We don't eat until your father's at the table

Whenever I get off stage after a gig, I go into a strange, unreal kind of state of mind where decision making is just completely impossible, and as such, I can't decide whether I want to throw up, curl up and go to sleep, or cry forever, or giggle, or run, or play a whole other set. I don't know if I want to be alone, or with people, not sure if I'm feeling tired enough to go home or buzzed enough to stay out. Mum says it's adrenaline taking some time to dissipate, and I think so too. But in a more romantic way (which is generally the way I favour) I think it's the aftermath of being so erratically, uncontrollably honest for 45 minutes. I'm OK with people knowing the most secret of secrets as long as I get to choose how I tell them, and I tell them, and it's OK because lots of people have secrets like mine anyway. But telling them makes me shake, and sweat, and cry a little bit, and smile too, and stamp my feet and flail my hands around in front of me weirdly, shooing invisible heartache away. 

Last night was great. I knew it was going quite well when I took a sip of water and could barely hold the glass with my trembling hands. I have a couple of unedited photos that I don't think anyone will mind me using: 

I might tell you more as I remember but right now, I need to sleep off some serious waking hours of the past two days; the first, spent dancing joyously with four year olds, anxiously watching stars glitter in front of my eyes doing the 'you're low in iron' polka, and singing songs to beautiful people who actually listen, and the second - a dreamy hand holding daze of karate dance moves, ice cream for an overcast lunch and fairy-lit stages with cross legged audiences and kisses that taste like Difflam.