It's August 2016, two months before I'm due to arrive in Rio.
I plug away at my work, taking advantage of these few months when I'm home and not travelling. I want to have spending money so we can enjoy our time in Brazil. I've paid for my flight and accommodation for all of us in Rio, but there will still be plenty to pay for.
The Olympics come to an end. There have been numerous reports of crime. Some US swimmers claim to have been held up and mugged by a carload of thugs posing as police officers. Leaving a club in a taxi, they were pulled over and made to lie on the ground while their wallets were taken. This news is chilling. It sounds like a terrifying experience. But a few days later, reports emerge that their story might have been concocted to cover up some property damage they caused while drunk after a party.
Still, I worry about the violent crime that we hear about in Rio. What if something happens to the musicians? What if something happens to my husband? He will be making a solo visit to São Paolo, a city where crime is rife.
My singing teacher puts on a small show for a dozen students, so we can have some performance practice. I decide to sing two songs by Michel Legrand. On the day of the show, I imagine "smashing it". It will be the perfect performance. I get up and sing. It's an unfamiliar setting - broad daylight, big room, people sitting there in full view, all staring at me. At no time during my performance is my breathing under control. Some notes stick in my throat instead of floating through the air. I cringe, then console myself with some stern self-talk. This performance was the equivalent of a sound-check, I tell myself. Normally I would sing a couple of songs just to test the microphone and get the feel of the room. If I sang badly in a sound check it wouldn't bother me - it's just a warm-up, and that's what I've just done.
Yes, I sing so much better in my own shows.
I receive a video of one of my shows. I plug the USB into my computer and have a look. I am horrified by the film. I'm the worst singer in the world, and I have no stage presence at all.
The movie Florence Foster Jones is playing in cinemas. It's about an American society woman, who thinks she can sing, and sets up her own shows. She doesn't realise she can't sing - she can't even hold a note. A French film about her has also been released. Am I a modern-day Australian Florence? I can't bring myself to watch either film.
I've spent quite a lot of money on this venture. I've given up my legal career. Will it be worth it? Am I even good enough?
I am keeping the concert plans very quiet at the moment. I don't want to head off with a fanfare, in a blaze of glory, only to find that the show is cancelled or turns out to be a disaster.
At the same time, I can imagine how it will feel when we've done the show, and I triumphantly announce our achievement.
What a mixture of thoughts and emotions. I'm trying to maintain perspective, but I can feel the stakes rising.
I plug away at my work, taking advantage of these few months when I'm home and not travelling. I want to have spending money so we can enjoy our time in Brazil. I've paid for my flight and accommodation for all of us in Rio, but there will still be plenty to pay for.
The Olympics come to an end. There have been numerous reports of crime. Some US swimmers claim to have been held up and mugged by a carload of thugs posing as police officers. Leaving a club in a taxi, they were pulled over and made to lie on the ground while their wallets were taken. This news is chilling. It sounds like a terrifying experience. But a few days later, reports emerge that their story might have been concocted to cover up some property damage they caused while drunk after a party.
Still, I worry about the violent crime that we hear about in Rio. What if something happens to the musicians? What if something happens to my husband? He will be making a solo visit to São Paolo, a city where crime is rife.
My singing teacher puts on a small show for a dozen students, so we can have some performance practice. I decide to sing two songs by Michel Legrand. On the day of the show, I imagine "smashing it". It will be the perfect performance. I get up and sing. It's an unfamiliar setting - broad daylight, big room, people sitting there in full view, all staring at me. At no time during my performance is my breathing under control. Some notes stick in my throat instead of floating through the air. I cringe, then console myself with some stern self-talk. This performance was the equivalent of a sound-check, I tell myself. Normally I would sing a couple of songs just to test the microphone and get the feel of the room. If I sang badly in a sound check it wouldn't bother me - it's just a warm-up, and that's what I've just done.
Yes, I sing so much better in my own shows.
I receive a video of one of my shows. I plug the USB into my computer and have a look. I am horrified by the film. I'm the worst singer in the world, and I have no stage presence at all.
The movie Florence Foster Jones is playing in cinemas. It's about an American society woman, who thinks she can sing, and sets up her own shows. She doesn't realise she can't sing - she can't even hold a note. A French film about her has also been released. Am I a modern-day Australian Florence? I can't bring myself to watch either film.
I've spent quite a lot of money on this venture. I've given up my legal career. Will it be worth it? Am I even good enough?
I am keeping the concert plans very quiet at the moment. I don't want to head off with a fanfare, in a blaze of glory, only to find that the show is cancelled or turns out to be a disaster.
At the same time, I can imagine how it will feel when we've done the show, and I triumphantly announce our achievement.
What a mixture of thoughts and emotions. I'm trying to maintain perspective, but I can feel the stakes rising.
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