A date for the prom

It's wonderful to have the visa for my Brazilian guitarist.

That big obstacle is finally out of the way.  I can now move past that blockage.  I ask for the posters and flyers to be reprinted, with the new show dates.

Excitedly, I start to tell people about the visa.  Some share my excitement, but with others, I watch as a shadow of disbelief crosses their face.

"I didn't think you'd ever get it".

"Met him on Facebook?  Really?"

I'm like the teenage girl who tells her friends she has a boyfriend, but they have never seen him and don't think he exists.  She insists that he will accompany her to the school formal, but they have their doubts.

It is true.  He is coming to Australia.  He tells me he is creating some special musical arrangements that he thinks I will like.  My travel agent is finding a hotel room for him.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, the Brazilian language school has an end of year party, outdoors at the primary school where our lessons are held.  We have all been asked to write a poem, and now we are to read it aloud on video.  I've written one that would go inside a graduation card.

I get to my feet and record my piece in one single take.  The teacher looks a bit surprised.  She listens to the recording, and declares my pronunciation to be good.

Later, they ask me to sing something.  Someone has printed out the Portuguese words to A Felicidade (Happiness).  I've never performed this song, but I want to include it in the show, so this is a good chance to give it a run, even though I don't have a backing track.

After a couple of false starts, I manage to sing it right through to the end.  I've sung along to recordings of this song many times, and have worked on it at home.  I have a general idea of its meaning, but now as I sing, words and phrases snap into focus.  I'm understanding the lyrics.

This past year has provided a great opportunity to learn the language in a logical way.

I'm really happy with my progress.  When I started a year ago, I could not recognise any words on the page.  I could not understand any of the spoken language.  And while I'm not yet conversing very easily, I think that will come soon.

I'm very excited about the show, but first it will be nice to have a few weeks' holiday, to gather energy for the big event.

My date will be there with me.  You'll see.

Best Christmas present

12th December.  Still no visa for the Brazilian guitarist.

They've had our completed application for nearly three months.  What on earth can they be doing with it?

As time drags on, I begin to assume that no news is good news.  Each day that I don't hear of a problem should take us nearer to success.  But it would be nice to know what progress is being made.

I email the Immigration case manager once again, this time beseechingly.  I need to promote the show, which is in two months.  I must print posters, and most printers close for two weeks at Christmas.  We will lose a lot of promotion time.  Does he think we will get a visa soon?

Half an hour later, we have a visa.  An email arrives, attaching notification of my successful Nomination Application.  The visa grant has been sent to his migration agent in Brazil.

At my desk, I breathe a long sigh of relief.  I had imagined shouting this news from the rooftops; immediately telling everyone I know.  But who could be as excited about this as I am?  Plus I can hardly believe it's true.  Better tread carefully.  I contact Eneias the guitarist to tell him the good news, and that he should contact his agent to get the formal notification.

We exchange a few messages, expressing our happiness and relief.

That night I receive an email from his migration agent, confirming the grant of the visa.

So it's really true.  Now we can work on the show.

I began this Entertainment Visa process in March, after cancelling the show because a tourist visa would not permit him to come to Australia to perform.  It has tested my skills, my patience and my resolve.

But at last my perseverence has paid off.

Nine months.  It's been a bit like hatching a baby.

This is the best Christmas present I could wish for this year.

Somewhere over the rainbow...

In mid-November, I send an email to Australian Immigration.  They've had our visa application for two months.  I politely inquire: are you able to offer any indication of when we can expect a decision?  My case manager writes that the application could possibly be finalised in the first week of December.  "Thank you for your patience", he adds.  He is always responsive and courteous.

I forward this email to the Brazilian guitarist and his migration agent, to give them a bit of encouragement.  I want to make sure he keeps the dates free, and doesn't assume that it's all too hard.

And now it is the first week of December.  Every day I check my email feverishly and frequently, sometimes keying the letters "ENT" into the search box to check that I haven't somehow missed an email from EntertainmentVisas.  Each morning I awake with the thought "This could be the day".  As the day progresses, I conclude "Not today, I guess".  But at home in the evenings I check email again, in case the notification has been sent to the agent in Brazil and forwarded to me in their time zone.

Friday afternoon passes.  Not this week, I guess.

6 December.  All I can do is hope that there will be good news next week.

The show is in mid-February, but I can't do any publicity for it, until I know for sure that he is coming.

I've booked the venues and his flights.  If I wait for the visa to come through, I might not be able to get the dates for which the visa is granted.  What a nightmare that would be.

The man from the Fringe Festival contacts me, reassuring me "Not to worry", as he is still waiting on 100 visas for foreign artists.  This is the irony.  The Fringe Festival can act as Sponsor for visiting artists, and will arrange their visas.  However sponsorship wasn't the difficult bit - my application was approved straight away.  The hard part has been assembling all the documentation and contending with a language barrier.

They've had our application for nearly three months.  That's the length of time indicated on the Australian Immigration web site, although I never believed it could take so long.

This surely is the longest wait of my life.  I am powerless to accelerate or influence the process in any way.

All I can do is wait.

The waiting game

They are going to make me go down to the wire.

It's been seven weeks since I lodged Eneias' application for a "Short-stay Entertainment Visa" to come to Australia to perform with me.

The show is in mid-February, and apart from an email saying "Your application is still in progress" I've heard nothing.

I would like to start the marketing campaign.  I should be rehearsing.  But what's the point, if we are not certain that the show can go ahead?

I feel unsettled.  To alleviate my anxiety, I'm eating and drinking too much.  Poking in cheese and throwing down glasses of wine like there's no tomorrow.  Not a thought for the summer that is fast approaching, let alone the fact that I'll be going on stage with a visiting Brazilian guitarist.

I'm going to look like a blimp.

Please.  Give the man a visa.  He is no threat to our national security.

According to the web site, the indicative time frame for this type of visa is three months.  So it could still take a few more weeks.

In the meantime, my singing is improving.  I'm having some more lessons with The Diva.   She is teaching me some improvisation techniques that are going to be very useful.

And I'm doing better with my Portuguese.  My vocabulary is expanding.  I can write an almost-correct paragraph.  I'm understanding the spoken language a bit more.

I've found some on-line tools to help me.  DuoLingo provides quick lessons, involving translating simple written and spoken phrases.  Sometimes you have to select the correct words from a small collection.  Just tap on the word to add it to the sentence.  There is also Babadum, an online game that builds your vocabulary by asking you to select the correct word to match the picture, or vice versa.

I notice that the young girl in our group, Sasha, is starting to read aloud quite fluently.  She has improved quickly.  She attributes this to the fact that she has been watching "Brazil's Next Top Model".  I'm going to start watching this, too.  I can watch past episodes on demand, on my i-pad.

There are so many more tools available now, than when I was learning languages at school and at University.  If only I had had access to these, back in those days!

Eneias suggests we plan our repertoire for the show.  I'm happy to do that, but I'll be ever so much happier when his visa comes through.

For the moment, I have no choice but to play the waiting game.

The pointy end

I've lodged the visa application for the Brazilian guitarist, but there are still some obstacles to overcome.

The Department identifies five issues that I need to address.  This is frustrating, but I know that if I deal with these issues one by one they will all be resolved eventually.  I've never done any Immigration work before, but I reckon it helps to be a lawyer.  I don't feel daunted by all the technical requirements.  I'm used to working through small issues methodically and covering all the bases.

