I've had a pretty exhausting week and am feeling pretty fragile today. I've managed about 275 words, to which I may or may not return and add more. Here is a little snippet:


Glen stopped half a second after I did, crashing out a vague resolving chord. 'Phyl, that would have been perfect – if you were a robot. Technically, you're much better than you realise, but you need to get the character into it.'

'I'm trying,' I said, miserably.

'Really? From where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're going for angelic choirboy, not hormonal teenage boy. The name's meant to be ironic...'

At this point he shut up, because I burst into tears. This is not something that usually happens in my singing lessons, so it threw him. He dealt with it fairly well, all things considered, passing me a box of tissues and waiting until I'd subsided to the occasional sniff before apologising.

'I'm sorry, Phyl. That was a bit harsh.'

I shook my head and took another tissue. 'Not your fault. I just can't deal with hormonal teenage boys at the moment.'