Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

Sunday was a doing day. A day of planning, putting things into the future. Nothing too big, or far off, just enough to create some semblance of intention, implied possible happiness. Of course the next day a text arrived buggering half of it, but such is life. Anyway, so soon I'll be going to visit the Tabs for the first time since biscuit tin and my brother decided he didn't want to go there (and clearly I need to try and remember if I've given that town a Google-stumping blog name, although I imagine the inevitable Flickring will sort of give it away) and then a little later the home of the Venerable Beet.

And unlike the last time I lived here I'm unabashedly listening to the Chicago soundtrack. Not sure it's the best for typing though; too many words jamming in head, too much finger clicking and jazz hands. Also I'm not sure where the shame came from; given I don't remember my parents objecting to me wearing out their copy of the West Side Story soundtrack. Still skipping anything with memorable 'fucks' in though (much like life).

Anyway, speaking of singing along I got dragged to a community choir the other night. Bear in mind I last sang in public in Year 10 (I got a cold; my voice was never quite the same; the bass parts were 64 identical bars of tedium) and I've never quite figured out where my adult voice ought to be.

Ooh, back to Chicago, it's this song. I know the person who plays her. Ok, so I think I know their faintly insane dog more than the owners (the market was like that. I also eventually worked out that the one who did the urban caricatures was in Hot Fuzz. But then I used to sign-on on the same day as someone from Eastenders and Doctor Who. Such thrills).

Anyway, singing. Turns out I'm quite good at repeating back the last thing sung to me, regardless of whether that's the part I'm meant to be doing; there was a slight domino effect as the altos leached into the basses, as the neighbours drift the next line glissends too. Also turns out that aping sounds isn't the best way know what the words are actually meant to be. The words are on a website and feature no French foxes (ok, it was unlikely what with the whole uncertain South African language thing. Googling suggests it's one of three options), which makes me suspect my pronunciation is about as accurate as French teenagers singing The Beatles (if you haven't encountered this you really should), which given I can get through this with only having to infer 'feoffer' from context displeases me (but had seen another version about a decade ago).

Incidentally is it a good sign if you read something in French before you notice it's in French? I thought I couldn't do that any more.

And remind me never to drive while under the influence of Chicago. Given the general jigging I'd probably finally manage to turn cruise control on.

Anyhoo,