Pepys Motet

2012-02-03T23:15:00.000Z

And so the cold weather continues...

It's been one of those rather endless days. I was up fairly early and working in the cafe by 10. I'm trying to whip the Fleet Singer’s memories into some kind of coherent narrative. As always, the problem with real stories and memories is that they’re rarely blessed with a through-line. Life is just a little bit too random. This is the predominant reason why biopics tend to underwhelm. Nevertheless, I've put all the texts I’ve been sent into a massive time line – starting with the earliest and ending with the most recent, and am slowly whittling them down. It feels a little like I'm carving something without really knowing what. It's a heartbreaking process. Sometimes I find myself having to cut a really brave piece of writing or something which really speaks to me. But, as Sir Arnold Wesker used to say, sometimes you have to kill your darlings. The bigger picture is more important than the constituent parts, however beautifully written they are. So I've killed many darlings and am painfully aware that at least another 50% will have to go before I’m done.

Today is Philippa's birthday so I ambled over to the Hackney Hood to give her a little devil's glass vase which I'm convinced she needs to hang in a window. We had a little green devil’s glass hanging in the sitting room window for most of my childhood. My mother was very superstitious about it. I once managed to pull it down from its green woollen holder. If there’s something to be fiddled with, I'll usually fiddle with it until it's broken. I broke a wall chart at Philippa’s today, and then managed to pull the back off a little hair grip, which I didn’t own up to. Anyway, when the devil’s glass fell into my hand as a ten-year old child, I didn’t want my Mum to think I’d been fiddling again, so told her it simply fell from the string unaided. She freaked out, worrying, no doubt that the angel of doom was descending on the family. Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I felt obliged to tell the truth.

All was well with the Goslett-Emerys. Goddaughter Deia was suitably chirpy and eccentric, greeting me with a lion's roar, which she told me wasn’t a lion, or a tiger, or a bear, or a koala or a funny little elephant. “So what are you, Deia?” I said. “Daddy says I’m a nut.” She replied. We ate a blackberry crumble birthday cake from Marks and Spencer's, played a game involving cards which looked like plates of food, and chatted merrily. Philippa had just had her hair cut and looked stunning; like a glamorous actress from the 1970s.

350 years ago marked the 3^rd anniversary of Sir William Penn’s marriage and there was much mirth in the Navy office. To tell you the truth, Pepys’ account of the day is so charming, that I’m going to let the words come from him:

Among other froliques, it being their third year, they had three pyes, whereof the middlemost was made of an ovall form, in an ovall hole within the other two, which made much mirth, and was called the middle piece; and above all the rest, we had great striving to steal a spooneful out of it; and I remember Mrs. Mills, the minister’s wife, did steal one for me and did give it me; and to end all, Mrs. Shipmann did fill the pye full of white wine, it holding at least a pint and a half, and did drink it off for a health to Sir William and my Lady, it being the greatest draft that ever I did see a woman drink in my life.

Feeding ducks

2012-02-02T19:22:00.000Z

My fingers ache. It is so unbelievably cold in North London. I’m told that most of Europe is sitting underneath the second highest high pressure system ever recorded, which, in winter time means stupidly cold, bone dry weather, which is exactly how I’d describe what’s been going on today. Not a cloud in the sky; throw in a bitter Easterly wind and you have a bad case of chilblains. It's so dry, I'm told, that we won't experience any frost tonight, except on the grass, which is weird but kind of wonderful. I love these temperatures. My internal thermostat is horribly broken, so it's rare for me to feel anything other than uncomfortable heat. It’s the curse of being an hairy man, I'm afraid, so being cold is actually fun; although I'm sure I won't be saying that when I'm old and have nothing but faded photographs.

Speaking of the elderly, there are two gorgons who live around the corner from us who give old people a bad name. They're suspicious. They peer out from behind net curtains, and they stand in darkened rooms watching the street, peering like perverts.

Their biggest crime, however, is to think they have the right to put a traffic cone on the parking space outside their house to prevent anyone but their visitors (of which they seem to have very few) parking there.

The thing about parking on the street in London is that residents pay a certain amount each year to park in any bay within a designated set of streets. The streets in Highgate can get quite busy and often the space outside this couple’s house (which is somewhat tucked away) is the only one without a car in it.

We often find ourselves having to move the cone whilst the couple ruffle their curtains and look out at us as though we were hideous ruffians. Sometimes the woman gestures at us frantically to put the cone back and move our car. We pretend not to notice.

We left our car there for a week once and returned to find a note on the windscreen, which said "please make sure you don't leave your car in this space for such a long period of time again." Part of the deal of having a permit to park in our neighbourhood is that we can choose to leave our car in any space for as long as we like.

I should point out that the parking space nearest to our house is on a much busier road, and that if we tried to reserve it for ourselves in the manner described above, we'd have our knuckles very quickly and very firmly rapped by Harringey Council.

One day the woman came beetling out of her house to talk to us. "This space needs to be kept clear” she barked. “Ummm... Why?” we asked. “Because I have a disabled sister." "I’m sorry to hear that. Does she live here?" "No, but she visits very regularly." "Is this a designated disabled bay?" I asked, pretending to give a shit. "No, but we're the only house on the street which doesn't have its own private parking bay, which is not fair." (ah... now, I get it) “Well, I'm sure the lack of private parking was reflected in the price you paid for the house. Lovely to meet you." She sneered at me like a miserable crone. I swear she swallowed one of her teeth.

As it happens, of course, their putting the traffic cone on the space and having no friends means we get a space reserved just for us, being the only people who seem to know about these horrible people's game. Others simply assume it’s been reserved by the council. But if we're scratching their backs by not reporting them or setting fire to their blessed traffic cones they could at least ditch the "we're tragic elderly people who struggle to look after our disabled sister" act. You're rich. You're loathsome. You're not used to being told no. So get over yourselves, or buy a house with its own parking bay!
A short, sharp diary entry from Mr Pepys 350 years ago, which simply informed us that an Oxford man had delivered an “impertinent” sermon in church. “Cast your bread upon the waters.” Surely only when you’re feeding ducks?

Spluttering

2012-02-01T22:13:00.000Z

I feel washed-out. I’ve been staving off this cold for too many days. The regular adrenaline rushes in the recording studio kept it at bay, but now that I’ve started to relax, the dreadful thing has started to engulf me.

It’s been a day of admin; a day spent drinking tea, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at my computer screen. A day of regular trips to the post office to buy envelopes and then stamps for investor packs for the Requiem. A day of constantly blowing my nose and coughing and spluttering and wishing I could get warm. I don't really have a great deal more to report...

I went running and it nearly killed me. As I got into the house, I was gasping for air, wondering if I was going to suffocate; a thought which was more embarrassing than scary. My legs now feel like lead. The run did, however, offer one rather beautiful moment as I staggered across the top of Waterlow Park. London was basking in a sort of golden light that I’m not sure I’ve seen before. It was so clear and crisp and I could see for miles and miles, across to my brother’s house in Canary Wharf and all the way due south to Crystal Palace. The sun was so low that the trees were half in shade.

A woman was sitting on a bench reading a book. The sun was lighting her face through a gap in the trees. She looked like a sepia photograph. I ran passed her, and then returned, compelled to tell her how extraordinary she looked, glowing magically on her bench. I hope she didn’t think I was out of my mind.

We went out in the freezing air tonight to buy curry which we’re eating whilst watching Masterchef. I'm obsessed with cookery programmes, which is probably a weird admission for a vegetarian.

