Galerij van Larababy

Ghost tour at the Tower today and I've decided to give the real ghosts some competition. Tell me honestly — would you follow me in?

Body paint dries faster than you'd think, so I'm doing the whole costume by hand and starting from absolutely nothing. Come tell me where the last brushstroke goes.

Tim Walker's fairyland exhibition has been living in my head since I walked out of it. Now it's just the screen glow and me with nowhere to be. Tell me what you'd shoot if you found me like this.

Corinne Bailey Rae's already singing and I'm only just out the door — this dress under the coat was a decision I stand by. Come find me in the crowd.

Last day of the portrait show at the National Portrait Gallery and I've been stood at the wardrobe for twenty minutes deciding what a girl wears to spend an afternoon with faces. The wardrobe's full and I'm still standing here in nothing. Tell me what makes the cut.

Sneaked into the Parallax Art Fair at Chelsea Old Town Hall before anyone noticed I'd left my desk. Found a piece that looks like it was painted about me and now I'm not moving. Tell me you'd have stopped too.

Comic Con opens today and my costume is still in pieces on the chair — I got distracted somewhere around the wearing-nothing-at-all stage. Tell me I'm not the only one who works better under pressure.

The ICA's free thinkers festival is in full swing and I'm up before the sun arguing with my wardrobe. This dress keeps losing ground and I've stopped fighting it. Come tell me how much of it makes it to the first talk.

First readings are only a few hours away and I still haven't been to bed — the programme's covered in ticks and the tea clearly isn't helping. Tell me which talk I'm dragging myself to.

London Literature Festival opens tomorrow and I've decided the night before belongs to my own writing — notebook open, tea gone cold, shirt giving up on one shoulder. Tell me what you'd want written about you.