These are the five demands:

1. Revise the Nomination application by providing the new dates.  Tick.
2. Please supply an Itinerary.  Tick.
3. Provide a "contract".  I recall that he counter-signed my letter of offer several months ago.  Tick.
4. Provide legible contact details for the migration agent in Brazil.  Tick.
5. Supply a copy of the travel insurance policy in English.  Really?

Really?  I have to pay for a translation?  And how long is that likely to take?

If these are truly the final five issues, we are getting to the pointy end of the process.  It's the end of my work day and I'm tired, but I don't want to lose any more time.  I email Eneias and his agent asking if the insurance company might be able to supply an English version of the policy.

They don't think so.

With less than a year's study of Portuguese, even I can see that it provides for medical cover - that's what they need to know.  But there are lots of abbreviations and strange symbols in this document.  If I send it to some random translator, who knows what they might make of it?

I inquire whether this translation needs to be certified in any particular form.  No, they say, just give us an English version.  So.  This translation could be prepared by anyone.  Perhaps, even, by me?

I'm not very good at speaking or writing in Portuguese yet, but I can read.

I decide to give it a try.  Not long ago, this idea would have seemed to me completely audacious and preposterous.  Even in my best foreign languages - French and German - in which I have good written language skills - I have never attempted such a thing.  I'm not an accredited translator and would never have presumed to translate a business document.

But now I start cutting and pasting paragraphs of Portuguese into an online translation site.  Then I un-jumble the nonsense it spits out.  I look up unfamiliar words in my dictionary, and the meaning begins to emerge.  I'm buoyed by the fact that large tracts of the document are relevant only "in the event of a claim".   I decide not to translate these sections in any detail, but to concentrate on the benefits conferred by the policy.

I format it in the same way as the original document, so the reader can compare the two.  It's helpful to be able to understand insurance terms and to be familiar with travel insurance.  I work on expressing the policy in the sort of terms you would expect to find in an Australian insurance policy.

As I work, I'm visited by the ghosts of translations past.  French and German exams where you were not allowed to use a dictionary.  Labouring over Latin texts - spot the verb!  My "Rosetta Stone" moment on the top floor of the Hermitage in St Petersburg, when I began to decipher Russian cyrillic writing.  Together they help me with this last, crucial test.

With each paragraph, my confidence grows.  It no longer feels like a forbidden task.  I work on it feverishly, gleefully.  The idea that Mr Google and I are working as a team makes me giggle.  The whole process takes me about three hours, and a sleepless night follows.

I submit the translation and ask "Have I now provided everything you require?"  No response.  A further two emails also go unanswered.

Things have fallen into a black hole.  My pen-pal at the Immigration Department has stopped writing to me.

They have not even sent me an invoice.  But when I check my credit card statement online, I see that I have been charged for the application fee.   So here's hoping that's a good sign.

Now I will wait and hope.

Hoops and Hurdles

I'm trying to find a suitable time for the Brazilian guitarist to visit Australia.

When we had to cancel the April tour, he suggested a July visit.  I doubted that we could get the visa by then, and also it would be winter time here and pretty cold and miserable weather.  I looked at my commitments for the rest of the year and thought we might be able to do it by November.  Any later and we would run into the busy Christmas season, making it hard to draw an audience.  January in Australia is hopeless because everyone's away at the beach (it's like August in Europe).  Then in February comes the Fringe Festival leading into Mad March, when there's so much happening that it's hard to get accommodation and even harder to get anyone to attend, due to the large number of public events on offer.

It becomes clear that a November concert will not happen.  We're still no closer to getting a visa.   

I begin to consider the merits of putting the show into the Fringe in February.  It will mean competing for audience, but on the flip side, it will give us publicity through being advertised in the Fringe brochure, which is widely distributed.  The Fringe also provides ticketing, which would be simpler than dealing direct with the ticket agency.  If we are on early in the festival, perhaps we can draw a crowd.

He has gone quiet, and I begin to wonder if he is still interested.

But one night on Facebook he sends me a song - he's recorded himself singing and playing one of the songs we intend to perform together.  My heart leaps with optimism.

Returning from a holiday, before I leave the airport, I imagine seeing him enter the arrivals area.  That night, I dream that I am greeting him.  I am shaking his hand and helping him with his luggage.  The dream is vivid.  I feel a surge of determination.  I am going to make this happen.

His agent is dealing with the visa application.  I don't know what's holding things up.  Then he emails me and the agent to say that he can't provide the financial records that are required.  He will have to collect them over the next six months.  This is the last straw for me.  Why does he have to provide income details?  I have been approved as his Sponsor and I'm paying for everything.  It's a one-week trip.  Why do they need to know his financial status?  I email the Department.

The case officer replies that income details are not required in this case.  I forward this response to the agent in Brazil.  There is no reason why we can't submit the application.

Eventually his migration agent emails both of us to say that his application is ready.  The application fee is US$360.  That sounds like a lot for someone in Brazil.  I had sworn that I would not spend any more money until I sighted the visa, but I can see I need to drive this process.  I don't want any more delays.  I tell them that I will pay, even though it wasn't part of our agreement.

The agent asks me to send the money in $US to his bank account in Brazil.  I go online and try to make the transfer, but I don't have enough bank details.  And I start to imagine the swath of fees and taxes that will be incurred in converting Australian dollars to US dollars and back again.  Surely there's a simpler way?

I email the Department and they tell me that I can submit the application in Australia and they will invoice me in Australian dollars.  Hooray!  This is more like it.

In fact I find that the staff at the Immigration Department are really very good to deal with.  They respond promptly to my inquiries and provide good explanations of what is required.  It is so much easier when you both speak the same language.

I re-book the two venues.  They offer me prime time-slots, on the first weekend of the Fringe.

Finally all is ready.  The agent sends me all the documents by email and I print them out.

The application form is full of errors and omissions.  I work through the document carefully, checking each item and correcting things.

Then I forward all the documents to the Department by email.

Immediately I receive an automated response -  " Your submission is invalid.  You cannot submit your application by email - you must submit it by mail, by courier, in person or by fax."

So now I fax the document, page by page.  There are 37 pages in total.

Then I go around to the Post Office and mail it by Express Post.

When I return to the office, there is an email from the Department.  They have received the application.  But there are still five issues that I need to address.

Busting the red tape

September 2014.

It's been nearly a year since I invited the Brazilian guitarist to come to Australia to rehearse and perform with me.  He should have been here in April of this year, but he could not obtain his visa in time.

Six months later, we still don't have the visa.

To obtain a Short Stay Business (Entertainment) Visa is a three-stage process:
1. Sponsorship
2. Nomination
3. Visa Application.

Who would have imagined such red tape?

In March, after cancelling the show, I mailed my application for approval as an entertainment sponsor on a Thursday, by overnight Express Post.

On the Monday I received an email acknowledging receipt of my application.

And on the Tuesday morning another email arrived - "Your notice of approval is attached".  Suddenly, I was an Entertainment Sponsor.

Remarkably, this approval took just one business day.

Next, I emailed the Department dealing with the Nomination Process, giving my sponsorship ID number, so they could link the two applications which had to be sent to two different places.

As required, I contacted the Australian Musicians Union.  I must demonstrate that no Australian musicians will be disadvantaged as a result of the foreign musician's visit.

