Saturday, 28 January 2012

Sore throat!

It’s odd. I was only thinking yesterday how well I’ve been of late. The whooping cough is now just a bitter memory and the daily runs and healthy eating regime have been doing wonders for my energy levels. Nathan keeps getting colds and stomach bugs but I’ve been charging through, until late last night that is, when that all-too-familiar tickly sensation started to prickle in the back of my throat. At 6am, I woke up thinking someone had slit my throat in the night. I have seldom experienced a sore throat so ridiculously painful. I was forced to get out of bed and rifle through the little drawer of pills and potions in the kitchen to see if I could find something that might ease the pain. I was fairly horrified to discover that we’ve started keeping bird food in the same drawer, but in my rush to find something chemical, I let it pass. I settled on something green, foul-smelling and spray-like and went back to bed, waking up at 11am, disgusted at myself for lying-in so late.

I’ve worked all day. Yes, I know... even on a Saturday, but the latest draft of our spoken-word only Hattersley film came through from Paul in Worthing, and it was vital that I spent some quality time scoring it for strings in time for Monday. I’ve only just finished, but I’m very excited. I’ve pin-pointed some of the natural pitches and rhythms of the recorded spoken words and transcribed them musically. Yes, yes, very Steve Reich, I’m aware of this, but the effect is really interesting – and fairly avant garde, which is, let’s face it, new territory for me.  I always wanted to use the Hattersley films to take a massive leap into the unknown, and so far, so good...

I did various bits of admin whilst I was writing, including taking a trip to my favourite printers up in Finchley. I call them my favourite printers because the woman there is really friendly. She could sell lowland brogues to Ghandi. Sadly, she wasn’t there today, and in her place was a sour-faced slag who didn’t seem at all interested in talking to me, or taking me through various price and paper options. The end of the road came when she told me it would cost £1 per sheet to print an A4 page in colour. As we walked into the shop Nathan had asked why we weren’t printing the documents at home and I'd said it was because they might look a little nicer if done properly, but for £1 a sheet, I think I’d rather hand paint them with gold leaf. As I left the shop, I could hear Nathan telling the woman off for being surly. “It’s not good customer service” he said. “Thanks for your feedback” she replied, her sallow lips glistening with passive aggression, “I’ll bear it in mind.” I bet you will, darling... when you’re out of a freakin’ job, ‘cus all of your customers have gone elsewhere. Narky cow. She smelt like pickled herring.
Pepys returned to his house from Westminster Hall 350 years ago, to find his wife playing cards with a gaggle of women including the daughter of Sir William Penn (sister, therefore, of the father of America). Pepys decided to treat the ladies to a barrel of oysters and a nice bit of chicken, which he had specially prepared. Sadly, Penn’s daughter decided, just as food was being served, that she didn’t want to stay. Maybe she didn't like chicken. Maybe she was simply a spoilt, ungrateful little cow. Whatever the case, Pepys’ nose was very firmly put out of joint, and he walked her home fuming...

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