OK, so I stopped blogging for a bit when I suffered a loss of confidence, but today something happened that made me realise I had to stop worrying about how people interpret what you say and what you do, I stepped back and took a deep breath.
Six weeks ago I applied to go on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square, the interactive work initiated by artist Antony Gormley that he has called a "a living monument to humanity". Most people will know him for "The Angel of the North" or "Another Place" on Crosby beach. He is a master of accessible modern art.
I never expected to be selected, but the idea of "performing " has always been dear to me, my first dream job, at 5, was a bunny girl, by 16 I was already planning on being an opera singer, but life, parental input and sheer terror made me step back from the fantasy. It has lurked, deep inside though for years. To be on stage, judged only for what you perform, not who you are, to step forward into the dazzle of the proscenium arch and take a bow to a packed auditorium (saved from stage fright by the fact you are blind as a bat and can see no one) has been something I have often dreamt of.
It is now, officially, a nightmare. My name has come up. I am on the plinth. If I can do that, I can write a blog, no more excuses. After all, they say it's not over until the fat lady sings.
I'm off to practice my scales.
PS. So far reactions have been hugely positive from friends real and virtual, the Twitter band have been generous with encouragement.
Less affirmative from other quarters. The children "God, Mum, you are sooooo embarrassing" which was expected. My Mother "Oh, well you always were a bit of a show off"