Stir Fry

I woke up this morning feeling depressed and not wanting to get out of bed. There’s still so much admin to be on the motet, and yet everyone seems to be taking forever to get back to me with information I seriously need to move forward. So I’m just waiting now...


I walked into Muswell Hill to buy some decent fruit and vegetables. It seems wherever I’ve been in the past week at the time I've needed to eat, there’s been nothing but rubbish available. I’ve been craving things like stir fries for days now, and have bought the ingredients to make one tonight. I also bought a Sainsbury’s own brand Minestrone soup for lunch; one of those fancy looking ones in the plastic pots but it tasted revolting beyond words and now I feel sick.

As I wondered back from Muswell Hill I decided that the thing causing me most concern was the fact that I’ve not yet sorted my accounts for last year’s tax return. My accountant emailed recently to remind me of this fact. So this afternoon I sat on a carpet of receipts and spent hours trying to work out which of them were legitimate and which ones to throw away. It’s a horrible job, especially when you’re feeling sick and bilious.

This is officially the final reminder for anyone reading this blog to get in touch to let me know if they want tickets for the motet. Email me as soon as possible on ben@benjamintill.com because tickets WILL go...

350 years ago, Pepys had anchovies for breakfast. I’d like to think they were nicer than my Minestrone Soup, but anchovies? For breakfast?! Later in the day, his best mate, Mr Moore called by and the two men walked across town, via the upholsterers. They stopped at the Cockpit Theatre and contemplated a matinee, but didn’t like what was on. Pepys got home, only to be told by his boy, Will, that his presence had been requested by Sandwich, so he went all the way back to Westminster only to find that Sandwich had next to nothing to say. He was simply in a melancholy mood, having lost a great deal of money at cards. He did, however, confess to being genuinely worried that he might have become addicted to gambling.