Singing the Blues.

The holiday blues. If l could play more than three chords on the guitar without my fingers seizing up into arthritic balls, and if l could sing without seemingly summoning all the male cats in the neighbourhood for a cheeky mating session, then l would be a-strumming and warbling my woes to any unlucky souls who happened to pass my way.

Yet, here l sit in a shorts, a little tanned, salt on my skin, attempting to lift my spirits by learning the dance routine to Lady GaGa's 'Telephone' from You Tube. No, l have not decided on a new career as a backing dancer. I have no spatial awareness, and controlling all my limbs at the same time without causing carnage requires a huge amount of concentration. In truth, the only work l would get would be in village pantomimes where Prince Charming is played by the local boss-eyed, moon-faced, cowpat-wielding idiot. And then only if l wore a donkey costume and sat in a bath of horse shit and baked beans for the entire show.  But l digress. In truth, the tan came from a bottle (Non-sticky and Streak Free? I think not my friend. I have tide marks across my body that resemble some sort of tribal war paint. I fear that exposing my inner thighs, forearms, or feet in public may inadvertently start the Third World War). And l am merely salty from a rather strenuous game of squash. Too much information? I care not. As for La Gaga? When darkness falls l shall turn the music up loud, turn off the lights off, and dance around my kitchen wearing nothing but rubber gloves and a pair of Onion Goggles waving my glow-stick App around like l just don't care. My own version of singing the blues, as it were.

For, from tonight l will not be:

1.) Going to bed in the early hours of the morning after watching back to back episodes of The Only Way is Essex, laughing hilariously at the total ignorance and idiocy of perma-tanned, fake breasted, gleaming toothed residents. While simultaneously wondering what cup size would suit me. Would 40HH be too much? It could only be a bonus on the rugby field. Either as a distraction or as extra padding.

2.) Drinking alcohol as if in training for a member of the AA. I may try and convince myself (and most people around me) that l am attempting a version of Super Size Me with cocktails instead of the Golden Arches, however, the lack of film crew or video equipment usually gives the game away. Apparently the video function on the phone doesn't count. Who knew?

3.) Greatly increasing the likelihood of a hose pipe ban this summer by embracing fully the luxuriousness of non-time restricted baths and showers. A shower to wake up, followed by a bath for a couple of hours whilst l watch a film on the laptop l have precariously balanced on the toilet lid. Dangerous, l know, but l find the threat of electrocution oddly liberating. Then a trip to the gym to play in the jacuzzi, steam room, and another shower. Then, if alcohol has not been consumed, a bath is required to enable one to fall easily into slumber. On the downside, l seem to have developed the puckered skin of an 80 year old seasoned smoker. Not a look that rocks with denim hot pants and bikini tops. There has been a audible sound of retching as l stroll down the street.

4.) Living a WAG lifestyle on a vastly inferior income. You know it is serious when the global institution that is your bank deigns to call you up personally. At 4am. On Easter Sunday. Not to offer you a golden Easter Egg, as you might assume. No. Quote - " Could you tell me the amount of your last purchase and the name of the place it occurred?". " £145 in the Drunken Monkey you say? And your card has not been stolen? Okay, lets set up an appointment with your bank manager". Slightly unnerving, particularly when drinking mojito straight out of a jug.

5.) Waking up sprawled across a duvet on a friend's sofa bed, smiling smugly as l listened to them getting grumpily ready for work, nursing the Sky Plus remote in my hand, poised for that morning's omnibus of LA Ink. Mind you, nor will l be receiving a swift but well aimed kick to the head as l casually demand a mug of tea and slice of buttered toast before they leave the house.

These things will become a distant memory, replaced by the political debate at 6am, walking to and from work, e-mails, meetings, canteen sandwiches and half drunk cups of  instant coffee. I am not sure l can take it.  So, if the news is full of a teacher who insisted on all of her pupils painting themselves orange and performing the 'Telephone' dance on the school field whilst blowing whistles and waving glowsticks, you will know what happened. The blues got the better of me.