I’m being metaphorical. Again.
Literally my voice has been fine. Literally I’ve just been bounding around the house singing ‘Electricity‘ at the top of my lungs. Not just because I’m a really ace singer, but because I saw Billy Elliot on the weekend and I can’t really explain how good it was. I haven’t got the words. It gave me feelings that I can’t control, and at the same time something about it made me whole.
But I can do better than paraphrase Elton John lyrics here, really I can. And I should.
Because for the past few weeks – while my literal voice has been fine – my metaphorical voice has been taking an absence. Or, in other words, I haven’t been able to write anything that would have sounded too much like me. If I did I would have made something else sound personal when it really wasn’t supposed to.
But I’m almost done with that now, which means I can go back to sounding a little bit more Claire-like (and definitely not Elton John-like.)
I’d love to jump straight in and tell you my conspiracy theories on the Oscar Best Picture disaster, and why some tap water tastes horrendous, but I fear I’ve already verbalised them to death – so I won’t. I happen to have been on my soap box about them for weeks now, so if I proceed to write them down I’m quite sure I’ll be disowned from just about everybody I love.
For that same reason I’ll also spare you my feelings on psychology – although admittedly that one is a lot harder to contain. (I’ll just ask that if we ever get to talk, you will indulge me by striking up a conversation about psychological indicators. It’ll make my day.)
Instead I’ll catch you up on some lovely personal stories which have occurred over the past few weeks. Like the story of the unexpected Valentine, and the story of how I discovered the origin of my over-active imagination, and – my personal favourite – the story of how I inadvertently ended up at the coolest hotspot in town. (That’s a really good one.)
There’s a lot to go over.
We’ll start tomorrow. X