Quatre points for my singing performance

I’m hurtling towards gaga land. Up to now it’s been a relatively slow, but gradual descent but since Covid-Naoi Deag, it’s becoming rapid. The wine may be responsible for some of it. I’ve always had a penchant for talking to myself. I always give myself the answer I want to hear. I used to present the Eurovision in front of the bathroom mirror when I was a kid. ‘Le Royaume-Uni, quatre points’. Except I thought it was spelt ‘le wyomani’. I never gave them more than four points. And I regularly sing in the car.

I used to have a notion that at two o’clock in the morning, I was a chanteuse of a very high standard. Talented even. And then I’d wake up in the morning and realise the folly of my ways. Head-in-my-hands moments. Far too many of them. For the quarantine period, the dad of one of my son’s friends has been very ably entertaining people every night on social media with a different song for each night. He’s a very good singer himself and spasmodically has guest singers on. All also very able. But when I was having my few glasses in the evening, I reckoned I should contact him and offer my services. For singing, I mean. So I did a trial run. All by myself.

I’ll record myself and submit it, I thought. They’ll be stunned by my raw undiscovered talent. There’s that false alcohol-induced confidence again. I set the phone up at every possible angle to hide as much of myself as was possible. Dear Jesus, I have a terrible face. Every crevice and crack visible. Crevices turning into craters and chins wobbling as I belted out yet another Jimmy McCarthy number. Head thrown back. Still not enough to disguise the chins. Perhaps if I could warble from behind the couch. Maybe I’ll ask him.