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The morning after. The morning before. September 27th. In L.A.

I was in bed at 2am.

This is a plain, utilitarian, travelling salesman hotel. Formica and nylon.

I think about last night’s diary entry. The one I wrote in the car.

An old school chum was on Facebook this week and it transpires he lives between LA and San Diego. I put him on the guest list for last night. He’d read my post and messaged me that I hadn’t come across as aggressively as my blog read. That I had sounded more playful and that the noise wasn’t so bad where he was standing. During ‘Other’ admittedly, yes. He did say that the venue staff were sweeping the floors around them five songs before the end of the show. The gig was sold out and packed so that must have seemed a bit peculiar and intrusive.

I know I went on an hour late because of the flight cancellation, but that was still an hour and a half earlier than they originally requested I play. So I don’t know why the cleaning was required so early. It’s like a reading of Spinal Tap playing at the Airbase.

Anyway. It’s done and was remarkable only because it differed from every other brilliant night we have experienced here on this tour.

I am hoping L.A tonight will not be another exception.

I look to see how my blog went down on line. A man, who was not at the show and neither of this country, but read my post, is offended. He admonishes me for saying ‘… not a fucking wedding singer’. That his daughter is a wedding singer, who works very hard … other end of the pay scale … comments unnecessary … disrespect. Fuck sake. It’s relentless.

My husband would have no sympathy. Get off the internet, he would say. He sees no virtue in it. He usually has a point. I miss him.

I like it because I get to speak for myself where I am so often spoken about, and with my chosen language. Even when that means someone I will never meet feels free to tell me how to behave in my own world.

On my own pages.

I must remember next time I tell my kids to ‘Wash-up your own dishes, I am not your fucking slave’
– (Put down your phone to the RSPCC. They are all adults)
– That I am insulting half of the third world by undervaluing their industry.
– Jesus Christ. (Yeah. Blasphemy too).

We live in a world where kids are led to believe they should achieve their dreams. (Obviously I think that’s a nonsense).

Perish the thought that anyone’s dreams though should differ. Don’t dream is my best advice. I don’t want to take requests. Yes. I am that uppity.

Anyway. Back in my room and wondering where I can get some air.

I am told there have been heatwave fires, and there is air pollution. I’m not sure if they meant here or on the way in. I have been coughing. Thirsty.

Happily breakfast is on ’til 11 am and it is only 10 am. I go downstairs.

Everyone working here seem to be itinerants, or at least their accents aren’t American. They are delightful too.
Cheery. Helpful and gentle. I feel glad to be here, in this hotel after all. The coffee is hot and it runs freely. I exhale.

I meet a friendly English, Northern couple in the restaurant and then again in the lifts. They are holidaying and ask if I am too. I tell them I’m working. They bagged last minute tickets to see Tom Petty at the Hollywood Bowl. They told me not to work too hard and I wished them a happy week and fun. They seem like a couple prepared to find joy where it presents itself. I hope it is splendid for them.

Back in my room I navigate myself into the present.

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