But their response was that they cannot endorse a tour where the artist is not getting paid.

This reaction came as a surprise to me.  Payment was not part of my original offer to Eneias.  I was not refusing to pay him, but I thought that he would not be allowed to earn money in Australia.  I asked the Union representative how much I was required to pay.  He sent me a baffling list of performance fees and allowances, and fortunately also added it up for me.  The total was a very small amount of money.  It seemed a paltry sum.  I decided to increase it to a more respectable amount.

Meanwhile, Eneias had gone quiet.  I kept on seeing his posts announcing where he was playing - restaurants, bars, the public library.  He hadn't contacted me for a while.  I began to wonder if he had cooled on the idea of coming to Australia.  But then he emailed me attaching my letter of invitation, which he had signed.  We had a friendly exchange on Facebook, both saying how much we were looking forward to his visit.

Soon after, a lady from Immigration calls, from the Department handling the Nomination process.  She tells me I must be approved as an Entertainment Sponsor.  I explain I have already been approved, and give her my ID number.  She punches it into the system, and says "Ah, there you are!".  Hooray!  I'm official.  "Where is the visa application?" she asks.  Eneias' migration agent in Brazil needs to lodge it.  I've proposed a September date.  She says "This is a nice early application."  Good.

The same day, I receive a certificate of endorsement from the Australian Musicians Union.  They are willing to approve the "tour".

We're almost in business.

But months go by, and still his visa application is not ready.

The Beautiful Game

July 2014.  Brazil is out of the World Cup final, losing 7-1 to Germany.

They will play off for third or fourth place.

Third or fourth in the world is pretty good.   But for Brazil this result seems to amount to national humiliation.

Brazil has spent about $12 billion to build new stadiums and improve its infrastructure.  And they didn't even reach the final, despite starting as the favourite to win.  The people are distraught.  Police are out in force to deter rioters.   German fans are asked to stay in their seats and wait until the match has ended so they can be escorted from the stadium.    

The report in my local newspaper quotes someone from Brasilia as saying "People will break everything.  They're going to be furious.  The Government spent a lot of money for the World Cup instead of investing in health and education."

A sports newspaper ran a headline "The Biggest Shame in History".

Apparently, the stock market was expected to rise on the back of a win.

A finance expert is quoted as saying "It's going to confirm to the people that 'Look, our economy is struggling, we cannot get any growth, now we don't even have a decent football team either."

It's a game.  Not everyone can win.  Will someone please explain to them the difference between embarrassment and ruin?

How can the fate of a nation's economy depend on a dozen men in T-shirts?  What about the economic value of all those international visitors and the multiplier effect of their spending?

Couldn't all that Latin passion be channeled in a more positive way?

After all its efforts to clean up its act, I don't want Brazil to descend into chaos.

I want my concert in Rio.

Into the Diva's Den

After finishing a show, there is usually a sense of anti-climax; you can feel a bit low in the aftermath.

I attend some of my friends' shows in the Festival, and on the last Friday in June, I'm enjoying a boozy end-of-financial-year lunch.  Towards the end of the event, I check my phone.  There's a message.

It's from the jazz diva who invited me to perform in the Piano Bar.  She is offering me a singing lesson.  I've been on her waiting list, and now she has a spare hour for me.  Tonight.

I type a quick message, explaining that I've got a ticket for a show tonight - "Sorry, another time".

Then I erase it.  Am I stupid or something?  The Diva is offering me a lesson!  If I decline, next time she'll offer it to someone else.

I think the show I've planned to see will be good.  But I don't know the performer.  And the Diva is offering me a lesson.

I'm going to dump the show.

I type a new message: "Thank you, that would be great.  Where do you teach?"

She has a home studio, not too far from the city centre.  After work I drive there in the dark and the pouring rain.

We start with a friendly chat.   She offers to help me to produce a better sound with less effort.  That's OK with me.  She plugs my phone into her charger and instructs me to press "Record".  I'll be taking her lesson home with me.

The hour I spend with her is intense.  She has praise for me: "You are not a s**t singer."

Apart from that...my neck muscles are weak; I must work them.  My jaw is tight; she massages it.   My tongue is "lazy"; I watch hers and copy the shape it makes.  My chin juts out; I must pull it in. There is an "elephant" sitting on my larynx.  I clear my throat too harshly; that must stop.  My sense of rhythm could be stronger.

So.  Just a few things to fix.

She beats a Brazilian rhythm and asks me to reproduce it.  I can't.  But ten minutes later I am dancing it as I clap my hands.  She asks me to select a song that gives me trouble, and helps me solve the problems.

As I drive away into the wintry night I marvel at the chain of events that has led me to her door.  I wished for a way to take my skills to the next level, and this wish has been granted.

My post-show "downer" will have to wait.

It was a very good year.

Now I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs
It poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year


It was about a year ago that I noticed something wrong with my heart, and went to the doctor.

In this past twelve months,  I've had open-heart surgery, regained my fitness, and created and performed a cabaret show "Unbreak My Heart", that told the story of my experience.

Now I reflect on what I've learned from this cabaret season:

• Trust yourself.  If  you've done the work, it will kick in, not suddenly desert you.
• The work has to be done regularly and over a long period.  You can't suddenly bring about a huge improvement in a short space of time.
• It takes a lot of effort to draw an audience.  You need to have multiple channels of marketing methods, all operating at once.
• Your friends will not come to all your shows.  People are busy.  You need to cast a wide net.  
• If you are due to get up on stage, you will have to sing, whatever the state of your voice on the day.  Once you get started, you will sound better.
• You can't control everything.  Once you've delegated a task, trust that it will be done, and stop stressing about it. 
• Mind on the job.  When you're on stage, never let your mind wander, or you will lose your lyrics.  Concentrate on the imagery of the music, and don't let any extraneous thoughts enter your head.
• Stay calm.  Don't panic.  Breathe.
• When someone says "You've improved 100% on last year" they probably don't mean that you were rubbish before.
• Hiring a theatre for yourself and presenting your own cabaret show is an audacious, somewhat egotistical thing to do.  There is no room for self-doubt.  Yes, you are good enough.

In the second half of June, I relax and enjoy the rest of the Cabaret Festival and Fringe.  It's lovely to sit back, sip on a glass of wine and watch others perform.  

I also scour the Internet for music I'd like to learn; order a new song book; find backing tracks on YouTube. 

I'm done with the heart-surgery cabaret.  It's had its season, and I'm ready for the next thing.

Despite my alarming medical "adventure", this has been a very good year.

Pressure

Our Sunday paper recommends my show "Unbreak My Heart" as one of the top 6 in the Cabaret Fringe Festival.

I have no idea how this has happened.  Was it the rather excellent press release I sent?  Or did someone attend one of the preview shows?

Now the pressure is on.  I have to deliver a good show.  The day before opening night, the nerves hit me.  Are we really ready?  Everything went well in our final rehearsal, but we have had a total of just four rehearsals.  Will I remember everything?  Will anything go wrong?

I go out walking and speak or sing every word of my piece.  They all seem to be there, present and correct.  But there is no accounting for the moment of truth when you step out on stage and you are alone, in front of a room full of people who have paid for tickets and expect to be entertained.

I explain to myself that this nervous attack is not serving me.  I'm just punishing myself, which will just drain my energy and will not help me on the night.

On opening night, there is a "tech rehearsal".  This is where you have to tell the sound and lighting technician what you want in terms of sound and lighting.  I give him my script and we work through it scene by scene.  This process starts at 4 pm, and doors open at 5.30 pm for a 6 pm start.  It takes an hour.  I don't know any technical terms for lighting.  I ask the guy to give me "multiple choice" questions and to show me various effects, to which I can answer "yes" or "no".  It is mentally tiring, and I start to feel vocal strain from the constant talking.  I have two sound-effects - the sound of a train, and one of a beating heart.  I explain where these fit, and tell him the cue lines.  The techie tests the sound-files and enters them into his computer.  Then I give him the CD I have prepared, of songs to be played while the audience arrives and settles in.

At 5 pm, pianist Emma arrives and we do the "sound check".  I stand on stage, adjust the height of the microphone stand, and test it by talking into it.  Then we run through a couple of songs.  The tech guy declares himself satisfied with the sound in the room, and Emma and I scuttle upstairs to "relax".  I definitely don't want to be there when the audience arrives - there is pressure to greet and kiss people, and to introduce them to each other.  I have done quite enough already to get this show on the road.

I'm not nervous.  I breathe deeply and "siren" a bit to check that my voice is clear.  We're given our five-minute warning and we come downstairs to wait for our cue.  The lights go down; Emma strides out to take up her place at the piano.

I wait for a suitable point in the music, then I head out on stage.  We have a good-sized audience.  I feel very determined to get this right.  No mistakes.  I will hold nothing back.  Tonight there will be reviewers in the audience.  I am not going to have anyone writing that I messed up, or that my performance lacked energy.  I use everything I've got.

Afterwards, I'm pretty happy with my performance, although it was probably a bit more intense than it needed to be.

My voice feels very tired.  Probably I "over-sang".  At least I have a couple of days to rest until the next show.

A review comes out.  It's very positive.  Apparently this reviewer is not easily pleased, but she seems to have enjoyed my show.  This is good.  A good review helps to sell tickets, and I need to fill the remaining two shows.

The second show is on a Saturday night.  It's sold out, and they are cramming a few more people into the room.  Emma and I have to wait until everyone has a drink and a chair to sit on.  We start a few minutes late.

From the moment I step on stage, this audience is responsive.  They laugh in places I hadn't expected.  I feel I'm on fire - I'm loosening up.  Then, there is silence.  I'm expecting to hear a heartbeat sound-effect but it doesn't start.  I stand there, waiting.  Then Emma starts to play the song.  I begin to sing, and start to become aware of the heartbeat sound as well, but it was meant to be played on its own, before the song started, and its rhythm doesn't fit with the song.  I have forgotten to say the cue-line, and now I have a beat that doesn't match the song.  I try desperately not to be distracted by this - I know that it only lasts for ten seconds.  Then the lights come up a bit and I see a few faces in the front near the stage.  Suddenly I have a moment of self-doubt, and my words are gone.  I lose two lines of lyrics and have to hum along until the start of the next verse; I know the opening line, and I'm back on track.  But these are the only words I forget across the three performances.

The final show is on the next night.  I've organized to have the show filmed.  I didn't want the pressure of having a video camera there on opening night.  This audience is quieter, but I'm feeling more confident.  Tonight my singing is better, and I tell myself I'm on the home straight - just keep going and you'll get there.

Afterwards I feel a huge sense of satisfaction and relief to have completed my three-show "season".  Now, I can enjoy the rest of the festival and watch my friends perform in their shows.

For the moment, the pressure's off.

But I can't help thinking that next time there will be more expected of me.   I'm stepping a notch, and I feel ready for it.

I must get better at coping with pressure.

Read the review of Unbreak My Heart

No pressure!

A week before my new cabaret show "Unbreak My Heart" opens in the Cabaret Fringe, I receive an invitation to sing at the Festival Centre Piano Bar.  This will be the opening night of the Cabaret Festival, the larger, mainstream festival featuring big-name international acts.  

At the end of the gala opening of the Festival, the audience will spill out into the Piano Bar for champagne and entertainment - including me.  No pressure!

It is going to be a Brazilian "open-mic" session, with guitar and percussion accompaniment.  The invitation comes from Charmaine, a professional jazz diva who performs in a duo with guitarist Mike (who will be accompanying us).  I feel honoured to be invited and immediately accept.

My instructions are "Arrive at 9.20 pm, with charts, ready to go".  There will be no rehearsal.

At home before this event, I assemble my music.  I feel confused and conflicted.  There are so many songs to choose from.  Should I select easy, well-known songs?  What if we all choose the same song?  I might end up having to sing something I'm not so familiar with.  But if I choose something too obscure, it might make things difficult for the musicians.  Plus, every piece of sheet music seems to have something a bit wrong with it.  Many songs are in the wrong key - my accompanists have transposed by sight as they played, or they made their own notations.  I can't go there expecting Mike to work out a new key in front of an audience.  He could probably do this, but it would not be fair to impose it on him.  Some songs are in the right key but I haven't sung them for ages, and I might forget the words.  I don't want to sing with lyrics on a music stand in front of me.  Some songs seem perfect, but it's piano music; sheets taped together into a strip about a metre long.  That won't work for a guitarist.

The bottom line is that I don't have any "charts".  I've mainly worked with pianists, and they play from sheet music - "dots".  Guitarists like to play from "charts" or "tab", showing only the chord notations.  I pick out several pieces of sheet music that condense the song into one or two pages, in keys that I can sing.  They are not perfect, but they'll have to do.  I shove all the Bossa music books into a carry-bag and take them along too, just in case they are needed.

I arrive on time, but the place is already full of cabaret patrons - flamboyantly dressed, milling about, chatting animatedly, buying flutes of champagne.  There are some big-name artists in the room, including the festival Director.  No pressure!

Various friends spot me in the crowd and keep me company for a while.  The room is noisy and as I raise my voice to be heard over the rabble I can feel my throat straining.

Charmaine, Mike and Fabian (the percussionist) take to the stage.  They produce some wonderful music.  Charmaine's vocals soar and she improvises brilliantly. Then it's time for the guest performers.  I'm the second one to be called up.  I step up onto the stage, have a brief discussion with the musicians and show them my music.  We choose the first song.  It's one that Mike and I performed together about two years ago.  Then I take my seat in the armchair alongside them.

I pick up the microphone for the first time - I have no idea how I'll sound in this room.  It is quite a big open space, and my first few notes are too quiet.  I'm not used to singing sitting down.  I can't get my breathing going; can't make my voice work the way it should.  But as we progress through the song my confidence builds.  During the instrumental break I count the bars carefully, so I'll know when to come back in.  Now I'm singing better.  We move into the second song.  Part-way through I decide to stand up.  Now I'm breathing more deeply and I sound much better.  Overall, my performance is passable.

Stepping off stage, three women invite me to join them at their table.  I relax and have a glass of champagne and we chat a little.  More friends emerge from the crowd and congratulate me.  The rest of the show is wonderful, with fantastic singers and some complex arrangements.  I'm just happy to be a part of it.

A week later we do the same show again.  I bring the same two songs (no point reinventing the wheel), and also bring along my Brazilian percussion instruments.  This time, I choose to stand for my entire performance.  My first couple of lines are not smooth as I would like, but when I focus on my breathing the tone sounds a lot nicer.  Charmaine plays piano and adds an improvised section, then we harmonise together.  A lady in the front row wields my shaker happily.  We bring the second song to a close, and I'm done.