Saturday February 1^st, 1662, and Pepys spent the morning walking in the garden of the Navy office with Sir William Penn, who was thinking of transferring his son from Oxford to Cambridge University. Pepys went with Peter Pett the master shipwright to visit Mr Savill, the painter. Pett admired the portraits Savill had painted of the Pepyses, and Pepys was thrilled. Perhaps Savill could finally breathe a sigh of relief...

Abercrombie

2012-01-31T20:43:00.000Z

I did a number of errands in town this afternoon, one of which involved a trip to Jermyn Street Theatre. I didn't quite get there as I bumped into the person I wanted to see at at Piccadilly Circus. In an attempt to avoid the crowds on my way home, I found myself in the part of town west of Regent’s Street, where all the fancy clothing shops are found. I wandered aimlessly, peering into well-lit boutiquey windows, alternately wishing I had enough money to buy nice clothes before thinking "dear God, if I DID have money, I'd go nowhere near that place!"

I found myself walking past Abercrombie and Fitch; a cultural phenomenon I've been aware of for some time, but not yet explored. Something about the thrusting music they were playing dragged me inside but I knew from the moment I stepped into the foyer that I’d made an enormous mistake. The same terrible impulse that makes me stare at road crashes and facial deformities pulled me into the actual shop...

"Hey there. Come in. How’s it going?" said the grotesquely chirpy trio of models who are simply paid to welcome people in a kind of "we’re having an amazing party and the coke's on us" kind of way. I should have told them I was having a nervous breakdown when they asked how it was going, just to check whether they were programmed to listen to a response...

The shop is, of course, shiny and immaculate and it smells of an expensive aftershave that I recognised from the street outside. All the clothes are spot lit. Pouting models stand limply in every corner with seemingly nothing to do but sway their bony hips in time to the music. It reminded me a little of the old ladies they used to stick in every corner of art galleries and museums in communist Russia, except these Babooshka dolls weren't fat and gipping, they were malnourished, pale and covered in foundation (particularly the boys.)

There was nothing for me; not a single item I could ever have imagined wearing; the campy, chirpy models knew it, and yet every time I entered another room, in my desperate attempt to escape, another voice would ask "how you doing?" in that hideous “we’re buzzing like bees” kind of tone. Frankly, if I had wanted anything in the shop, these go-go girls would have sent me running for cover. The entire experience was soulless and grotesque and I realised, probably for the first time in my life, that I was too old to shop in a shop. I peered into one of the many mirrors lining the walls, and saw how my hair was thinning. I walked away with my tail very firmly planted between my legs and the words "have a great night" echoing in my careworn brain.

Pepys went to the theatre 350 years ago and saw Argalus and Parthenia, a new play by Henry Glapthorne. He was impressed, but added that it had been “wronged” by his “over great expectations, as all things else are.” I know the feeling, although I knew Abercrombie and Fitch was going to be shit!

The requi-o-meter

2012-01-30T20:09:00.000Z

I was amused this morning by the behaviour of one of those slightly nutty people who often seem to gravitate towards crowded tubes. Every time the train stopped, in those few seconds of silence you get before it pulls out of the station again, an angry voice would pipe up, ranting about bankers and our "right-wing" government. The strong smell of ammonia accompanied his journey through the carriage and he handed Metro newspapers to everyone who would take one. Each paper had been carefully ripped in half."It's a Tory paper," he yelled, "Happy new year!"

Tube carnage! Ripped Metros

I spent the day in Clapham at Sonica studios recording backing tracks for the Hattersley songs. It all went past in something of a blur. I hadn't slept a great deal, I didn't eat very much, and I drank too many cups of tea, which, coupled with regular surges of adrenaline made me very jittery.

To save money, I played the piano; a decision I instantly regretted because I wasn't able to sit back and hear the music objectively. I also think that people weren't as tough on me as they might have been because they assumed that, as the composer, the music I was playing was meant to sound the way it did; slightly out of time...

By the afternoon, things had calmed down considerably and I was able to sit back and enjoy the session with the string quartet. Everyone played beautifully and I think the music I've written is good, although for some reason, I left with very little sense of the bigger picture.

I think the musicians very much enjoyed themselves, which is always a good sign. Adrian the violinist was highly complimentary. I guess, after playing my music for the best part of 20 years, he's in a good place to be able to judge one work against another. He made me laugh a lot with talk of the "Till 9th" referring to my tendency to add a lot of 9th notes to the chords I write - usually unresolved, just hanging there like tiny sad clouds...

The studio owner is a massive ABBA fan and owns a few gadgets from the old Polar studios in Stockholm. He got very excited to hear that my favourite song was "Summer Night City," which is also his favourite ABBA song. A man with impeccable taste.

Good news: we had our first investment in the Requiem today, so we're now £1000 towards our target of £25,000. A long way to go, of course, but an amazing start. It is therefore time to unveil the Requi-o-meter! Drum roll, please...

More more drums...

And more...

Thank you...

Ta dah! (And if you know of any wealthy lovers of death, music, me, graveyards, or Barbara Windsor, please ask them to get in touch for one of my lovely investment packs!)

Ikea

2012-01-29T23:40:00.000Z

We spent most of today with our friends Ian and Jem. They’re the couple who made London their home because draconian homophobic laws in their own countries (the USA and Australia respectively) made it impossible for them to live together legally anywhere else. There are many things that frustrate me about this country, but we lead the English-speaking world when it comes to basic human rights. Thank God Ian’s mother is British...

They were buying furniture for their lovely new flat in Friern Barnet, so we took them to an Ikea, somewhere East of London on the North Circular. It’s very important, when heading to an Ikea on a Sunday, to do lots of deep breathing exercises before you leave the house. The experience can be a bit like being thrown into a sheep dip. You get herded through the building into ever-decreasing spaces. Periodically a flock of lambs trips you over and a grumpy shepherd prods you in the back because you’re not moving quickly enough. There were an astonishing number of lambs running, unchaperoned, around the building. Two particularly fluffy ones were having a terrible fight with two soft toys, which was quite amusing until it turned into a major turf war and hair started flying...

I don’t really like Ikea. You have to pay quite good money to find anything decent in there, and there’s a hell of a lot of cheap crap knocking about; lamps made out of strands of paper, uncomfortable-looking sofas hanging off dangerous metal frames, storage solutions which fall apart as soon as you put something inside. Everything in the place has been stuck down with glue, or screwed into the floor to stop potential thieves. The whole place smells of Swedish meatballs and the staff members don’t seem to give a damn about anyone.

350 years ago, and Pepys went with Elizabeth to the painter’s studio to have her portrait altered – for about the 400^th time. They stayed there until late, and Pepys was pleased with the results (as he usually was until he showed the work to a more discerning eye.) He decided that the painter, Mr Savill, was an honest man but “silly” to the point of distraction when it came to the concept of shadows... which begs the question, why commission a painter based on his previous work, if you think he’s not very good? Maybe he was cheap...

Sore throat!

2012-01-28T23:35:00.000Z

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...

