A Dreamers Dream

Birmingham- England. Part one.

Speeding down the M40 just after lunch the following day, I'm glad I had the forethought to cut myself off the wine after Michael told me about the interview today. Not gonna lie though, a large glass of Chardonnay would do wonders for my nerves right now.
Despite Lillie's attempts to piss me off last night, the party was a rousing success! I even got the joy of witnessing one of her many children puking what looked like luminous pink bile all over her prissy purple dress after he accidentally gotta hold of one of the vodka jellies, undoubtedly my highlight. All kidding aside though, mum and dad had a great time, and that was the main thing. I could have lived without the rousing rendition of 'I got you babe' that they decided to put on after a few too many drinks whilst groping at each other like teenagers on the small stage, seriously, no child needs to see her parents behaving that way. On the plus side, I did manage to capture it all on video, so that'll be a lovely treat to embarrass them with at the next family shindig.
I finally fell into bed at around three this morning, after quickly tearing down all the decorations and popping the huge piles of peach and cream balloons with a steak knife which was quite therapeutic actually. Maybe I'll swap my weekly attempts at yoga, which mostly end with me falling flat on my face whilst trying to do some kind of downward dog pose, for balloon popping in future.

It's now nearly one, and I have three hours to get my arse to the Genting Arena in Birmingham, find Clark, and prepare myself for this interview. I'm practically positive I don't have half of what I need with me if I do manage to get this job and need to be ready to jet off around the planet though, I threw a few sets of underwear into my scratched and scraped up old suitcase this morning along with a couple of pairs of jeans and a few random T-shirts, oh! and a couple of dresses are lying on the back seats too, a product of an afterthought as I was running out the door this morning, just in case I need to look a bit more presentable at any point. Whilst gulping down a lukewarm cup of tea that I kept forgetting about whilst I was packing, I quickly downloaded Harry Styles album to my phone and hit the road after a rather large fry up, which I had hoped would settle the swarm of butterflies floating about in my stomach, but so far, no such luck.

I've got to admit, this guys album is astounding, and nothing like I expected. I can't say I really know much about Harry Styles, or any of the One Direction boys for that matter, having always been more of a rock music fan than a pop one. But his album has a bit of everything on it, and it's undoubtedly feeding my inner rock chick who's happily being reminded of some of her all-time favourite bands as I bop along in my seat. There are some real rock anthems on it, not least a track called Sign of the Times, which I listened to once, then immediately repeated as I couldn't get my head around the idea that this was written and performed by the curly-headed little boy I remember watching on Xfactor years ago, crooning Stevie Wonders 'Isn't she lovely' and winning everyone over with his cheeky smile.
The album is peppered with a mixture of ballads and a couple of really energetic numbers, like Only Angel and Kiwi that both have me bouncing around in my chair, garnering some rather odd looks from the traffic flowing along beside me as I make my way down the motorway. Although why on earth he called a song about some chick having a baby 'Kiwi' I'll never know. Maybe I'll ask him if I'm ever in a position to. As the closing track to his debut flows through the car speakers, I almost manage to forget for a moment that I am doing seventy in the fast lane as his deep, melodic, soothing voice almost whispers the heart-wrenchingly honest lyrics. That's got to take some balls to sing live, I think to myself as I finally see a sign that reads 'Birmingham thirty-five miles' and restart the album for one final listen before I reach my destination.

Pulling up into the arena parking lot is a surreal experience. Even though the doors aren't scheduled to open for another three and a half hours, the car park is already jam-packed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. I spot several groups of young women, probably a little younger than me but not by much, changing into their newly purchased merchandise emblazoned with Harry's face and some kind of motto in the shadows behind their cars. A really bored looking dad who looks like he'd rather be getting his toenails pulled out one by one than tolerating the ear-splitting screams of his kids as he battles with them to just stay in the car so he can hop out and have a cigarette in peace. And one particularly harassed looking mum dragging her feet behind two teenage girls who are scolding her for getting them here so late... late? It's barely three o'clock! But as I round a corner, I suddenly understand. Outside the entrance to the arena is a copious row of dis-guarded camping tents, whilst a few feet away in a barricaded queue line, several hundred of Harry's die-hard fans lounge about the ground, all snuggled up in their fluffy white duvets, playing songs from his album and One Directions back catalogue on their phones and screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs.