'I'm just going to hand in my letter of resignation.'

I've gotten lazy. I admit it. I haven't been blogging with the best of them recently. Instead I've been sloppily throwing a few words on sporadically without a by/e or leave. But now I'm going to try and get back in the blogging spirit.

Right. So the first week back was kind of intense. I managed to get everything done and even got good feedback on the piece I wrote for Bill after four Pro-Plus at 3am. He said it was well written but not in the style of Kathy Lette as I had intended it to be. I'd re-written a part of The Phantom of The Opera, will post at the end of this entry. It was weird for me to be writing something kind of fun and light as I usually write things that are bleak and miserable.

Handed in my MA proposal too which was well received and, again, was given good feedback. I need to make some big decisions about my novel though in regards to tone and voice. Oh, and I've changed the protagonist so that will make a few differences.

So, last night I went round to Frea and Andy's with Joe and played/lost Poker. I don't really get the game. I think it's great if you have a good hand but I just can't do the whole bluffing thing. I get worried and end up just folding. I'm a wild one to play with evidently. I left Frea's at about half one and was really glad to get in bed. I was just dozing off when I heard a load of commotion outside; commotion that got nearer and nearer and nearer until our front door flung open and the commotion entered my living room. Now, because the weather has been so bad, the wood in the front door has swollen which means you have to slam against the door like a criminal to get in. So there's no way of coming in quietly. There is, however, a way to go up the stairs and not make much noise at 3am. My housemate had come home with two friends who went upstairs and put music on in the room directly above me. Then they were in and out of the room with the grace of hippos, with one of them shouting in a really annoying, attention seeking way, 'I'm just going to hand in my letter of resignation,' to which the other was saying, 'No, no, you can't.' I couldn't care either way and in the end stormed out of my room and told my housemate to tell her friends to shut up or to get out. The music then stopped and I fell asleep. I haven't seen her today yet but I'm not that angry really. It wasn't as if it was her making all the noise, but at the same time, they were her guests and they should have had more consideration.

Anyway, today I have come to the library to get on with sending emails about work experience. I had a response from Psychologies magazine which said they didn't have any vacancies and today have emailed The Independent and asked to spend two weeks with The Sunday Review. I'd love to do that. We'll see what happens.

So, other than that things are just going along pretty well. I'm looking forward to getting into my novel. I need to lay out the plot and think about what the book is about: is it a story of someone letting go of someone they loved? Someone who can never let go? Someone breaking out of loneliness? My course leader said I needed to think properly about what the theme is and to be able to summarise that in a line or paragraph. So, if I don't end up going out tonight, that's what I'll be doing. Whoo, Saturday night!

To be honest though, since I have been in Falmouth, the idea of Friday and Saturday nights is no longer about going out and getting drunk for me. I went out with some friends on Thursday night to eat, drink and dance and I had a really nice time. And that's enough for me for a week or two. I don't have the desire to be out all the time at the moment. I want to dedicate my time to my writing while I'm here, because otherwise I'll feel I have wasted my opportunity. That sounds like it has to be one or the other: go out and have fun or stay in and do work. And it's not, I don't think, it's more a case of balancing the pair. And at the moment, my work is the most important thing for me.

And on that serious note. I'm off.

Here's my Phantom of the Opera piece:

The Phantom of the Opera in the style of Kathy Lette.

It all started about six months ago and, to be honest, I’m surprised I’m still alive. I’m being serious.

Let me go from the beginning. I started in the chorus at the Paris Opera House about six months ago, like I said, and everything was just peachy for a while. It was great. The girls and me would just hang out, do each other’s hair and nails, make shit up about each other and generally be complete bitches. You know - the usual girlie things.

Anyway, one night the leading lady, Carlotta, God now she was a grade A bitch, she goes and gets a gammy throat. She can’t sing, she says/shouts, she can’t be seen on stage, she says/shouts. Blames it on The Phantom of the Opera, she says/whispers. Have you ever heard such trash? So anyway, who do they go and ask to step in for her? Well no actually, yours truly. I couldn’t believe it.

Still I’m not one to smack a gift horse in the mouth, as my Dad used to say, so I said, ‘Yeah, why not. I’ll give it a go.’

But bloody hell, looking back on it, the grief it gave me I wish I had smacked that bloody gift horse. I would have knocked it out.

Anyway so out I went out onto the stage all made up, bold as brass, sang the song, got a round of applause and came off again: all pretty straight-forward. But then things started getting a bit bizarre to say the least. Bloody barmy to tell you the truth.

I went down to my dressing room and started getting myself changed when this bloody bloke’s voice fills the room saying he’s my father, my dead father. I nearly shit myself. And in my best knickers too. But honestly, did you ever hear such crap? Then, then he goes and tells me to go over to the mirror. Now, I’m not one for narcotics believe me, nor am I one for ghosts. But when I looked in that mirror, I swear there was someone looking back at me. I nearly dropped down dead when a blinking arm reached out and grabbed me.

So, to cut a long story short, I ended up in some bloody underground tavern getting rowed about in a little boat by some bloke with half his face under a white mask. He was banging on about how much he liked my singing and for a while it was quite nice, very flattering. But after a while he got a bit much. Actually, saying that he got a bit much is like saying the sun’s a bit hot. He went bloody mental.

He was alright at first and we started seeing a bit more of each other. I used to go and sing for him while he played the organ. Oh, God, that bloody organ. I can still hear it now. And he only ever played about three songs. And nothing you could dance to, just dreary old numbers that made you want to hang yourself. Actually, I shouldn’t joke; he ended up hanging one of the stagehands and one of the chorus girls had a fit. I don’t think she’s out of hospital yet, not nice. Anyway I’d sing a bit for him and he’d make sure I got better parts in the productions. It was a nice sentiment and all but he was making me kind of unpopular amongst the cast, what with mystery letters, murder and smashed chandeliers.

So, as if all that wasn’t enough, the next thing I know my childhood sweetheart, Raoul arrives. Honestly, you wouldn’t see it on Ricki Lake. He’s all, ‘Oh, Christine, I love you. Oh, Christine, will you marry me?’ And I would have done but the Phantom wasn’t keen on him. And while he could be a bit dowdy and, well let’s say crazy, he was alright really. I’ll admit it. I had a soft spot for him. Apart from the times he kept saying he was my Dad, that was a bit creepy. I didn’t like that. I don’t think it was just his face he should have been worried about; I think he had some identity issues he had to deal with too. Still, if you lived most of your life in a mask scurrying around under the Opera House I don’t suppose you’ve ever got much chance of being nominated, ‘Most likely to succeed.’

xx