the University of the East, where a new academic day is dawning with its consequent troubled waters to negotiate. I got to work just after 7.30 after circling a deserted North Circular, and the receptionist at Security was so bleary he forgot how to articulate his unpleasantness and just gave off an unpleasant vibe instead, so slowly that the woman sitting next to him was able to interject and be really nice and helpful!
So now it's 8.30, an hour and a half to go before teaching starts, and enough time to buckle on my armour, build a couple of bridges and take the day from myself before anyone snatches it and runs off with it.
Three hours teaching... only three hours, I tell myself; three days pre-teaching stress, three months organisation to try to prevent anything going wrong.
With incompatible machinery, bewildered students and a certain ratio of 'support' staff whose job seems to be not losing their job rather than helping to run a University, the word 'challenging' is re-defined every year. But it's not just here- these things happen in every organisation, I know. I'm wearing a bright red cowboy shirt in defiance of anyone who tries to trowel misery on to my day, and to make a statement of positivity to my students.
Yaaaaaaarrrrr!
So now it's 8.30, an hour and a half to go before teaching starts, and enough time to buckle on my armour, build a couple of bridges and take the day from myself before anyone snatches it and runs off with it.
Three hours teaching... only three hours, I tell myself; three days pre-teaching stress, three months organisation to try to prevent anything going wrong.
With incompatible machinery, bewildered students and a certain ratio of 'support' staff whose job seems to be not losing their job rather than helping to run a University, the word 'challenging' is re-defined every year. But it's not just here- these things happen in every organisation, I know. I'm wearing a bright red cowboy shirt in defiance of anyone who tries to trowel misery on to my day, and to make a statement of positivity to my students.
Yaaaaaaarrrrr!
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