Killed By Bees.

Bzzz.

They circle around the handful of singers who had the good fortune (or good sense) not to care what people (like them) thought when they were kids (either way) or who (embarrassingly) are purging the fact that they did.

Get out of your bedrooms kids, your art-future lies in the hands of others now.

Don't be shy. I love your songs. They're great! So great they should be part of a showcase. My showcase. Uncertain but flattered, she agrees.

So, she turns up to find that her most carefully organised interpretations of crippling things she may never understand are beset either side (in time, though it may as well be spatially) by a juggler and a comic poet.

This is weird. Still, chin up, it's the next step.

She's nervous, of course, and what in christ's name is singing into a mic all about?

As she finally gets settled during the third of her allotted five vignettes of real moments that changed her life... she glances down and sees someone scribbling away.

Bzzz.

A mere 9 months later, guitar given to her nephew, she's top of the board in the AXA office for fixed term life cover plan sales, barely able to remember how a Cm7 was played, let alone why she'd want to in the first place.