Brick Lane

2012-01-27T21:20:00.000Z

I spent today in the East End near Brick Lane. It was a very beautiful sunny day and everyone seemed to be out on the streets. As I queued for beigels at lunchtime, it struck me what a peculiar and fabulous blend of different cultures hang out in that part of town; traditional white Eastenders, rubbing shoulders with yummy mummies pushing purple prams, Bengali lads with their diamond ear studs, media types with silly hairdos and the odd suited City Slicker venturing away from the shiny metal and bright lights of the square mile to slum it in a graffiti-covered caff. Travel much further in an Easterly direction and London becomes mono-cultural; impoverished ghettos populated by women hiding behind net-curtains and hijabs, and men with straggly beards looking shifty. Further still, and you're in the 1984 shimmering world of Canary Wharf, where there's no such thing as silence or privacy, and the only faces with colour are sitting behind the tills in the fancy Waitrose.

I was disappointed to discover that my favourite street, Sclater Street, once famous for its 200 foot-long wall of intricate graffiti, had been tidied up. The 200 foot-long wall was still there, but bizarrely, it had been painted grey. I was surprised that this act of albino carnage hadn’t proved to be an instant red rag to the graffiti fraternity’s bull, but there was nothing there but grey paint – not even a lonely tag from a 15 year-old boy with no discernable artistic ability.

Penny and I spent the day working at the BBC’s offices at Rich Mix. It’s a lonely place; a bit of a waste of BBC money. No one really works there anymore. There was a very suspicious smell hanging about as well, a sort of sweet, cheesy, poo-like aroma which I decided was the stench of dead mouse in the air-conditioning unit. It was all-pervading, so neither of us could work out where it actually came from. We wondered about, sniffing various dustbins, and I suspect it’s a smell which is only going to get worse.

350 years ago, and somewhere near Tower Hill, Pepys found a trio of sledges which were waiting to carry a number of Charles I’s regicides to the gallows and back again “with ropes about their necks.” They weren’t actually due to be hanged. These men had only been loosely involved in Charles’ death. They weren’t present at the execution and hadn’t signed the death warrant, but their involvement was enough for them to be ritually humiliated in this way. One assumes the baying crowd would pelt them with rotten fruit on their journey there and back. A pointless spectacle if you ask me...

The list shortens

2012-01-26T21:25:00.000Z

It’s been a day of admin; mostly getting things ready for Monday’s recording session for the Hattersley songs. We’re recording string quartet, bass, guitar and piano. I’ve been putting final touches to the score and printing out parts on a lovely heavy buff-coloured paper, which makes everything look quite classy; a trick I learnt from Fiona.

I have a list of things to do which is steadily getting shorter, although today it felt like I was adding as much to bottom as I was striking from the top. The thought started to make my tummy feel a bit funny. Like I was walking on an endless treadmill. I paid my tax; everything I owed for last year, and by decree, half of this year’s, based on last year's figures, which is irritating and pathetic, especially as it well-and-truly wiped me out. I now have less than a thousand pounds to my name, which is less than at any point since I worked as a barman at the Royal Court Theatre. Who says art pays?!

I’m juggling all manner of tasks. I have to learn the piano parts that I’ve blithely agreed to play to bring studio costs down on Monday. I have to make scores of copies of DVDs and CDs for potential investors for the recording of the Requiem. I have to find potential investors for the recording of the Requiem. I have to find the contact details for these potential investors and I have absolutely no idea where to start! The majority of my work has been in telly, which always funds itself. Some of the theatre luvvies I know have black books filled to the brim with the numbers of little old ladies with more money than sense. They guard their books with their lives, because once you find a wealthy patron, it’s foolish to let them go - and even more foolish to share them with someone equally deserving. I’ve never needed (or wanted) to go to the events where these patron types hang out, having never been one for schmoozing and having always kidded myself that my music does the talking.

I must keep telling myself that I’m not looking for handouts, however. This is a genuine opportunity to invest in something which could well make a whole heap of money. We’ve already got a couple of well-known people making cameo appearances on the recording, and I’m in talks with a number of other fascinating singers...

So if anyone reading this knows wealthy people who might like to invest a grand in the classical release of the decade, I would be more than happy to send them a pack which tells them everything they need to know.

Sunday 26^th January 1662 found Pepys in a contemplative mood. He says it so much better than I ever could:

It having been a very fine clear frosty day- God send us more of them - for the warm weather all this winter makes us fear a sick summer. But thanks be to God, since my leaving drinking of wine, I do find myself much better and do mind my business better, and do spend less money, and less time lost in idle company.

Incidentally, can anyone tell me what happened to the winter this year? I can’t remember a single cold day...

Wet windy Woking... Or Worthing

2012-01-25T19:21:00.003Z

Sometimes being on a crowded tube becomes an almost existential experience. It is so wildly unpleasant that the only way to blot out the pain is to imagine you're somewhere or someone else. And this is how it was as I struggled from Victoria to Highgate in the middle of the rush hour tonight. The tube was so hot that I felt almost certain I was going to pass out. London's infrastructure simply isn't good enough.

I know, let's stage the Olympics...

Here's a question. How old does someone have to be to not be offended if you offer them your seat on a tube? There was a woman today, who I felt was very much on the cusp. I resolutely refused to stand up for her simply because she was a woman - that's misogynistic, patronising bullshit - but I always stand for an elderly person. Problem was, she could have been as young as 50 and my standing up for her might have tipped her over the edge in a sort of "do I really look old and frail?" kind of way. I realise the first time someone stands for me is the day the rest of the world decides I'm no longer a sexual being!

Today found me traveling to a wet and windy Worthing to work with producer, PK, on the Hattersley songs. It was a wonderful experience ; a great meeting of minds. It transpires we're both huge Samuel Beckett fans and I get the sense that he really understands the nature of what we're trying to achieve.

He also seems to care about the performers. It is vital for me that everyone working on the project truly respects the people who have trusted us with their memories. They're not simply contributors, they're artists, and both Paul up in Manchester and PK understand this only too well.

I so regularly find myself horrified by documentaries on the television, when it's clear those speaking on camera have been royally stitched-up or choice-edited by a set of producers riding rough-shod over feelings simply for a blast of good telly. I've moaned and bitched about reality TV, but am afraid it all comes down to second-rate commissioning editors who know nothing about the potential of genuine risk-taking and everything about the words "conflict" and "jeopardy" and how to manufacture them in a tired old format.

Two questions. 1) Why is this D list celebrity pretending to give a crap about Cornwall? She's never been here before and she plainly isn't listening to anything she's being told. 2) Why does she only have 2 days to travel across the county on a merry-go-round?

Are these examples too obtuse? Or am I making my point?

Pepys' day started 350 years ago with a walk in the Navy compound's garden. He met up with a gardener and discussed various things that might make the place look more "handsome."

Lunch happened at Trinity House in Deptford, and Pepys spoke to a man whose land (which he'd been awarded by the King) was due to be used (at the behest of the King) for some kind of man-made harbour. He wasn't a happy bunny.

The food was very good, but Pepys gorged himself on "a little too much beef which made me sick, and so after dinner we went to the office, and there in a garden I went in the dark and vomited, whereby I did much ease my stomach." The garden wasn't going to look any more handsome if all the borders were bedecked in boke!

Microfiche

2012-01-24T18:03:00.001Z

I've got what Nathan calls "homework tummy". I'm off to Worthing or Woking or somewhere beginning with W tomorrow to work with Paul Kendall, who's producing the musical tracks for Hattersley. Before I arrive, I need to format all sorts of midi files to give to him, but have been so busy over the last few days that this has not yet happened. The problem is that I don't know how long the process will take, so I could potentially be up all night.

