I'm not actually mute

I felt quite lonely today. It was boiling hot outside, and I really should have been having a picnic or something, but couldn’t think of anyone to call. Instead, I went for a run, and then strolled up into the village to do some writing in Costa. It didn’t feel like much fun to be working on a glorious Saturday, but it seemed a great deal better than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself. I started working on an arrangement of Mr Blue Sky for the choir I'm going to set up as soon as I've built up a body of music for them to perform. It’s a fabulous song, that I've known since my childhood, and I think it will work brilliantly as an a capella choral piece; a sort of encore.


At the moment I guess I'm just trying to stack up a load of composing work that I can busy myself with in the aftermath of my operation on Wednesday. I won’t be able to talk for a week, which is going to be a fairly bizarre experience. I refuse to sit and watch television, however, so have decided to bury myself in composing. I was aiming to go away and sit by the sea, silently and pale-faced like something from Death In Venice, but I guess it's not very practical to go somewhere strange, armed only with a little note pad and a laminated card that says; "I'm not actually a mute..."

Tuesday 4th June 1660, and Pepys went to look at some houses in the vicinity of the Navy Office. Comptroller, Robert Slingsby, had decided that a bit of house-swapping was in order. Pepys didn’t much like the options he was being presented with, so for the time being the verdict was that everyone would stay put. He spent the rest of the day wandering around London - at fairly high speeds by all accounts. First he was Bankside, then he was at the Temple, then he was drinking with his family at the Bear Tavern, then he was watching Henry 4th at the theatre. The day ended with a walk across the fields to Southwark - I love the idea that you could walk across fields to Southwark – and a quick strum on his lute before bed.