This morning, to the horror of my cleaner, i was discovered cross legged upon the floor of my bedroom, shredding confidential information in my underwear, singing to a Judy LP. The old life is dead.
It becomes quite worrying when you spend your mornings watching children's tv and reruns of To the Manor Born, as means of passing the day. In the last two weeks my life has become just this, a continuous run of Penelope Keith, Dame Judy Dench and Iggle Piggle.
I'm assured that after leaving university it is natural for one to go through a process that almost resembles, grieving. I have indeed been mourning the loss of my freedom and return to the bosom of my slightly over protective family for just over a week. Had it not been for work i probably would have bought myself a nice veil to wear as well. Cornwall seems to have a slightly stale air about it these days that, no surprises, does not sit too comfortably. I feel I now know how Subo felt, dreaming of fame, fortune and show tune covers- to discover she was just a middle-aged scottish singer with a somewhat poorly produced album. I discover, I cannot escape my roots.
So, within a somewhat Social dry spell, i have been forced into some rather compromising, if not shameful situations. Im sure the idea of watching variety shows alongside the parentals, whilst your slightly typsy mother critiques Ruthie Henshall's technique is a low point that very few ordinary people would be lucky enough to experience. Nevertheless, she has a point, Ruthie is not only a bit shit but clearly the charisma deficit that her sidekick, John Barrowman, is the over zealous benefactor of.
I think I'll write more about John Barrowman at some point. Perhaps when I have gone a little bit more mad.
KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.
