You must excuse me if this blog entry makes little or no sense. I've just spent the last hour being massaged, and I feel like a big floaty, floppy, dreamy, soggy, spinny mess.
I drove to the massage; it's only round the corner, but a fifteen-minute walk afterwards could well unstitch all the good work. What I need is a bath and a good sleep.
As I motored down Muswell Hill Road, a very silly woman ran across the street in front of me. It's fairly typical London behaviour. We're all guilty of doing it sometimes; the car's not driving fast and you assume that its driver won't want to run you over and will put his foot on the brake accordingly. A lot of Londoners aren't drivers, however, so the split-second decisions they make in this regard are potentially costly. Particularly when it's dark and icy. I very nearly hit her because the car wheels skidded as I slammed the brakes on. The car behind me was also forced to brake suddenly as a result of her pavement-to-pavement dash. The pedestrian gave me such a dirty look, so much that I really wanted to get out and give her a lecture on stopping distances in icy conditions, but decided I didn't want to be worked up for the massage. It was deeply irresponsible behaviour on her part, however, and I hope she learnt something from the episode I've half a mind to strip her of her cycling proficiency badge, although, quite frankly, I'd be happier if someone taught her that bubble perms belong to, and should remain at all times, in the 80s!
Abbie came over today and we recorded a demo vocal of Four Colours for our soloist to use as a learning tool. Abbie sang beautifully and we nailed the tracks in about an hour.
I heard today that an amateur choir in York are planning to perform Yellow in July. This makes me feel very happy indeed. It's a work which deserves to take off. Particularly with its history.
The rest of the day has been spent working on the White City project, composing music for Norma's song, which is about fostering children. I defy anyone to remain dry-eyed through this one. Norma is one of life's saints, and the song is literally writing itself. I mean figuratively writing itself. I'm holding the pen. I think.