E la banana!!!

I'm still staring into space here. For one, my foot doesn't allow me to go far. For another, I still have a stumped fingernail which also doesn't allow me to type as fast as I usually do. Bad luck, shit happens. And I should be thankful, I could have really got myself in deep shit. As it is, it is a minor fracture. It still hurts, and the bandage is so tight I think all my blood has gone on strike. My foot isn't a nice picture, it's so white and pale poor thing. My mum would probably force-feed it Bovril, which I like, but which I'm not sure my foot would like. Taking a shower today has turned into one of the most challenging things I've done in my life. And I also risked breaking my neck in the process. But I'm still alive. It will take much more than a fractured foot to stop me from writing in my blog, oh, and for still having my say everywhere else. My neck isn't very uncomfortable either. Well I guess I am reaping the consequences of having hurled myself a whole storey. And still I have things to say. One would thing I would be such a good socialiser, oh God I'm the wallflower standing in the corner hoping desperately not to be noticed. I hope people will not be too hard on me tomorrow, I really walk with difficulty, and it's painful.

Another thing going on. I have been put in charge of yet more dirty work, answering mail for Baklava's Kamikaze Lover. So many people are writing to my twin brother. Some are so sweet, some so funny, and some so downrightfully rude that they become funny too. One asked me (my twin) how he can get my (my twin's) same abs! Another asked me about my banana! Oh dear.

Dangerously risky

I am working on a new project. A school one. Not the type as in kid's projects when they surf the Internet, cop, past and print. Yes kids we know what you do, it wasn't so easy in our days. And the two words 'our days' are out, it's making me look ancient and I'm not ancient. Although some child called me MRS! I couldn't believe it, I hate the Mrs, Mrs also sounds old, and since I have resisted the ball of white, then I can safely be called MISS. Thank you very much. Although just an AnnMarie would do, but I think it's against school protocol. What I find very amusing though is that teachers address each other with the MISS title too, even when friends!! It's so funny. But I play on, anyway it's the best thing I know how to do, and that is play.

So I start on my new prize day school project. This is going to be the the most dangerous so far. The music is dangerous, that means of course that it's beautiful. And I've just realised there's got to be an a Capella bit too, which will be as dangerous as walking on thin ice. No I am not exaggerating for the post Prosit. I think I have really lost my marbles this time, but I'm going ahead with it anyway. Dad thinks it's impossible. The Mister is more excited than I am but apprehensive. And as I have done in my life, in all departments, it's spelling danger, so I'm going with it. It's about time we faced up to the danger of the performing arts. I don't want to play safe anymore. I want the danger, the excitement. I want to see little faces flushed with excitement. They have to experience the element of danger always present in performing. It's the world, it's life, and they're going to get it, along with me. The odd thing is that I really think these little people can do it. It is something for fully-fledged vocalists, yet I'm giving it to 9 year old kids. And I bet they'll do it better. Because there will be the magic present, they will learn how to understand me and each other with one look, not even one hand. I am ready to really work my butt off (now that would be very nice) to get this in order. Order... it's not really a word to do with performing arts. No, something other than order, a better word would be affinity. No affinity, then this will be the worst rendering ever. Affinity, we'll make history. It's a risk, one I am ready to take. In performing, there is no better safe than sorry situation. It's what makes the bright lights worth it. Nobody will lead, it's got to be a joint effort. I will help of course, but ultimately the little people have got to help me. There is something In Zejtun air, or perhaps it's in the water. Whatever it is it runs in the veins. These kids take to performing like ducks to water. And I love them for it. Because it makes my job not a job, but something I love and am proud of. Sure, the getting up in the morning will always be a challenge. But that's it. Little Zejtun people co-operate once they know they have your full trust. And no word need be said. Not even the wave of a hand. Just one look. And somehow they know. Perhaps they'd do a better job at running the country than any of us grown ups. Another reason why I never want to grow up.

Adolf and Eva

I woke up this morning as normal, until my foot hit the carpet. Terrible shooting pain in my left foot, I couldn't walk. So I just hobbled and did my things, none of which I was getting right. I tried putting my cardigan on, I was putting it the wrong way right a couple of times, and all while balancing dangerously on my right foot. I couldn't drive very well but I had to, and on I hobbled to school. I'm not sure it was a good idea, because everywhere was so slippery wet, and there I went again. I actually managed to re-sprain my same foot. Oh God the pain. Thank God school houses an elevator, I wouldn't have managed. And I guess I wouldn't have managed very well if it were not for my friend Claire who at least took off me the weight of my bag. My bag weighs tonnes, I just put everything into it, probably half the house too. Then it weighs me down, and on a day like today that would not have been such a good idea. I thought the pain would subside; it didn't. So of course I had to drag myself to the doctor who didn't like the look of my foot at all. So long for all the pedicures, he said he didn't like it. But I think he was referring to the inflammation, at least I hope he was. No I'm certain he was, I have a nice doctor and he wouldn't say anything like that unless it was a medical problem. I will save you from all the boring details. It turns out I have a hairline fracture (what's my hairline got to do with it is a mystery) and it cannot be put in plaster (that's a good thing because I hate plaster). So I got off with a heavily bandaged foot and I cannot wear any of my shoes except for my Nikes and even then I have to tie the laces really loosely. I am taking pain relievers and my foot still hurts. The little man that was digging in my head not so long ago has suddenly moved to my left foot. I love men, but not these little men who are always digging. I love men again, and mostly big ones, but I do not have a problem with small men unless they are suffering from a Hitler syndrome. They are usually the short stocky men who would love to wear a bra but because they cannot get away with that, they somehow puff up their chest. They are also nearly also way too assertive, walk with a sergeant major walk, and think they rule the world. They have never come to terms with their height (or lack of it) and would probably wear heels if they could, but since they cannot, they take to walking on the balls of their feet. They look like a puffed up pheasant. Not a pretty sight. And I have to say it again, not all small men behave like this. Some small men are very sensible and sensitive. They make extremely good colleagues. I, for one, should never and am not complaining about size. These Hitler-syndromed men are probably the male equivalent of females who strut around in high heels all day long without doing anything. They have micro waists, non existent hips and are not necessarily pretty. Of course they can never show a cleavage because they don't have one, never show a shapely pair of hips or some booty because nothing's there. And yes here is comes, they act like Eva Brown. Come to think of it both the Hitler-syndromed men and the strutty women look like pheasants in a way or another. So perhaps it's all in the mind and think they're the best-looking kind of poultry around. And now I start feeling sorry for them, because perhaps it's not their fault they're so in love with themselves because they've seen their reflection in some muddy murky pond and some sort of narcisstic psychotic disorder has got hold of them. Same as Adolf and Eva. How sad.