Much as I would have liked to rehearse my songs beforehand, I can see how time-consuming it would have been to give everyone that opportunity.  I'm pleased that I was able to remain calm and keep my wits about me.

It's good to test yourself in different situations.  Under pressure.

Multi-tasking

You can't do everything at once.

But I can try.

My cabaret show "Unbreak My Heart" starts next week.  I have to be ready.

I've been finalising the script and rehearsing with pianist Emma.

Memorizing the song lyrics and the patter, during my daily walks.

Thinking about my outfit for the show.

Trying not to check the booking site obsessively, looking to see how many tickets have been sold.

Doing daily singing practice and vocal exercises (throughout the day, whenever I can remember to)

Attempting to edit sound-effects for the show, on my computer.

Selecting songs for "ambient music" to be played as audience members arrive.

Remembering to eat a healthy, moderate diet so as to lose the weight I gained on holidays.

Trying not to drink too much, despite the fact that it is now cabaret season, and a glass of wine is part of the experience.

Going to the gym when I can, trying to firm up my upper-arms.

Trying to drum up business for my business, as I have been away and now I have no work.

Tidying up the messy lounge room after some work that was done in our house.

And promoting the show.

I've sent out 500 flyers and 100 posters.  Done four radio interviews (not bad for someone who once had a phobia about doing this), and one TV show (screened twice).  Written a press release and sent it to every email address on the Cabaret Fringe Press list.  Sent out nineteen blog posts.

All my friends are sick of hearing me talking about the show.  I pull flyers out of my bag and shove them into people's hands.

I take part in two preview shows, where Emma and I perform several songs from the show.  This is a valuable opportunity.  You think you know a song, then a line of lyrics can vanish.  You miss an entry that you thought was solid.  You imagine that when you go on stage you'll feel great, but when you actually get into that spotlight you find yourself standing rigidly and your hands feel like blocks of wood.  I hadn't had a performance opportunity for six months, and it is great to get on stage again and remember what it feels like.

Emma and I now know what we need to practise, to get ready for Opening Night.

Communication is the name of the game

I finally get around to buying a Portuguese dictionary.  The bookshop has to order it in for me.

It's very empowering to be able to look up new words.  How did I manage without it?  Whatever the merits of online dictionaries and translation services, there is nothing like holding the entire language in your hand.

I've had about a dozen lessons, and I'm starting to catch on.  In our class we've started listening to native speakers.  At first I understood nothing, but now I'm catching a word or phrase here and there, picturing how it looks in writing.

The teaching is excellent - we speak aloud, read dialogue between us and make up our own conversation.  With only two people in the class we cover quite a lot of material each week.

But I need to do better.  At the end-of-term Brazilian barbecue I learn that English is not spoken very much in Brazil - even in Rio.  So I had better get a move-on.  Although Eneias says he is learning English, I don't want to rely on that.  The language of music will only get us so far.

Over the Easter weekend we are home for several days.   I decide finally to sit down and do some language study.  I've been meaning to do this for weeks but each week seems to vanish, with the workbook still unopened.

I attack the Level 1 program that I skipped by going straight into the Intermediate class.  It is good revision, and a way to pick up some missing vocab.  In twenty minutes I manage to get through a double-sided worksheet, filling in the blanks, sounding the words, manoeuvring my mouth around them, repeating the ones that give trouble.  How hard could it be to do this a couple of times a week?  Better time management is needed!

It occurs to me that singing helps with language learning.  It makes you feel more at ease with your voice.  It no longer feels so embarrassing to speak aloud, to get it wrong, to try again until it comes out right.  The same mental processes are used to memorize both lyrics and vocab.   Singing also helps with pronunciation, because in order to fit syllables into the rhythm, you have to say them correctly.  Listening, singing, speaking, memorizing - these skills all go together in harmony.

When I return to classes after the break, I'm glad I did the revision.  The Intermediate group has been merged with the Advanced class.  Now there are four of us.  Lessons are conducted largely in Portuguese.  I arrive a bit late and the class is already under way.  Andrea works her way along the line, and when she reaches me she asks me a fairly simple question.  I give a simple answer, but she can tell from this that I understood.  The lesson goes well and I start to feel more confident.  After class, some parents arrive for an information session about children's language classes.  They are Brazilians living in Adelaide and Australians with Brazilian partners.  It's a morning tea and we are invited to stay.  The presentation is in English, but then the conversation moves into Portuguese.  I can't say much, but I listen.  I can understand quite a lot of what is said.

Learning a language takes time, but it's worth the effort.

Deep Throat

In the lead-up to the Cabaret Fringe, I enrol in a five-day voice course.   This program is based on understanding the anatomy of the voice and how it works; knowing what is physically required to produce different vocal qualities.

There are seventeen of us in the group.  Some of them are singing teachers.  On Monday we learn about the basic anatomical structures.  We practise holding our tongues in a high position that feels very unfamiliar and uncomfortable.  We begin to work through a thick book of notes. We are shown computerized graphics and videos of working larynxes.  I'm perplexed by the terminology and I'm not sure I understand what I'm seeing.  The inside view of the larynx reminds me of the open mouth of a baby bird.

On Tuesday we build a model larynx from a cardboard kit.  I'm quite proud of my effort, but I'm still not sure where in my neck this structure is located.

I've been looking forward to a musical week, but there isn't much music.  We sing "Happy Birthday" in a variety of vocal styles.  We intone a range of vowels with various placements.  I find the lack of music agonizing.  Each lunchtime I have to move my car because of parking restrictions, and I linger in my car for a few minutes to enjoy a favourite song on the CD player.

By Wednesday afternoon, my confusion is complete.  My tongue is not behaving.  When I "siren" it won't stay in the correct position.  We lie on our backs on the floor and lift our heads to engage our neck muscles.   I haven't been sleeping well and I'm finding it difficult to absorb the technical and theoretical information.  I would like to stay on my mat and have a rest.  I feel like crying, but I don't want to be the one who's not coping.

Each day we have to grin in the mirror like gargoyles, exposing the eye teeth.  One night I dream that when I look in the mirror my eye tooth breaks and crumbles away.

On Thursday morning, we receive a second book.  This one presents a variety of vocal styles, with instructions on how to achieve each one by applying the anatomical basics.  A jazz vocal piece is played and the sound ripples through my veins.  Music at last!  The information starts to fall into place.   We practise each style, as a group and individually.  I'm still not quite sure how to operate every piece of vocal equipment, but I'm surprised at the different sounds I can produce.

On Friday we have our Masterclass.  A pianist arrives to accompany us.  I've chosen a song that I'll be performing in my show.  I want to know how to avoid running out of breath.  We have just ten minutes each.   I only get halfway through the song, but the problem is quickly identified - I'm losing air through my nose.  There is a fix for this, and this particular point has become a theme for me
throughout the week.  So now I know what to practise to take me to the next level.

It also occurs to me that I now have a menu of vocal "colours", which I could use either in singing or speech.  I start to think about how I could incorporate some of this vocal variety.

On Friday afternoon we visit a medical clinic where an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist conducts our videolaryngoscopic examinations.  First, anaesthetic is sprayed into the larger nostril.  After about ten minutes, a camera on a flexible tube is pushed through the nostril, through the back palate into the throat.  Now you can see your own larynx and watch how it responds to various movements and sounds.  We will each receive a video to review at home.

