I live in my own musical. I don't think I'm alone in choosing to put a jazzy soundtrack to my banal day-to-days. And nights. At dawn, I enjoy hearing the middle-aged prostitutes melodically heckle local art students below my bedroom window. Very Cabaret in tone. I rent a flat in Whitechapel, once notorious for murder, now the place where failing artists live, in laminate-floored lofts overlooking council estates, where the smell of halal fried chicken is almost visible and teenagers travel in from Essex art colleges to photograph our vandalised skips. It is a magical place, hazy with possibility and methadone. Anything could happen but, poetically, nothing ever does. The curry houses fill with City workers from six and some stumble to the station via the strip pub next to Argos. The Jack the Ripper tours crawl down our street like West Side Story gangs. They meet at the station, a gaggle of matching rucksacks and camera phones, and lower their eyes, embarrassed by 1970s architecture. The tours are banned from local pubs, where they used to gather by the DJ booth and ask for tap water. Walking past them, you'll hear their tour guide frantically fabricating gory details -- "Entrails!" you'll hear, "in her hair!" How could I not sing along? Glee , the hit US TV series currently filling Sky+ boxes all over Britain and taking Eighties power ballads to the top of the pop charts, is a series made for me. Set in a high school in