Season of mist

We've just been into Soho for a dinner meeting with one of the creatives attached to our mystery project. We went to Bistro Number One behind the Palace Theatre. In an area of flux, it's one of the last remaining eating establishments which I still recognise in that part of town. It's certainly one of the few reasonably-priced diners. When I worked in the West End on the show Taboo, we had all sorts of local options for cheap grub: West End Kitchen, Diana's Diner, Amalfi... Gone the way of all flesh, dear! When the infamous Stock Pot finally closes its doors on the world, Soho will officially be dead... (It is already)

Anyway, the meeting went very well. I can't tell you what we talked about, but I had a lovely vegetarian moussaka and some deep fried Brie whilst chatting!

I inch closer to the time when Brass is finally done and dusted. I'm trying to do half an hour here and there throughout my working day and every time I open either the script or the final number that I'm working on, I realise there's just that little bit less to do...

That said, Nathan blithely reminded me today that I hadn't done any of the scene change music, and my little heart froze over.

Onward and upward...

It's rained again all day today. There comes a point at which one has to wonder why Brits haven't developed webbed feet. Is it too much to ask for a little dry spell before winter finally arrives? I long for autumnal walks on the Heath with glorious red and orange leaves fluttering about in the breeze. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness and all that. That was written by Keats as it happens, whose home was by the side of the Heath, so it's not a huge leap of logic to imagine he was actually describing London's favourite park when he wrote that poem. In those days, of course, the Heath was an actual Heath; a marshy wilderness which was the hunting ground of the likes of Dick Turpin. There's a pub in Kentish Town called the Assembly Room. 17th Century travellers heading North would gather at that particular pub so that they could travel en masse through the dangerous Heath. Large caravans of horses and carts were far less likely to be targeted by highway men.

Anyway, we're back home and have an hour's work to do on Brass before turning in, so I'll love you and leave you... Night night...