I feel a bit anxious about this test, but I want to take the opportunity to see inside my throat.  Since having pneumonia a few years ago, I've been wondering how much damage was caused by the violent and uncontrollable coughing.  How scratched and scarred is it?

When the endoscope is inserted it doesn't exactly hurt, but it feels a bit uncomfortable.  I try not to think about what's happening.  When I open my eyes I'm seeing live footage of my soft palate as it opens and shuts.  Then the camera swings around and dives deep into my throat.  I can feel it tickling, making me want to swallow.  It's hard to move my head but I just try to keep breathing as I repeat the words and sounds I'm told to produce.  And now, there in front of me is my "instrument".  Taking pride of place in the centre of the screen are my vocal folds, plump and white.  They open and close neatly on command.  There is nothing wrong with them.

All my vocal equipment is in perfect working order.

Surfing the airwaves

One Thursday night I go to The Promethean to hear a local Big Band.  This group is very popular, and plays at this venue each month, but until now I haven't managed to get there.

This month I'm making the effort because they have a special guest - the brother of guitarist Mike, who is based in Japan and plays sax and a variety of other instruments.  A week earlier I managed to get to the show where the two of them played together.

I arrive a bit late for the Big Band show.  People are standing at the back, gathered around the bar.  I scan the room, searching for a place to sit.  I notice a spare seat, and I ask the guy alongside if it's free; he tells me it is.  This afternoon I've had the photo shoot for my Cabaret Fringe show.  I'm still in full makeup, big hair and massive false eyelashes - I must look like a drag queen.  I get talking to the guy alongside me.  John hosts a community radio show about Big Band and Swing music.  It turns out that all the guys in this row have their own jazz radio shows, and John introduces me to all of them.  John asks if I'd like to come onto his show as a guest, to talk about the influence of Brazilian music on Big Band, and also about my forthcoming show.

Next morning John follows up with an email, offering me a choice of two dates.  I respond straight away, accepting the first one.  He sends me a list of questions to guide our conversation, and asks me to bring some songs which I will introduce.  He would like me to be on air for about an hour.  That's fine - it's community radio, and should be pretty low-key.

But the day before this show, I get a call from a producer at the ABC, our national radio station.  This guy was a lawyer in the UK, and had contacted me in the lead-up to his move, to discuss how he might get a job here.  He has "fallen on his feet", quickly getting a job at the ABC.  He has seen my update on social media reporting that I'll be on the Big Band show.  He'd like me to do an interview with a very well-known local media personality.  This show has a big audience - it's not at all low-key; in fact it's rather high-profile.  He wants to book me for the following evening - so I'll be doing two shows at different stations in one night.

Right.  Two radio programs, at two different stations, including the ABC (the ABC!!!), about an hour apart.

I'm so happy that this is not my first experience of going on radio.  I was interviewed on another community radio show last year, so I have some idea of how to do it.  Without that experience I'd be feeing very anxious and overwhelmed.  But now, I don't feel daunted - just excited about the opportunity.

I've prepared thoroughly for the Big Band show.  All my CDs are labelled and organized in sequence.  I've made notes of how I will introduce each track, and reviewed the talking points.

I arrive at the radio station in a sparkly evening dress - this is a tip I've been given, to dress in costume to give the announcer something to react to.  John sets me at my ease in the studio and the interview goes quite smoothly.  In fact, it is very enjoyable - not stressful at all.

Leaving John's studio I jump into my car and head straight for ABC headquarters.  This time I have no idea what to expect.  I wait with the other guests, then suddenly it's my turn.  I shimmy into the studio in my sparkly dress.  When I greet the announcer it's like meeting the Wizard of Oz.  I  take my seat at the microphone.

First he asks me about my business.  Great!  Free publicity!  But that's not what I'm there to discuss. "Let's talk about cabaret!" I cajole.  Undeterred, he starts asking me about a big criminal law case that is in the news at the moment.  I say that I haven't had much experience in criminal law.  Thousands of people are listening to this.  I certainly don't want to be drawn into this discussion and run out of time to talk about my show.  I point out that on the way to the studio I jumped into a phone box and swapped my business suit for a sparkly evening dress - and it was really very hard to find a phone box.   This draws a chuckle from him.  Finally I get the message across that I have a show in the June Cabaret Fringe, and manage to spit out the name of the show just as he signs off and plays a song to end my segment.

Feeling very hyped-up, I finish my evening with a visit to La Boheme, where a local jazz band is in full flight.  The loud, edgy music, a glass of wine and a chat with a musician friend all help to calm me down and prevent me from replaying the two interviews in my head.

Painting with light

I manage to book a photo session with a photographer I've used before.  Ben took some business photos of me a couple of years ago, and he also does creative photography.  He's keen to help me with an artistic shot for my cabaret poster.

The show is "Unbreak My Heart" - about my recent adventure with heart surgery.  I suggest that we "photoshop" a heart onto a picture of me.  Ben has another idea, which doesn't involve photoshopping at all.  I will "paint" a heart with light, with long-exposure photography.

I arrive at the studio in the early afternoon.  Krissy is cleaning her makeup brushes in preparation for my session.  She asks me if I like makeup.  I tell her I like makeup a lot.  In fact, I like a lot of makeup.  I think we are going to get along just fine.  She starts with the eyes, applying dark eyeshadow and adding lots of individual false eyelashes.  This takes quite a long time.  Then she fills an airbrush gadget with foundation and sprays my face, and finishes with some extremely red lipstick.  It's very heavy makeup, but I know that this is usually a good thing when having photos taken.  

Hair is next, and Krissy doubles the usual size of mine with lots of back-combing and hairspray.  All good.  I go off and change into my dress and jewellery, then we head into the studio.

My mission is to use a small torch to paint a heart on the left side of my chest.  Ben takes a photo of me, then leaves the shutter open while I play around with the light.  My initial attempts are very poor; the heart is not in the right place and it doesn't even look like a heart.  Ben suggests a different way of drawing the heart, so it will be joined up at the top.  After a few more tries I've learned to do it.  But the image isn't very impressive.  We try a row of hearts.  Better, but not great.  Krissy suggests I draw one heart on my chest and another around my head.  I have a go; I need to learn not to draw the light through my face.  Better again, but the image is still bland.  Ben asks me to project more energy.  I can't work out how to do this while I'm stationary.  Then something tells me to be more expressive.  I'm smiling sweetly, but I've seen other people's cabaret photos, and they often pull exaggerated faces.  I open my mouth and eyes a bit wider.  Yessss!   We've got the poster shot.

Ben invites me to try something else - writing with the light.  He photographs me, then I need to take a step back and use the torch to write something in the air.   I start with my name.  At first I tend to write over where my head is in the shot.  Need to step back a bit more.  The letters don't show up; I need to point the torch towards the camera and write with the other end.  There is stray light in the shot; Krissy covertly brings me the torch after the flash has gone off, so I can start my scribbling.

Finally, I manage to produce a shot of myself holding a microphone, with the word "Bossa" written in the air alongside me.  Not bad at all.  

Ben finishes off with some portrait-style pictures.  We go into the office and preview the photos.  By the time I leave the studio, it's getting dark.  I've been there for four hours.  

I've got the shot for my poster.