At the moment I'm trying hard to compartmentalise my existence. I'm juggling a number of projects and the only way I feel I can give them all an appropriate amount of attention is to dedicate whole days to them. Yesterday was the turn of the Requiem, today I worked on the Fleet Singers commission, tomorrow and Thursday are earmarked for Hattersley, Friday's all about the Requiem again, and so on...

Today I sat in the Colindale Newspaper library all day. It's a fabulous building filled with grand reading rooms and intriguing darkened annexes where people dive into the archives of every known newspaper on giant wooden poles or microfiche.

The Fleet Singers project, in true British style is all about the weather, or more appropriately, it continually returns to the subject of the weather. Alongside the very personal memories that the choir have provided, I'll be setting newspaper stories to music which focus on six key weather events that have affected Londoners in the 60 years since Queen Elizabeth came to the throne. Pea-soupers, big freezes, hurricanes, deluges, massive heat-waves and an almost total eclipse.

I've been through countless local and national newspapers and my eyes are spinning from the constant sideways action of the clunky, whizzing, whirring microfiche machine, skimming from page to page.

It's astonishing, not just to read how these almost legendary events were reported at the time, but also to get a sense of the other news stories that were doing the rounds. Celebrities I'd forgotten about. World events that I never knew about. One light-hearted story from 1963 attempted to show readers how to do a new dance craze which was a bit like a cross between the twist and something Bob Fosse might have enjoyed.

Above all else, it was amazing to see how little the editorial style of many of the publications had changed over the years... Except the Evening Standard, which used to be dry as toast; filled with emotionless, un-embroidered facts and half-sentences which almost resembled bullet points.

Pepys was always a bit of a fly-by-night. 350 years ago, he went to pick up his portraits from Mr Savill, commenting on how thrilled he was with the way they both looked. He took them proudly to show to Lady Sandwich, who liked his, but claimed to be "offended" by the image of his wife. Pepys suddenly changed his mind, decided she was right, and vowed to have the picture altered for the umpteenth time. Poor Mr Savill. I suppose at least Pepys had already paid him for his time. That's what decent people do after all.

I'd be interested to know what it was about the picture which offended Lady Jemima. We know of the existence of a portrait of Elizabeth Pepys which history tells us was slashed into pieces by a prudish, and very religious, Victorian housemaid, who found the painting in a loft and was scandalised by the sheer amount of skin and plunging neckline on display. Perhaps this shocking image was once even more sensuous.

On the way home, Pepys went to Pope's Head Alley and bought a set square and a pair of scissors. Decoupage anyone?

T-mobile hell

2012-01-23T20:40:00.001Z

If I thought Orange was an incompetent, money-grabbing arsehole of a company, my feelings for T-mobile are simply unrepeatable.

Here's the background. The best part of three years ago, I signed up for a deal with PC World which gave me a computer/ Internet dongle package for £41 a month over a 24 month contract. I had assumed when the 24 month period was over that the contract would simply end, but I was mistaken. In May last year I realised with horror that I'd already paid two instalments more than I needed to, and when I contacted the T-Mobile gorgons, was told that it had always been my responsibility to inform them that I was out of contract, and worse still, that I couldn't terminate said contract without giving them two months' notice. I should say that none of this was pointed out to me when I was sold the package by PC World, but there seemed to be nothing I could do but accept the deal and officially offer my two months' notice...

Around Christmas, and with trips up North approaching, I decided it was maybe time to invest in a pay-as -you-go Internet dongle and against my better judgements, signed up with T-mobile who seemed to be offering the best deal.

Unfortunately, new privacy laws have caused Microsoft to block various ports (or something) on PCs, which means it's now impossible to send emails from my computer when using the dongle, which is about its only use. I spoke to a nice man in technical support at T-Mobile and was informed that nothing could be done to remedy the situation.

We chatted for a while, and the man, who was brilliantly candid, suggested I might think about ending my contract with T-Mobile as a protest. "But I don't have a contract," I said "I'm on pay as you go..." "No you're not" said the lovely man, "you pay £41 a month..." "But I stopped my contract in the summer." "Well you're still paying it!" Horror! Six months of charges for no product...

The man was fairly horrified on my behalf, particularly when it became apparent that it even said in my notes that I'd requested the contract to stop. He said he couldn't deal with any form of repayment, but said he'd put me through to customer services who would, he was convinced, be able to sort things out.

A little bit of music followed; a middle-class sounding choir singing Adele songs, which got so irritating I wanted to throw my computer out of the window.

An Indian woman's voice came on the line and my heart sank. I make no apologies for this response. I believe the one thing that multinational companies need to do, is bring all call centres back to their native countries so that customers can deal with people who share a basic set of values and have a similar level of understanding to kick things off. We may not be able to control the flow of nasty plastic cheap products from China, but calls centres in India make lives miserable...

"What is your mobile number?" the distant voice said.

"I don't have one," I said, "I'm calling about one of your dongles."

"What is your mobile number?"

"If you look at your notes you'll see we're meant to be discussing compensation."

"I cannot hear you. Are you there?"

"Please can you put me back in touch with the man I was just speaking to?"

"I cannot hear you. What is your mobile number?"

"I'm calling about a dongle"

"What colour is your dongle?"

And so it went for another five minutes as my blood slowly began to boil. Periodically she'd hear what I was saying and inform me that she didn't have the authority to put me through to anyone else. The phone call reminded me of a Turkish jury member giving votes at the Eurovision Song Contest circa 1981.

I put Penny on, who was sitting next to me, and she was similarly stumped. I eventually gave the woman my number and she said she'd call me back. An hour later, I was still waiting for her call...

2 hours later, I was listening to Adele again, waiting in a queue for someone from customer services to answer. I waited ten minutes and hung up. I called again, waited another ten minutes and then a chirpy Welsh lady called Vicky answered my prayers and dealt with me compassionately. She tutted and sighed when I explained what I'd gone through and said all the right things at all the right moments. We had a little chat about the weather in Cardiff and she sorted everything out very speedily. Thank God for Vicky. Naughty T- Mobile. How long would it have taken them to realise I was paying for a product that had long since been disconnected? Why on earth did they sell me a second plan when I was still under contract with them for an identical product? Steaming turds...

My day went into free-fall when, after returning from a jog, I received a text message from brother Tim telling me he'd had a minor stroke on the train to work. After a day in hospital he seems to be okay, but I'm obviously worried sick.

Pepys went to see his Uncle Fenner 350 years ago. He'd been avoiding him for some time on account of his new wife, a midwife, who Pepys, in a line of pure vitriolic genius, described as a "pitiful, old, ugly, ill-bred woman in a hat." Her relations, described as "sorry mean people" took Pepys to the local pub, "a narrow dog-hole" where they endured a "sorry poor dinner." Brilliant!

Mum's gone to Iceland

2012-01-22T23:49:00.000Z

We went into Soho last night with Nathan’s friends, Thorinna and Karl; an Icelandic couple who performed in the Rocky Horror Show with Nathan many years ago. They’ve been living back in the motherland of late (Iceland, not the planet of Transsexual) so this was the first time Nathan had seen them for many years. I immediately understood why he spoke so fondly of them. They’re a delightful pair and we had a wonderful meal in an Italian Restaurant on Old Compton Street where the four pizzas we ordered arrived on an unfeasibly long platter.

We spent much of the evening quizzing them about Iceland. It’s a place which has always intrigued me, but I was hugely surprised to learn that the country is almost the size of the UK, but only has 350,000 inhabitants. I think this means they rather punch above their weights on the international stage. Bjork, Sigur Ros... and they’ve done a darn sight better than us in Eurovision since they entered...

