At 7am, I shall be at my local train station, rigged up like The Queen of He(a)rts, handing out jam tarts that my grandma is currently baking, with little Hertbeat flags and stickers, encouraging commuters to listen to Hertbeat FM. I shall, with no doubt at all, look like a total tool, and I'll be lucky if I get away without being lynched. I shall then take my kit to another train station, where I shall do it again.
I will then go home, get changed into non-cartoon gear, and take my book manuscript to an agent. Following which, I'm meeting up with one of my best friends to get horribly, horribly drunk. Although not too drunk, because I have to return the costume to the fancy dress shop on Thursday morning.
"What with the Best Job thing, and now this," I said to my dad on the way to pick up the feather-trimmed costume (I don't remember the Queen of Hearts wearing feathers, but apparently she does), "I'm going to look like a fame hungry twinkie, aren't I."
"Yup," dad said. "Absolutely obsessed with it."
"Do you think anyone will know I don't actually want fame?"
"Nope. Not even for a second." Dad paused. "You're wearing leggings with that thing, right?" he said. "Because you look like a stripogram."
"I'm wearing a full length skirt underneath it," I assured him. "And a wig. Nobody will know it's me."
"Mmm," dad said. "They know your name at the radio station, right?"
There was a silence.
"They do," I confirmed. "Bugger."
So that's it. Shy Holly is going to have to be pushed into her box tomorrow, because otherwise I'm going to be so terrified I probably won't leave the house. I knew that chasing dreams was hard work, but I didn't know it would be so bloody scary.
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