Dinner music

We are invited to dinner.  One of the guests is a Brazilian guitarist, a woman.  Our hostess insists that we perform together.

I think I know who this guitarist is.  About two years ago, arriving at the home of guitarist Mike, I was introduced to Eloise, who asked me "Six strings or seven?"  I explained that I wasn't learning guitar; I was a singer.  They played and I sang briefly, then she left.

We get to our friends' home.  I recognize Eloise, but am not sure if she recognizes me.  It's a beautiful balmy night in early autumn, and after introductions we have been made we have some drinks poolside.   I've brought my music books, but she apparently has not been given the same instructions.  She lives next door, and goes home to fetch her guitar.

We start with "The Girl from Ipanema".  I sing in English, she in Portuguese.  Then "Corcovado", "Dreamer", "Wave", "Little Boat" and "Summer Samba".  Eloise switches key effortlessly.  She knows the songs.  This is the music she grew up with.  We explore impromptu harmonies.  She explores my music books.

The music "gels".  It is easy and fun.  We get along well.  She has lived in Australia for many years and speaks flawless English.  We a in a world of our own.

When it's time for dinner we have to break our musical trance.

Eloise's husband says he has my flyer for "Non-stop from Brazil".  The ticketing agency must have sent some of them out before I cancelled the show.  He has already watched Eneias' videos on YouTube.  I tell them the whole sad story of the visa.

I form the view that I could work with Eloise.  I'm registered with a talent agency; I bet they could get us a gig.

Next morning she texts me to ask the names of a couple of the songs in my book.  I reply, asking if she would be interested in performing with me sometime.  She says she'd love to, when her work quietens down a bit.

We agree to make contact in the winter.

A journey of a thousand steps

I decide to attack the visa application process.  It's very bureaucratic, but if I want my guitarist to come here, I have no choice but to play the Immigration game.  There's no point feeling paralysed by it.

I'm not normally wrapped up in red tape; this is not what I do in my day-to-day job.  I'm not weary from it, so I can cope with the prospect of tussling with a Government department.  I will focus on the task and attend to the detail.  I feel buoyed by the fact that I've recently succeeded in extending the scope of my business trademark all by myself, even though I've never practised in intellectual property law.  I should be able to handle this visa challenge.

There are two application forms.  I must apply to be approved as an Entertainment Sponsor, then I must nominate  Eneias as my proposed "act".

It takes me a couple of hours to complete and check both forms, dig out and photocopy bank statements and passport, meet up with a lawyer friend and have him to certify all my documents, photocopy the lot and scan them to computer.  I can't quite supply all the detail required - I'll deal with their requisitions in due course, but let's start the conversation.  They want Eneias' date of birth.  I find it on his Facebook page.  I will have to ask him for a certified copy of his passport.  I can't yet supply evidence of consultation with the Australian Musician's Union; I attach a copy of their email to me advising of their process.

Is my event "for-profit"?  I tick the "not-for-profit" box, doing the "math" for them, and pointing out that there won't be any profit at the end of the exercise.   What would I do if this musician were unable to come to Australia?  My answer - "I would not perform this show, as it is preparation for a show in Brazil, with ticket proceeds to a Brazilian charity".  Will there be a "net employment benefit" for Australians?  Well, the show is 50% Australian content (me), and employment will be generated for graphic designers, printers, venue owners, bar staff and sound and lighting technicians.

A wave of perseverance carries me through.   I have to specify dates for the visit and the shows, but I can't book those dates without knowing how long the process will take.  This is logistically impossible.  I spit in the face of the Catch 22 problem - I write in randomly selected, hypothetical dates.  I am required to notify the Department and the Union of any changes to the itinerary.  So once we've got the visa, I'll change the fake dates to real ones.

I've got two fat piles of paper to send.

When I'm addressing the envelope, I notice that the two applications have to go to different Departments, both at the same Post Office Box.  I mail them in two separate Express Post bags.

Hah, off they go!

Back at the office I email the Musician's Union with as much of the required information as I can.  For the rest of the day I check my inBox repeatedly, hoping to see a reply.  I guess it will take a while for them to read all the stuff I've sent them.

Who knows how long this process will take?  I'll never know unless I make a start.

As they say, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.  And a journey of a thousand steps...starts with the first one.

The power of sleep

Thank goodness for sleep.

Obtaining a visa for Eneias starts to seem very difficult.  There is a lot of red tape.

The process involves three main steps:
1. I have to be approved as an Entertainment Sponsor.
2. I have to nominate Eneias as the "act" I want to bring to Australia.
3. Eneias applies for his visa, quoting my Sponsor Approval Number.

I must provide financial statements for the past six months to demonstrate my worth and capacity to support my musician while he is in Australia.

The documents I submit must be "certified copies".

I am required to consult with the Australian Musicians Union, to show cause why an Australian musician cannot do the job instead of someone from overseas.

There is a "Catch-22" in the Visa process.  The Nomination form requires me to specify the dates of his visit.  And the Musicians Union wants to see a completed Nomination Form.  But how can I book dates with theatres until I know when (and if) he'll get the visa?

In the late afternoon it starts to look impossible.

But I wake up in the morning feeling rejuvenated and ready to attack the process.

This will obviously take a while.  I turn my attention to my show for the Cabaret Fringe.  Finally I am offered dates, and we are able to set times that suit both the venue and my pianist Emma.  I'm doing three performances of my new solo show "Unbreak My Heart".

I'm relieved to have a new project on track, while I unravel the red tape.

It could be very tempting to give up on my Brazilian dream.  But I suppose I can't expect it to be plain sailing, and I shouldn't let this setback defeat me.

Put on your "game face"

Preparing for a show in the Cabaret Fringe Festival is a game of logistics.

Coordinating the availability of the venue with the work schedule of your busy pianist requires patience and diplomacy.

I book a session with my cabaret mentor Catherine.  We work through the whole heart surgery story and she hits on some insights that I hadn't thought of.  She's looking at it from an audience point of view; what will resonate with them?  I come away with pages of notes and a recording of our conversation, both of which I review later.

While I wait to be offered performance dates and times, I book a photo shoot, and in preparation for this, I decide to have some laser treatment on my face.  This appointment has to fit in between a day when I'm giving three conference presentations and the day of the shoot; my face must be healed by then.

Over the past few months I've had several brown blotches treated, with good results.  This pigmentation started appearing on my face when I was pregnant.  It's faded a bit over the years but has never completely gone away.  I want it gone.

I turn up at the clinic on Monday morning, and laser nurse Lucy ushers me into the treatment room.   I point to the particular spots I'd like her to zap.  She declares "You've only got sprinkles now - I'm gonna get rid of them!"  I lie down on the bed and Lucy fits me with heavy, metal eye shades.

She fires up the laser and starts on one side of my face.  It crackles and stings.  Lucy seems a little too delighted to be wielding this tool; she almost breaks into song as she works.  As I lie there, I start to realize that she's treating a much wider area than I had indicated.  I wonder how much it's going to cost; not that I can do much about this now, as Lucy, with Monday-morning fervour, hoses my face liberally with a burning flame.

Since I'm there, I decide to get her to zap a brown patch on each arm.  She does so, with evident pleasure.

Lucy surveys her work and exclaims happily "Ooh, you've had a good reaction!"  She brings a mirror and a face from a horror movie looks back at me.  "I'll bring you some ice", she chirps brightly from the next room.  I slump in an arm chair and hold an icepack to my face, pressing it to my swollen skin.

