A couple of weeks ago I had coffee with a colleague of mine I'll call Mr. Gesundheit. (His actual name is a sort of Ukrainian sneeze.) He's an artist by nature, and a manager by profession, and he was telling me about the singing lessons he took.

"Singing lessons?" I said. "Oh, do tell." He'd done it for a few months, and then, he said, he started feeling out of his depth and gave it up. But he gave me the number of the guy he'd been working with.

I'd heard of him, as a matter of fact; he's an opera singer, and has made quite a few appearances roundabout in cantatas and oratorios, that sort of thing. (This is a very big classical music town.) And from what Mr. Gesundheit told me about him, I was absolutely stoked, particularly the bits about how he works with a lot of people in musical theatre, and does audition preparation.

I zipped off home, and called the number. Out of service. I Googled the man, and found his name attached to that of a rather nifty music studio in the artists' coop in which I occasionally undress for life drawing. Went to the website, got an email address, and emailed.... and it came back later that evening as a dead address.

Well, I knew this teacher was still around. I looked up his last name in the phone book, and called all the likelies, and talked to four cranky people who weren't him.

Rats. Emailed Mr. Gesundheit, who very kindly dredged up another number for me. Eureka! Bingo! Score! His voicemail, at any rate.

We played phone tag a little (the teacher called me to say he was going on vacation, and he'd call me back) and I waited. And waited and waited, jittering. Tonight, I thought, "he's back from vacation, according to his message -- and next week, he leaves on another vacation. Get on it, Katharine."

It's the Pisces. I hate to be a pain. However, I must get over that. I will get nowhere without putting myself out there -- the part that is so foreign to me.

Anyway, to make a long story short(er), I called, and he called back. He has, as one might expect, a most delightful phone voice that ripples down the line like a rich fudge sauce, all full and round and open. We talked about theatre, and acting, and how valuable voice training can be for actors. He asked me if I knew anything about music (no), playing an instrument (no), reading music (no) or singing (in the shower, the car and the living room), and he laughed.

I meet with him on Monday.

"Think of something to sing," he said, "just so I can hear you." Oh dear! This will be fun. He will wince. I think I have a niceish voice, and reasonable pitch, but still. Eek. Whatever will I sing? I expect some old jazz song, a little Julie London or something, will be best, since it's safely in my range and I won't forget it.

I also emailed a photographer, whose work I like a lot, to ask whether she does headshots (she specialises in portraits). I was then stunned to find, from a theatre website, that I can expect to pay up to a thousand dollars altogether for shooting, "artistic" and printing fees for headshots. Well, if it's to be done, it must be done. I've learned that most training courses request headshot and resume with application, so I'll need them sooner rather than later.

I am so excited! Well, all right. I alternate between excitement, terror, and thinking I've gone completely daft.