I was particularly thrilled to hear about Icelandic Christmas traditions, where there are actually 13 different Santa Claus figures, who separately visit children in the 13 days running up to Christmas. Children leave a shoe by the window, and every morning another little gift appears within. American culture has somewhat railroaded the tradition, so each of the figures is now portrayed in a red and white Santa suit, but they have very specific identities, and names, which are governed by their characteristics. One of them is very little, so his name is Shorty. Then there’s Door Slammer, Ladle Licker... Each is only active for one specific day in December. I think it’s terribly sad that they’ve lost their visual identities. One day I think the world might simply be known as Americania...

I’m back in the centre of London, sitting on Old Compton Street, waiting to go to a cabaret which Nathan is singing in. I’m trying to focus on this blog, but an angry crack-head called Kez has sat down next to me, and won’t stop talking. At the moment, he’s whinging about gay parenting, and a long stream of hideous homophobic abuse is gushing from his mouth. There’s no point in trying to argue, or even rising to the bait, because he’s out of his skull on something and I don’t want to be stabbed. My mistake, of course, was to engage with him when he started barking. I didn’t want to blank him because I was sure he’d already been blanked 100 times today. I was hoping he’d be thrilled that someone wasn’t looking through him, or turning their nose up, but realise I’ve simply became a man more likely to give him money. He keeps asking me for two pounds. I’ve been through my wallet and only found a ten pence piece and a palm full of coppers, which apparently is “insulting” to him. I suggested he took it to see if he could swap it for £2 with someone more gullible than me. Poor bloke, though. He’s young as well. How can life fall apart at such a tender age?

PS - I survived the incident with the crack head and went to Nathan’s cabaret. He was, as usual, epically brilliant. He has such an ease about him on stage, which becomes so apparent when performing alongside some of these drama school leavers, who pop their clogs singing big belty numbers and forget that every song has a story which needs to be told.

350 years ago Pepys headed west for large dollops of Parliamentary gossip care of the good folk of Whitehall. The tittle-tattle has lost its bite over the years, so there’s little point in recounting great swathes of it here. Some of it was focussed on Barbara Palmer, the King’s Mistress. She actually bore King Charles II a total of five children, all of whom Charles acknowledged and titled, two of whom had already been born by 1662. Many wondered what would become of her when the official queen, Catherine de Breganza, arrived from Portugal. They needn’t have worried; she was giving birth to Charles’ babies as late as 1672, which was hardly surprising as she was considered to be quite a catch. Wikipedia describes her as “tall, voluptuous, with masses of auburn hair, slanting, heavy-lidded blue-violet eyes, alabaster skin, and a sensuous, sulky mouth.” Lush.

The central players at my god-daughter's birthday party yesterday...

Dog siren

2012-01-21T19:29:00.000Z

I was told this morning that my Great Auntie Winnie had died in her sleep last night. I didn't know her particularly well, but found myself shedding a few tears because it signifies the end of an era. Winnie was the older sister of my Grandfather, Harry, and the only remaining member of that generation of my family.

She was a staggering 103 years old and will have had memories from the time of the First World War. She may even remember the Titanic going down. It was her mother who started the pork pie business which shaped the fortunes of my family.

I'd love to say she'll be sadly missed, but I'm pretty sure when you die at that age, all of your close friends, and half of your children are probably long gone. If I ever get to her age, I'm just going to sit on a comfy chair, alternating aspirins with magic mushrooms. It's the only way! Rest in peace, Winnie.

I got back from Manchester last night to find an enormous box from Amazon waiting for me with a kindle inside. A kindle! It was a gift from Matt to say thank you for taking pictures back stage at Les Miserables. I was incredibly touched and a little angry because the photos were meant to be my way of thanking him for countless generous gestures in the past, so his thanking me means I'll have to find a way to thank him for thanking me. Ah, the cycle of friendship!

I met a very old friend today at the top of Parliament Hill. Daniel and I were at university together and haven't seen each other in years. Literally years.

It was curious to find out about Auntie Winnie's death today, because she happened to be a friend of Daniel's grandfather, also called Harry, who, by sheer coincidence was also in the same form at school as my Grandpa. It's strange how life creates these cycles; wheels within wheels.

There was a very strange man doing Tai Chi at the top of the hill. He was doing sound effects in the style of a child swishing a light sabre around. It was a fairly embarrassing thing to be doing in such a public space. His dog was waiting patiently and slightly forlornly with a frisbee in his mouth. His look said it all, "come on, Dad. Everyone's looking at you. Stop making the weird noises or throw the friggin' frisbee so I've got an excuse to run away..."

I don't think Daniel and I have changed a great deal in the 19 years since we last met. I take great comfort from this thought. We're still passionate about life, still great optimists. Perhaps we're both a little calmer, a little greyer, blessed with a few more crows feet, a little less head hair, a little more on our bodies...

As we parted, an ambulance screamed past, making a horrible racket. I am a man who finds it very hard to hear any sound without mimicking it, so was greatly relieved to hear someone next to me doing a rather bad impression of the siren. I looked to see who it was, and was delighted to find a dog, head raised to the sky, howling like a wolf. Delightful.

I'm now heading to my god daughter's birthday party in an aircraft hangar filled with trapezes, silks and ropes, which promises to be mayhem. God knows how I'm going to get to Woolwich!

350 years ago and Pepys spent the day working in the Navy office. There's not a great deal else to say. A fleet of boats was sailing to Portugal, one assumes to pick up Catherine de Breganza, daughter of the Portuguese King and future wife of Charles II. The wind had changed direction, which made Pepys worry the fleet would be pushed back in the direction of Ireland. He went to bed after studying the art of composition.

Fresh hope in the fresh air

2012-01-20T22:05:00.000Z

How about this for a piece of casual racism:

MAN IN HOTEL RECEPTION: (to Receptionist) Hello there. I’m afraid I need to change rooms, mine smells very strongly of curry.

RECEPTIONIST: Oh dear. The last guest must have been Asian.

MAN IN HOTEL RECEPTION: Yes. That’s what we thought.

...Astonishing.

I’m on the last train from Manchester to London. I think we’re due to arrive in Euston at midnight, which is a bit of an unpleasant thought. We’re stopping so often, it almost feels as though I’m sitting on a bus. I’m exhausted but upbeat.

I’m not going to lie. I’ve been dreading today for ages. Stupidly, I overheard my horoscope on the radio and learnt that, whilst the first part of my week would be plain sailing, the second half would find me struggling to make myself understood. I don’t know if it’s more worrying that I allowed myself to get in a tizz about a horoscope or that the single magpies I kept bumping into were also freaking me out. When I woke up this morning, the only thing I could see was one of the little critters bouncing up and down like a child on a trampoline on the wall of the multi-storey car park opposite.

My major worry was, of course, unveiling the songs I’d written to new our Hattersley family. It’s one of the worst things about being a composer; the moment when you have to show your babies to the world. There’s the terrible nagging fear that people won’t like them, won’t get them, won’t be able to sing them or worse than anything else, won’t say anything at all. The songs that I’ve written for this project are hugely personal; almost intrusive, and the biggest risk of all was that those taking part would simply think they were all a bit too much.