Twenty minutes later I pay my account, which turns out to be quite a reasonable price.  Lucy offers a parting tip: "You can put makeup over it", she says.  What she omits to mention is that makeup is no match for this mess; I could put makeup on it, but it wouldn't make any difference.

My face is covered in red welts.  Back at the office I explain that I'm OK, don't worry about me; it's just vanity.  Next morning the swelling has gone down but the red blotches remain.  I have to keep remembering to tell clients why I look so terrible; that I haven't been beaten up, I'm not sick or on medication.  I try to get this out of the way early in the conversation or training session.  I don't want them feeling worried for me or being distracted by the grotesque sight.

My daughter says "Mum, why do you even bother?  You're married!"  I tell her it still matters to me when I look in the mirror.  I guess I am vain.

After a few days the redness turns to brown, and after a week it takes on more of a speckled appearance.  Some patches start to flake off, revealing clear, new skin.  It will probably take another week for the mottled look to subside.

By the day of the photo shoot it should be possible to cover it with makeup.

In my daily life I'll have the choice to go makeup-free, but I want a stunning new photo to publicize my new show.

On with the game face.

Back on the road

I return home from my trip.  I'm jet-lagged and tired, and the fatigue opens a gap which permits self-doubt to creep in.

What am I doing?  Am I just wasting my skills?  I could be working as a serious lawyer.  Am I being a "dilettante"?  Am I even good enough?

I feel I've come to a halt.  I have no idea how to get moving again.

I register for the Cabaret Fringe Festival.  This will force me to create a show.

My singing teacher invites me to attend a Saturday morning singing class, based on a new method that he thinks is interesting.  It's a half-day and it's cheap.  I decided to go along, even though that means missing my Portuguese language lesson; I message the teacher to let her know I won't be in class that day.

The session is pretty theoretical; it's all about vocal anatomy and how you can control bits of it to various effects.  It's quite interesting but there's not much in practical terms that I can take away and use.  I would have liked to hear somebody sing, but the only singing we did was in a group.  But this session is a promotion for a week-long singing program that is coming up soon.

Is this what I need next?  Well, an intensive week of singing could be therapeutic.  It would give a huge boost to my skills and confidence.  My diary for that week is blank.  The fee is reasonable.  There is no reason not to do it.  I've come this far; what's another week?

I take a flyer and read about the presenter.  She was part of a group that was very successful.  I never went to see them (too busy being a lawyer), but instantly I recognize the name.  She's a cabaret performer; a woman after my own heart.

As soon as I get home I go online and register for the course.

I also check my email, and there's a message from Eneias' visa agent, forwarding information from Australian Immigration.  OK, it's just a process; I will work through it.   Apparently it takes 2-3 months.  If only I'd known about this earlier, I could have got it through in time.  The thought is maddening, and I have to let it go.

I have to keep going.  I've told everyone what I plan to do, and they're all expecting a show.  Declaring your goals is a great way to make you accountable for them.  At the conference in Vienna I told the story as part of a piece about building relationships internationally, and I've had lots of messages of encouragement.

Right now, I'm being tested.

Now is not the time to give up.

Watch my conference presentation in Vienna

Someone left the cake out in the rain

I pay for the flyers and posters.

Then I open up the parcel and trash the lot.

The airline and hotel payments will be refunded, minus deductions for cancellation fees.

One theatre has been paid in full; the other one sends me an invoice for the balance due.

The ticketing agency promises to charge me "twice the internal cost", whatever that means.

My plans are in ruins and I've achieved precisely nothing.

It's a mess.  I can't help thinking of the song:

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again, oh noooooo

I have to keep reminding myself that I do still have the recipe.  The art work for the flyers can be used again; it was only the cost of printing that was wasted.  The bookings can be re-made.  The plan was good; I just need to navigate my way through the bureaucracy.

I contact migration agent Yana to check on the process for becoming an approved "entertainment sponsor".   You never know - this could be my new career; anyone got a phone number for One Direction?

I am still perplexed by the requirement for a work visa.  Lots of overseas artists come here to perform in the Fringe festival - comedians, musicians, magicians.  Do they all busily apply for work visas, months in advance, all sponsored by respectable Adelaide citizens?

The WOMAD (world music) festival is on this weekend, and I pick up a brochure at my local coffee shop.  There are artists from all around the world, but not a single one from Brazil.  Is there some sinister reason for this?

And now that I am living in visa-land, another thought has occurred to me.

Will I need a work visa to perform in Brazil?  I'd better check this out; I don't want to be detained at the airport or arrested on-stage.

Tied up in red tape

Everything is organized for the show in April.  The Brazilian guitarist Eneias is coming to Adelaide to perform with me.  I've booked flights, hotel, theatres.  Tickets are on sale.  Flyers and posters have been printed.

Everything is ready.

But there is one thing I have not prepared for; the labyrinth that is Australian immigration law.

I thought it would be best for Eneias to organize his own visa, rather than trying to arrange it from here.  He has engaged a visa agent, and I have provided the information they required, and have responded to their various questions.  I'd assumed that the visa would soon be issued.

But now Eneias sends me a new form.  What is this?  Application for an entertainer's work visa?  Apparently, this is what he needs if he intends to play in a public performance here.  The form requires him to provide a "sponsorship approval number".  I am supposed to be registered as an "entertainment sponsor".  This is ridiculous.  I'm not a concert promoter.  I'm not bringing the Rolling Stones here to play Adelaide Oval.  Our event is really low-key and small-scale.

I'm on holidays with my husband in Budapest.  This is not what I want to find when I check my email.

Quickly I download and print the form he's sent me, and I suggest responses to some of the questions that he had trouble answering.  I google the process for becoming an entertainment sponsor, and print out the application form.  The accompanying information suggests that the sponsorship and visa applications can be sent together to speed up the process.  My husband has a rest before dinner while I work on filling out the enormous form and ask the hotel staff to scan and email it to me; then I forward it to Eneias.

We email back and forth.  He thinks there is still time to obtain the visa, but I must provide my approval number.  I explain that I don't have one.  We're both using online translation, but it's hard to understand the nuances of each other's conversation.  We're not getting anywhere.  But he sounds as anxious as I feel.

This development has completely knocked me sideways.  I had never thought of our arrangement as one of "employment'.  I was inviting him to come to Australia as a friend, to have a holiday for a week and a half, and to play a bit of music with me.  I had never considered his visit to be an "immigration" issue.  In Australia we are fortunate to travel quite freely.  I can go to other countries to speak at conferences without getting a work visa.  I had assumed that his visa would be a mere formality.

But I was wrong.  We are tied up in red tape.

My husband and I are out sightseeing in Budapest.  I try hard to focus my attention on the sights, but I can't let go of the thought that my carefully-organized plans are falling apart.  I feel panicked.  I try to persuade myself that it's just a temporary glitch; that it will work out.

I am completely unfamiliar with immigration law; I've never had to deal with it before.  I email my friend Yana who is a migration agent in Adelaide.  Yana tells me that the application for this visa comes in three stages.  It could take 2-3 months; maybe longer.  This is not what I want to hear.

It's too hard.  There is a real risk that the visa will not come through in time.  We decide to postpone the show until later in the year.

This is a terrible disappointment.  I set about cancelling all the arrangements.

I must start to unravel the red tape.