The Good Ship Lollipop

I have a Christmas karaoke party to go to tonight.

And I have a cold.

The two, I might add, are not symbiotic and now I am cranky.

Yesterday I was curled up in bed, warm in my flannel pyjamas and cashmere socks, dosed up with vitamin c, organic lemon, honey and echinacea, peppermint oil on my temples, and extracts of rosemary, cypress, lavender and geranium on my sinuses, smug in my holistic approach to the common cold.

Today, with my nose still running, throat still sore, head feeling like overcooked mashed potatoes and being up and about at work, I cracked, made my way to the pharmacy and reverted to hard drugs.
I am pathetic with a cold and this is no time to coddle, it is the Christmas party season, people!

There are parties to be at, to woo, to shine, to sparkle, to flirt outrageously and inappropriately. There is no time for illness.

And as it is, I have a mortal fear of singing in public. I was cursed, you see, at the tender age of 16. At my very first pantomime audition.

I arrived, all curly haired and fresh faced with head shot and resume, my monologues perfected, my nervous parents standing guard. The director dismissed my pieces, looked over his half moon spectacles at me, and barked

"Can you sing? Sing!"

And me, nervous and ill prepared as I had most definitely not prepared a song, as no one had told me I would have to SING, nor did I know the words to anything, burst into a rousing, impromptu rendition, complete with jazz hands, coy smile and dance routine of " On the Good Ship Lollipop".

Trouble was, I forgot the words half way and my brain, struggling to keep up with the very quickly unravelling of my dignity somehow confused the lyrics of "On the Good Ship Lollipop" with the lyrics from "Great Balls of Fire."

I sang my little heart out, I danced, I made up lyrics and all the while that greying head of the director nodded, smirked and as I left the room, dejected and humiliated, the man giggled.

Giggled.

I didn't get the part, I am sure you gathered by now.

I refused to sing in public again, happily miming even "Happy Birthday", somehow even during my few short weeks as world's worst waitress when we were all to sing the dumbest of all dumb songs to our customers on their birthdays, I managed to get away with just moving my lips.

And then my 21st birthday. In the Blarney Stone, and me resplendent in a fabulous new outfit, several tequila shots worse for wear, on stage. With the band.
Singing the chorus to "Wasn’t that a Party."

Well. Shouting apparently. Wasn't that a party, alright...

And right as I hit my stride, hit the right note and let myself go

"Tell me, me, oh me... oh my..." I took a step forward.

And promptly fell off stage.

I still have the scar to prove it.