Fortunately none of these worries had any foundations. The responses to the songs were incredible. There were happy tears, nostalgic tears, peals of excited laughter and lots of reminiscing. One of the ladies from the community centre said that I’d summed up 37 years of her life in one song, which is one of the kindest things anyone’s ever said to me. I was almost pathetically thrilled. These are, after all, the people who let us into their lives and trusted Paul and me with their most precious memories. It’s a huge relief to know that we’ve not let them down. I have nothing but absolute respect for them all and think they’re so brave to join us on this extraordinary project.

Of course it did nothing but rain miserably all day. It usually rains in Manchester, and I’ve only known the sun to shine once in all my visits to Hattersley! I was hoping for snow. I’d actually like some snow when we film. Hattersley is famous for its snow - great tall twisting drifts of the stuff - and I’ve never filmed in snow. That said, I don’t want to kill our cameraman, smash any of the BBC’s expensive equipment, or break the of the legs of our participants on huge patches of black ice, so maybe I should pray for sun, or the perfect filming conditions: white cloud.

350 years ago, Pepys had four gallons of Malaga wine and a hogshead of Cadiz sherry delivered. Quite how long he expected it to last, I’ve no idea, but I’m sure he cracked open a bottle or two that evening when his Aunt and Uncle Wright appeared at his house to play cards – his new favourite game. Gleek.

Lost in Manchester

2012-01-19T22:49:00.002Z

45 minutes ago, I was running like a loon around the streets of Manchester, hopelessly lost, terribly tired and desperately trying to find a landmark I recognised. Manchester is one of the last cities in the UK that I haven’t got to grips with. In the past I’ve always thought of it simply as a somewhat rainy place that tries a bit too hard to punch above its weight!

Every time I visit the city it seems a little bit more confident. A little bit shinier and more pleased with itself. It doesn’t quite have the charm of Leeds or Newcastle. It feels a little snooty I suppose. I think I probably need to spend more time here, but the project I’m currently working on, is taking me to an estate right on the edge of the city, peopled by proud Mancunians, but totally unlike anywhere else I’ve visited in Greater Manchester.

I love the Hattersley Estate. I love it passionately. I love the people I meet there. I doubt it would be possible to find a group of neighbours who care so much about one another. Everywhere we went today, little clusters of people were chatting; outside the credit union, inside the community centre, at the post office. They ask after each other. They offer help if they can. They turn up on a doorstep if they hear someone’s in trouble. Yet around them their estate seems to be struggling. The community centre is being closed down and replaced by a privately-run, multi-purpose space on the edge of the estate. The post office doesn’t have any merchandise. The only shop in the arcade is a Co-op. It’s very sad. It’s places like this that get kicked in the guts during a recession harder and more often than anywhere else.

Today, Paul and I went on a mission to gather the sounds of Hattersley. We recorded all sorts of noises; the hollow gasps of wind rolling through the train station, people greeting each other fondly in the streets, buses passing by, birds singing, two women squawking in the Co-op...

We spent hours in the community centre drinking tea, meeting new faces, hearing intriguing stories and watching 50 pensioners doing a line-dancing class. We interviewed a young photographer called Charlie, one of our main contributors and a very decent bloke. The musical film we’re making about him will be based entirely on spoken word; an incredibly daring approach and something which I’ve never attempted before.

A lot of what we’re doing on this set of films is new ground for me. If the extraordinary residents of Hattersley have taught me nothing else, they’ve taught me to be brave. Today we sat in June’s front room. Her story is inspiring. She has overcome so much in life and has used her experience to help others. She is utterly selfless. She exists for others. She takes children in whose mothers have died. She runs community groups. Whenever I make one of these films I meet another June and every time this happens, I feel utterly ashamed for the hours I waste grumbling about my lot.

If you’re religious, or understand the bible, you might be interested in reading the first half of Pepys diary entry on this date 350 years ago. It was a Sunday. Pepys went to church. There was a sermon and he engaged in its philosophy. I skim read. Religion is not something to interpret. He returned from church and walked with his wife to see their friend, Mrs Turner, who was still ill with an unknown sickness. The Pepyses then went to visit one Mrs Norbury to discuss land for sale in Pepys’ father’s village of Brampton in Huntingdonshire. It turned out that Mrs Norbury lived next door to Pepys’ Uncle Fenner, who fortunately was out. Pepys had been avoiding his Uncle ever since he married a midwife called Hester, who was apparently “old and ugly.” How embarrassing for her!

Serenade

2012-01-18T20:56:00.002Z

Here’s a strange fact. There is no sign at York train station that indicates where platform 4 is. The rest of the platforms are very clearly marked with neat little signs; a black number on a white metal square, but it’s as though platform 4 doesn’t exit. It turns out that it’s actually an extension of platform 3, but I had to ask a station guard, who informed me that it started “somewhere near that bench.” I asked why it didn’t have a sign and was astonished by the answer:

“We need planning permission to put up a sign. We’ve applied to the council, but these things take time.”

So a train station needs to apply to the council to put up a sign which would potentially prevent travel chaos?! There are no words...

I didn’t sleep well last night. I was worried my alarm clock wouldn’t ring and kept waking myself up to look at the time. 5am, 6am, 7am... and then I had a surreal dream; I’d forgotten to write a piece of music for a choir, and only realised the night before the concert. I used to have a similar dream which involved returning to school to retake my A-level exams and realising I’d not attended a single German lesson. It implies I have rather a lot on my plate; so much that my subconscious is getting involved to sift through information whilst the rest of my brain vegetates.
I had a fabulous day nevertheless. I’m utterly exhausted, but buzzing like a bee. There are very few people who can claim to have been serenaded by a choir standing on a boat drifting down a river, but at lunchtime today I was lucky enough to become a member of that particular prestigious club.

We’ve been in York all day launching EBOR VOX; a massive choral festival which celebrates the 800^th anniversary of the City of York being given its charter. As a wannabe honourable Yorkshire man, I’ve been commissioned to write a huge anthem which will be premiered by 800 singers on a flotilla of 800 boats on the River Ouse. Our mission today was to see if it would be possible to hear a choir from the banks of the river if they stood on a boat. A York City cruiser was chartered, and we were joined by the wonderful Can Sing community choir, who gave up their lunch breaks to become guinea pigs. Surprisingly, the Ouse acoustics are almost perfect for choral music.

The festival takes place in July, but was launched to the press at breakfast today. There were speeches and power point presentations from bleary-eyed council types, and I got a chance to catch up with quite a number of my pals from BBC Yorkshire, some of whom later came to film us by the side of the Ouse. I think we were on Look North tonight...

The second part of the festival will see the same 800 performers singing the anthem whilst processing through the winding medieval streets of York. It promises to be the most magical weekend and I can’t wait to get cracking on the commission.

Last night I discovered that Fiona and I had both been elected to join the Musicians’ Union Writers’ Committee, which is a real honour. I very much hope that I’ll be able to use the post to help other composers from descending into the hell that I found myself in last year. It strikes me that a composer needs to be bullshit savvy. It’s vital he or she has the tools to identify a woolly contract or a dishonourable, inexperienced, or frankly utterly barmy potential employer. Often the most important tool in one’s armoury is instinct. If it feels wrong, give it a wide berth, even if you’re desperate for the work. Stick to commissions which are backed by a known organisation. An amateur organisation could well rush into a commission without a real sense of what is required, or crucially, what’s acceptable.

