An anxious girl goes to an open mic night. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she is scared. She pushes open the rusted, rotted door and escapes the harsh cold of the London streets for the comfort of a warmly lit pub on a Thursday night, green and red metal plates that nobody particularly pays attention to lining the walls, a man with a long grey beard nursing a beer in the corner. She takes in this sight. It’s not something novel, for she knows what pubs look like on a Thursday night, but the novelty in this experience lies in her own role rather than the difference of her surroundings. She barely notices that she’s peeled half the skin off from around her nail beds. She barely notices the slight tremor in her knees when she stands still. She’s never done something like this before. Her parents thought it would be good for her; she would soon see that they were right. It’s not that she hadn’t performed before, she had, and it wasn’t that she wasn’t a very skilled performer, for that she was too, but rather it was a secret third thing that she couldn’t quite place. A secret gnawing suspicion that despite all this, she wasn’t anything special. A fear that if people looked at her, watched her, noticed her for more than a couple minutes at a time they would actually begin to catch a glimpse of her soul. That would be too terrifying a prospect to even begin to consider for her. So, she takes her seat, cherry red electric ukulele resting against her thigh, holding it as tenderly as she would a baby. An eccentric instrument for someone so scared of being noticed. A talking point. A statement. Perhaps the only part of her skittish, silent self-presentation which suggests a desire to be seen. Subconsciously she is aware of this, though she won’t admit it now.

An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she tries to rationalise her feelings. The voices in her head hold court, continuously deliberating over the likelihood of her ever seeing any of the audience again, frantically making calculations of risk against reward. Reward wins. So, the anxious girl watches all of those who will precede her. A bald man with black, thin rimmed glasses sings a Johnny Cash song, a woman with black hair and a nose ring plays the rock version of a cello, two brothers with the same green eyes sing an ode to their mother. She watches these varied, brilliant acts with equal parts reverie and self-loathing. Despite possessing a talent for music that is undeniable even to the most untrained of ears, it is her curse to indubitably believe that every person who performs before or after her is better than she could ever even dream to be. She shared a similar sentiment with her mother once but was only met with a vague look of concern and an offhand comment about seeking psychiatric help. Although, of course, this was said as a joke. Her mother has her own issues. She was an anxious girl once too.

An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she finally performs. She gets on stage, fingers trembling, ears reddening, throat constricting. She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t close her eyes. If she closes her eyes, she’ll cry. She knows she can’t do that. So, steeling herself, she does what she had always done best: puts on a show. Not only in the way you would expect, although it is true, her singing was beautiful though she would be as critical of it as one would expect, but in the way that she had been trained to ever since she was a child. To plaster a huge smile over her face, one so wide her eyes appear practically nonexistent in pictures, make an amusing quip about the novelty of an electric ukulele and overall charm the audience into believing she wasn’t falling apart. After all, she had seventeen years of practice. While she sings, she scans the audience, nervously searching for the tiniest expression of approval from the sea of strangers scrutinising her every move, measuring her up against the competition. The tiniest of smiles escapes from an older woman in a grey cardigan. Our anxious girl is satisfied. Partially, at least. She could never be fully satisfied unless she could read every person who had ever met her’s mind and therefore deduce exactly what opinion each of them held of her and she knows as well as the rest of us the likelihood of this happening.

An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and it’s not as bad as her fears predicted. Although, secretly she knew it wouldn’t be, she just couldn’t allow herself to feel hope and then potentially be disappointed by her failure to achieve. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she feels proud of herself afterwards. Although she does throw up from the stress on the pavement on the way home, she still got up there and sang her little heart out. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and life goes on. Nobody in that pub ever thinks about it again. Except, of course, for a little girl in pigtails and her mother who is secretly planning on getting her a ukulele for Christmas this year, although our anxious girl will never know this. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and nothing happens. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night and she is ok. An anxious girl goes to an open mic night.