Begging your pardon.

Even the most mediocre of us will do at least one great thing while on earth. It might be something that gains widespread recognition, or it might be as small as having a conversation with a random at a wedding that really has an impact on their life.

My great moment came a little over a month ago.

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Me too.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last week, you are likely to have heard something about the allegations of sexual assualt made against Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein. And unless you’re one of those people who can miraculously go days or longer without logging on to social media, you’ve most likely seen tweets or statuses consisting of the following two words:

Me too.

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The Fluffy Croquette

So for the last 14 months I’ve been trying to think of what insights and advice I could give to singers experiencing the immediate aftermath of conservatorium. Having finished my Master of Early Music in June 2016, surely I should have something to say, some advice or recommendation to give, some wisdom to impart?

Nope. No I don’t. Not yet at least.

So instead I’m going to write about my cat.

While on the unsuccessful foray across the southern border, an extremely ill-informed decision was made to adopt a cat. Despite A being so much of a dog person that he likes them better than most people, we believed that with his full time work schedule and my unpredictable travelling, taking on a cat would be a better fit for the household, due to their presumed greater independence.

Only problem is, we didn’t get a cat. We got a psycho kitten, who turned out to require 7 galaxies more work than your average dog. Her name was Croqueta, she terrorised us on a daily basis, and I adored her.


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Sometimes I am convinced that rather than being a human of standard skeletal construction, I am in fact a mutant. A mutant with a weapon built in to my anatomy, and angled in such a way that no matter what posture I adopt, no matter how I attempt to align myself, I am biologically designed to shoot myself in the foot.

Obviously, this is a metaphor. I’m relatively certain that had I been born with such an actual disfigurement, my parents would have had a surgeon sort it out.

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