And what of Samuel Pepys 350 years ago? Well, it was a pretty average day, really. He went book-shopping at St Paul’s Cathedral, before lunching with Lady Sandwich in a sort of impromptu celebration brought about by the news that Lord Sandwich wasn’t actually dead, as reported the previous day. Imagine being called Sandwich before sandwiches existed... Like being called Jesus. Or Hoover.

The theatre visitor

2012-01-17T16:01:00.000Z

There’s a man who visits Nathan’s theatre rather regularly. He turns up a few hours before the show and sits in the foyer on his own. He’s apparently very friendly, but any of the theatre staff will tell you that he’s mentally ill. He’s very excited at the moment, because he’s got through to the live audience stage of Britain’s Got Talent.
I think we all know what’s going to happen. He’ll stand up on stage, embarrass himself horribly in front of an audience screaming for blood, and if he’s bad enough, he’ll become a moment of television gold.

Few people realise that the people who appear in front of the celebrity judges have already got through countless rounds of auditions with various producers and researchers. Talentless and deluded people will often kick-off when Simon Cowell disses them, because they’ve been repeatedly told they’re marvellous by programme makers rubbing their hands together at the thought of generating another little slice of road-crash telly. And it’s these shockingly bad auditions that make the programmes entertaining, so who can blame them?

The man who sits in the foyer of Nathan’s theatre has mental health problems. He’s not a deluded rich girl desperate for publicity, or a confident drama student with no concept of pitch, he is mentally ill... Despite this, he’s been built up by countless producers who simply think of him as “good telly”, regardless of the devastating effect that 2000 audience members booing might have on his already fragile mental state.

...But it’s good telly, so who cares?

As a child, I was asked to present a school talent show and was booed off by an assembly hall filled with red-faced aggressive-looking children. One started booing so they all went. It’s a memory I still recall with utter horror. Even my friends were booing.

So, just remember, when you’re killing yourself laughing at a useless audition on one of these talent shows, that you may well be laughing at someone who’s been chewed up and spat out by TV producers with no sense of moral responsibility. If they were teachers or doctors, they’d lose their jobs immediately. End of story.

Three questions to lighten the mood...

1) Why did my alarm clock go off at 5.50am this morning instead of 8am?

2) Why does Old Street Station always smell of bacon?

3) Why do the loos in King’s Cross Station cost 30p, when they’re not fit to be used by anything but wild dogs?

350 years ago, Pepys went to Westminster Hall, which was the 17^th Century’s answer to the internet. If you were looking for news – or rumours – on any subject whatsoever, you went to the Hall and simply walked up and down. The hall was buzzing with the news that Pepys’ patron, and cousin, Lord Sandwich, was dead. Pepys was devastated, but made it his business to prove that the news was nothing but a rumour, and sure enough his hunch proved correct. Thrilled to bits, he immediately went to visit Lady Sandwich to tell her all was well. He went via the Piazza (Covent Garden, that is) where he saw a house on fire “and all the streets full of people to quench it.” Diary-worthy, of course, but absolutely nothing compared to what he would find himself witnessing in 1666.

A shiny blue roller

2012-01-16T21:01:00.001Z

I’ve not eaten recently enough and am going weirdly hypoglycaemic. I’m looking at the computer screen, and all the words are going slightly blurry. I have a desire to write rude words. It's all a bit surreal because my downstairs neighbours are rowing whilst the woman next door belts out show tunes. I can't really tell the difference. There’s a list about as long as the Piccadilly Line of things I still need to do before I can relax this evening. I’m off to York tomorrow, and then to Manchester, and I have a million things to sort and pack and conceptualise and throw away.

I have a new mobile phone. I'm not at all excited about it. New phones are often more hassle than they're worth. The man from Orange finally arrived at about 11am to take the old one away. He was only 18 days late, so there was no point in being angry. Fiona and I rushed into Crouch End to sort out a replacement and ended up in Crap-phone Warehouse because they’d inexplicably run out of phones at the Orange Store. That's like Greg's running out of pasties..,

We had poached eggs for lunch and then swept back up the hill to continue ticking things off from our “we’re going away” lists. Fi leaves for the US on Wednesday. I suspect it’s going to be rather cold oop north, but haven’t yet reached the clothing section of my list, so can’t give the matter anymore thought.

I went to the gym. I thought if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in any reflective surfaces for the next ten years. As I drove down the hill from Highgate, the sky looked like the well-polished bonnet of a dark blue Roller. The horizon, in contrast, was glowing like a Manhattan Sunrise cocktail, or the fringe of a tie-died skirt in a summer meadow and there was a massive fuchsia X scrawled across the sky; an example of this recent business with the vapour trails going all 1980s as the sun sets in the freezing air.

I looked at myself in the mirror at the gym and saw a hamster staring back. Must shave...

There’s too much to do – and no time to do it, so I must head off.

350 years ago, Pepys walked from his house to Cheapside, and saw on his way, the funeral cortege of Frederick Cornwallis, the late Steward of the King’s Horse, whatever that means. Pepys couldn’t have thought the man was “all that”, because he described him as a “bold, profane-talking man.” Sounds a bit like me. Whatever happened to not talking ill of the dead? Pepys went to see Mr Savill, the painter and coughed up 6l for the two portraits he’d commissioned, and 36s for two matching frames. Lovely.

He had dinner with Sir William Batten and a few rather grand navy men who talked about an African country called Gambo (possibly Gambia), which was “so unhealthy, yet the people of the place live very long, so as the present king there is 150 years old, which they count by rains: because every year it rains continually for four months.” This 150 year old king apparently also had 100 wives, which he would offer out to any explorers passing through. Very generous. I'm sure the wives were thrilled.

Clouds of dust

2012-01-15T23:28:00.000Z

I sat on my bed this morning, transfixed by clouds of dust swirling in the air around me, glinting like specks of gold in the sunlight streaming through my window. We must spend our lives walking through giant storms of dust, breathing in rather large particles of skin, hair and tiny primitive creatures. The thought made me wince, but the sight was mesmerising. I could hear a wood pigeon humming and cooing outside, and for some seconds found myself transported back to a forgotten moment from my childhood. The sun went behind a cloud and the image disappeared before I could quite identify where it had come from...

Fiona and I walked to Kenwood House to meet Chloe and Orla; old Northamptonians and fellow string players (...well violists). They became our companions for the afternoon. The views from the heath today were stunning. The skyline of central London was semi-silhouetted and shrouded in grey mist. The Shard of Glass rising like a giant teepee. In the foreground, in the bright winter sunshine, the grass gleamed with frost, and the trees glowed a curious russet colour.

We were expecting to have lunch in the cafe at Kenwood, but it was over-flowing with revolting middle class families eating wholemeal scones, precocious children called Tarquin wrapped up in scarves and a chorus of yapping dogs (wearing tartan doggie coats).

We ambled instead to Highgate Village and piled into The Gatehouse pub - which does a ridiculously cheap and very tasty vegetarian roast dinner - before heading down the hill for a lovely walk in Highgate Woods as the temperatures plummeted towards zero again. Chloe’s daughter played for hours in the adventure playground, which is a lovely little spot.

Poor Chloe and James. They lost their baby two weeks ago are trying desperately hard not to allow their daughter to see too much of the sadness which must be absolutely crippling them. Life seems very unfair sometimes. Some people seem to have everything.

