Esoteric

I watched a tiny bit of breakfast television this morning. They seemed to be at the Sage in Gateshead with the “next generation of inventors.” Loads of local children were holding up placards with pictures of their handiwork. I was a little confused that none of them seemed to have local accents. Plainly, the next generation of inventors are all from public schools...

I have to say: I find the tragic artifice of television utterly laughable. The idea that, at 7 in the morning, a whole circus troupe might be warming up and jumping about in the background of the shot whilst the presenter does a piece to camera is just a nonsense. The desperation people show to be on telly never ceases to amaze me. An all-woman choir had turned up to the Sage this morning simply to sing Rock Around the Clock. The sum total of their involvement seemed to be to provide three seconds of music whilst the presenter said “back to the studio.” It’s just all so fake, and the less you watch telly, the more you realise how rubbish it is when you do. We take so much nonsense for granted. 

For the next two weeks I’m working at Mountview, which is actually the drama school where I did my training. It’s a real treat to be back in the old building especially as it’s moving to Peckham at the end of this year. For me it’s very sad that the place is not remaining in Haringey. The borough was apparently simply not that fussed about keeping one of London’s premier education institutions. Mountview was always North London’s drama school, and it’s very much the reason why I settled in this part of the city.

Still, I am making the most of walking to work. It’s a 40-minute journey and I pass through all manner of woods and parks on route. It has been freezing cold, however. It snowed throughout my journey yesterday. This morning, the ground was rock solid with a hoar frost which glinted magically in the sunshine. Parakeets were sitting on the trees in Highgate Wood. Those fellas never used to live near us but seem to be everywhere now. Their green coats were literally glowing in the sun against the grey winter trees. It was almost as though they’d lined themselves up in a pocket of sunlight for a photo. Tarts. The rise of parakeets in north London is an extraordinary phenomenon. I remember the first time I saw one on Hampstead Heath. A group of strangers stood, looking up at a tree, gasping and saying “but what on Earth is it doing here?” A few years later, the heath was full of little green flashes. It was only three years ago that I heard that all-too familiar squawk and saw a flock of them flying over my house, and now the local woods are full of them.

I’m at Mountview School working with the foundation year and a writer called Sam Potter on a musical adaptation of a children’s book. We’re really just having a bit of fun for two weeks to get a feel for whether the somewhat esoteric material lends itself to a musical treatment. We’re doing lots of improvisation and I’m throwing out a few songs here and there. The students are brilliant: really experimental and up for it. There’s a good atmosphere in the rehearsal room.

I have to stop writing. It’s too cold not to have my hands in my pockets.