DAYLIGHT FADING

twenty seven | and it rains here every day

                 | twenty seven: and it rains here every day |

                                                     or

                    | another sad song: lower than atlantis |

My head swims when I wake up in the morning. Whilst The Noise have defied all expectations and generally limited their consumption of beer at the hotels we’ve stopped at along the way and on the bus, I apparently had no such reservations last night.

I’m fairly sure my poison of choice was gin. I almost went for vodka. Just almost.

I was so ecstatic with the feeling of feeling like a person that I forgot that consuming large amounts of alcohol is bad for your health. I also forgot that there is a scheduled interview in the morning before everyone goes off to practice.

I never did find out the name of the woman I invited along but I’m sure I’ll figure it out later. She’ll have to introduce herself and then I can pretend that I knew her name if she did actually tell it to me last night.

I am fairly sure that I am late for the interview but instead of rushing I leisurely roll out of bed. By this stage of the tour, what I wear is more of a reflection of what is still clean rather than anything else. I need to find a washing machine soon. The next town on the list.

I manage to find a pair of purple leggings and a huge Jimi Hendrix t-shirt that I’m not sure is even mine – judging by the size, I might have accidently stolen it off Declan – and slip my feet into some Dr Martens. No one left me a note to tell me that I had to look sharp for the interview so they’ll just have to deal with whatever I turn up in.

A glance in the mirror tells me that whilst my eyes are not too red, at least half of last night’s make-up has gotten down my face somehow and my hair is snarled in the way that it always gets if I forget to brush it before I sleep.

I look like a mess.

I carefully erase all of the debris from the whirlwind of alcohol and manage to make myself look half-presentable. My make-up is light, having forgone the flicky eyeliner I usually wear, and my pale hair is messy but has stopped looking like a bird’s nest and more like some backcombed wool.

I slip my bangles onto my wrists, happy that my plasters are still holding.

Luckily, interviewers travel to musicians, so I don’t have to attempt to get anywhere other than the hotel lobby.

I grab an acoustic and sling the case up onto my shoulder, knowing that people are generally not interested in touring members. I can just sit on the sofa and play to myself and be around for the one or two questions they might have for me.

It’s a side effect of having had a public profile prior to playing with The Noise that I will distract the interviewer slightly from them. Hopefully not too much. I’m not all that worth interviewing.

The guitar bounces slightly against my back as I walk. I’ve always been glad of my above average height when it comes to this – after seeing Jez carry a guitar I realised how lucky I was. It was hitting the backs of her legs and her shoulders every time she moved and I don’t understand how having four pounds of solid wood drum on most of your skeleton is not painful.

The corridor is gone in the blink of an eye, it seems, and I pause by the button for the lift. It would get me down to the bottom floor faster, where the interview is, but it seems like such a waste.