singing & rubber footwear

Says my Brit:

"Ah baby, people are laughing at you. You poor thing."

Peas: No they're not.

Brit: OK baby.

Peas: Why are British people so scared of colour? God!

Brit: For the first time I'm realising that you do have SAD. And in fact you're handling it rather well.

Peas: Yes. I am.

Wearing bright red wellingtons to work is apparently like, the most controversial thing ever. Up there with talking to a stranger on the bus, (which my Mum and aunt evidently did when they were here. "Wow, you have lovely hair!" to a bird on the Northern Line).

But I don't give a fuck. When people stare at them, in say a lift or the lunch queue, I just smile really really widely at them, like I'm a nutter. And then they just scurry away.

I'm wearing them for another reason too. Straight after work, a bunch of us are congregating at my New Best Gay Friend's House to sing karaoke.

I haven't done karaoke in about 2 years. I used to live and die for karaoke. It formed at least 3 chapters of the book I published a few years ago.

And because NBGF has purchased himself SingStar and the ability to make mulled wine, we'll be going up to Angel later this evening to strangle cats and other furry animals over the microphone.

Karaoke is the Brit's worst nightmare. He wakes up beading out from the fear of public, tone deaf oration. His fear, mixed with my obsession for it was almost a deal breaker.

He's coming along though, on the promise that he won't need to sing, but can rather just get drunk in the corner and laugh at us.

And I'll be doing it in my red wellies, just because it's Christmas. God. The excitement.