Right I have a bout 10 minutes to smash out this blog with know idea what I'm going to write about and a banging headache to accompany my typing noises.
I went out last night to celebrate a friend's birthday, I intended it to be a terribly quiet affair with minimal drinking and an early to bed finish. I crawled home after 3 night buses and a trawl through Leicester Square at 4:30am and decided it would be genius to eat a pot of taramasalata in my bed with a spoon.
When I awoke this morning even my soft toys were judging me.
This week is already chaos and I'm not even into the meaty part yet... I've an audition this afternoon to go and play Puck (mystical horny critter - fucking typecast) and then a gig in Reading tonight. I am gigging every single night this week in and around London and am also supposed to be making a plausible effort to work hard during the day. This could be the death of me.
I'm already tired. Mainly from dancing at Fez (not round the hat) twas a club in Putney which I attended last night. That's right - I went clubbing. I literally and metaphorically let my sodding hair down and it was great... and today I'm remembering why I rarely do it. Turns out ambitions and busy days really don't mix well with a desire to stick your head next to the porcelain pedestal and sing Lionel Richie songs to yourself whilst crying softly into the Tesco branded loo paper.
I have to go. But rest assured, I'm taking the pain with me.