Another grey day here, brightened by the occasional baby squirrel leaping into the bushes like an action hero eluding a speeding train. There is not much to do here today, and I’m anxious to be home, packing for my northward trek to my sister’s wedding, lacquering my soon-to-be-exposed toenails pink, and practicing my song for the wedding.

Ah yes, the song. I have a very good voice. It is one of the things about which my ego is bullet-proof. I briefly considered a career as a classical soprano, and my teachers told me I wasn’t deluding myself at all. I decided I probably didn’t have the strength of mental constitution to persist in such a competitive biz. At least as an aspiring writer, I can be rejected safely at home in my pyjamas, without having to go anywhere or see my competition — let alone compete without even an instrument to shield me (an idea I persisted in longer.)

I agreed to sing at my sister’s wedding, beaming with pride, long before she was engaged, or, in fact, had met her fella. Possibly in eighth grade. I am not sure why she thought she needed to book early, but she did, and here I am, two days before the event, strangely nervous.

I’m not that nervous, generally! I have a sort of fatalistic attitude — do what you can, then let it happen. I’m the girl who swabbed out her oboe in a few measures’ rest at Solo/Ensemble Competition, for heaven’s sake! Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve only rehearsed with the guitarist once, maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t sung solo in public since 1999, maybe it’s the fact that the last thing I sang in public was…gosh, what was it…well, Purcell or something…and I’m singing Sarah McLachlan. I’ve never sung anything in public that ISN’T classical. It’s strangely frightening, like suddenly there’s an audience listening outside the bathroom door while I’m singing in the shower. Maybe it’s the fact that he sheet music doesn’t align quite right with the CD, so I feel like the sheet music has failed me, like the lines of the staff are melting as I cling to them. Maybe it’s that the range of the music isn’t quite normal for me, and I worry that I don’t have the control over my voice I once had. Maybe, just maybe, it’s that it’s my sister’s wedding, my only sister, the only other work from those artists, the ur-me I followed, pestered, teased, admired and emulated all through my childhood. I want everything to be perfect, I want me to be perfect. No wonder I’m nervous.