An old faded colonial house with a dusty threadbare garden and flame trees. Squeaky gauze fly screens with holes in. Inside is a man and a woman, greying hair, sitting next to a radio and crooked piles of dusty paper, smelling of old maps.
I somehow find myself in this room having been chosen (from a poor rendition of 'Summertime') to be one of the top three finalists in American Idol.
I assure the two lovely judges that there has been a terrible mistake. I cannot sing. They tell me I am being modest. I say no really. I really really cannot sing.
The other two contestants are waiting in the dusty car park, under the molting flame trees near the servant's quarters. I feel sorry for them. I know that they can sing and it would be a terrible travesty if I got picked by mistake.
No please, I say, I really can't sing. I don't know how this happened.
I get given another song to sing. A French song. I sing it. The woman says
Oh yes I see, you're right. Now I hear it in French, I understand. You really can't sing