As the sun set, Fiona and I went to Brent Cross Shopping Centre; a terrible place, which seems to be made from nothing but concrete and plastic and peopled by Asians and Jews dressed up to the nines. We wanted to buy a DVD, but sadly the last record shop closed down in the mall a few months ago, which seems a most bizarre thing. I realise that everyone buys their music online these days, but the thought that a time would ever come when there would be no more record shops in the world would have hit my 10 year-old ELO-obsessed-self like an iron bar!

December 15^th, 1662 found Pepys attending another composing lesson with John Birchensha, which ended with a lovely breakfast. They ate a collar of brawn, which is a ghastly thought. (The thought of a collar of anything gives me the heeby-geebies and simply forces me to imagine my own collar being sawed into.) After the two men had gorged themselves, they remembered, with horror, that Parliament had ordered everyone to fast that day “to pray for more seasonable weather; it having hitherto been summer weather, that it is, both as to warmth and every other thing, just as if it were the middle of May or June, which do threaten a plague (as all men think) to follow, for so it was almost the last winter; and the whole year after hath been a very sickly time to this day.” That there was ever a time when the Parliament could order everyone to fast is strange enough, but surely the 1660s were famous for being the start of the mini ice-age? Where were the famous fairs on the iced-over Thames? Maybe that was the 1680s?

Shit bits

2012-01-14T21:38:00.002Z

I'm in a coma at Julie's, sitting on a very comfortable sofa whilst staring at the telly after eating a plate of pasta and a Malteesers Bunny.

I've been to all sorts of hideous corners of London today; Homerton, Hackney and then the hell of New Cross.

I switched my phone on this morning to discover that I had a meeting with Penny way out East in an hour's time. I grabbed my computer, bundled myself onto the first bus I could find and staggered my way across North London. It's very hard to go from West to East in North London and it was about an hour and a half before I found myself at the utterly minging Homerton station, which is situated within a sea of concrete.

I met Penny on the edge of Victoria Park, which looked extraordinary, bedecked in a carpet of almost blinding shiny morning dew.

After our meeting, I found myself in Hackney Central, trying to get to Julie's; a journey which took me to all manner of disgusting places. I got off a train at New Cross and walked around in circles trying to find the way to Catford. At one point I got on a bus to Peckham, which I suddenly realised was the wrong direction. Ten minutes later I was back where I'd started, sighing audibly.

It took me the best part of two hours to get from Hackney to Catford. All this time I was talking to utter imbeciles from Orange who kept cutting me off and subjecting me to the absolute hell of their automated system... "press one if you give a shit, press two if you don't have a life..." I'm still not sure they understand I need a phone without a smashed screen!

350 years ago, Pepys had his first lesson in composition with John Birchensha. He doesn't say if it went well or not. He was too busy admiring his new picture album which was delivered in the afternoon.

Unlucky for some...

2012-01-13T17:51:00.000Z

Friday 13^th is unlucky for some, but it’s been a beautiful crisp wintry day across London; powder blue skies and a vibrant orange sun, which has now set. The temperatures have literally plummeted; even the rats are cold. I’ve had to put the heating on early. I’m not usually a big fan of central heating. I think it makes people cough rather strangely and sweat in unfortunate places.

I had meetings all morning about the requiem. We re-examined the budget and came to the conclusion that we need about £5000 more than initially thought. It’s the bloomin’ musicians. I can skimp on recording studios, I can skimp on album art-work, but I can’t hire rubbish musicians, or do anything that the MU wouldn’t appreciate. I’ve come home with about a million things that I need to do over the next few days. There are applications, preparations and conversations that need to happen and I can’t seem to work out which order to do them all in. My head is filled with all sorts of bizarre snippets of information, which I’m trying to pull together – but it’s stressful.

I went for a long run to clear my mind, and found myself jogging across the top end of the heath just as the sun was at its brightest. Sometimes I think there’s no place on earth as beautiful as Hampstead Heath – whatever the season. I returned home with frost-bitten hands, but no hot water for a bath.

A strange meteorological phenomenon seems to be happening at the moment, involving aeroplane vapour trails. If you look into the sky at about 4.30pm, they appear as great big pink streaks against a cornflower blue sky... As Fiona said earlier, it’s “like some kind of lurid 80s graffiti”. It's very strange. I love the sky.

Pepys spent the morning, 350 years ago, with the composer John Birchensha, author of “Plaine Rules and Directions for Composing Musick in Parts,” which I’m sure was a very jolly read. Pepys resolved to have composing lessons with him and vowed to begin the following day. He hosted a dinner party and was embarrassed by the very early arrival of brothers Peter and Michael Honeywood, who he was forced to entertain with sparkling wit and oysters until the food was ready. Pepys wrote that he “appeared” merry, but that the food was rubbish, and the Honeywoods were desperately dull, or, in his words, “pitiful sorry gentlemen.” One of them earned his place at the table, however, by demonstrating an experiment with “chymicall glasses, which break all to dust by breaking off a little small end.” Pepys was mystified. I’m told these tear-shaped glasses, which literally shattered to a pile of sand when broken, were one of Charles II’s favourite practical jokes. I’d like to try one. They sound fascinating! In the evening Pepys learned to play a game called “gleeke,” which I thought was the name for the geeky fans of the TV show Glee.

Danny Boy

2012-01-12T23:56:00.002Z

I heard the news this morning that a headless body has been found in the garden of a psychiatric hospital. According to police, the death is "not being treated as suspicious." Why on earth not?' Do they think the head simply fell off?

I have covered astonishingly large distances today. I ran five kilometres in the early afternoon and then walked for mile after mile in central London. We were in Carnaby Street, and then we were in Covent Garden and before we knew it, we'd snaked our way down to the south bank and returned to Soho via St Paul's Cathedral. That's got to be a good ten miles, surely?

My companions for this epic walk were Nathan, my dear mate Dan and his American friend, Charlie. Charlie is a girl.

Dan and I have known each other since we worked on Boy George's Taboo a full ten years ago. I actually gave him his first West End job and we've been firm friends ever since.

Like Fiona, he has a serious wanderlust, and spent the last two years exploring Australia and the Far East whilst living life to the max. He's not emerged unscathed from the experience and proudly showed us some astonishing scars on his thigh, which were caused by a bollock-clenching accident involving a quad bike and a barbed-wire fence.

As we walked and talked and talked and walked, I realised how much I'd missed him and that my world would be considerably less fun without him popping up from time to time to make me laugh like a drain. I laughed so much at one point that I induced a little whoop!

350 years ago, and Pepys was also ramping up the London miles, heading from the City to Whitehall, where he called in on a very sick Jane Turner and her equally sick (yet precocious) daughter, Theophile, before returning to his house on Seething Lane. Elizabeth Pepys was arguing with the servants again. Poor little Nell. There were but three references to her in Pepys' diaries in the six months she worked in the household. 15th December 1661; "a simple slut," January 12th, 1662 "a lazy slut." And we never learn her surname. She shall henceforth be known simply as "Nell Slut."

If you wanna come in...

2012-01-11T23:41:00.002Z

We're in a pub somewhere on the Essex Road. I have no idea how we're going to get home, I only know that Julie is sitting opposite me chatting to Fiona. They're talking about mortgages and vaginas.

We've just done a favour for a mutual friend. He wanted an ad hoc soul choir for a track on his new album. I was happy to oblige, 'cus God knows enough people have helped me out in the past!

We had a blast trying to sound like a group of black Americans at a party; "if you wanna get in, then you gotta get down..." It's going round and round in my head.

I spent the morning finishing off the Hattersley songs before heading into town to meet a man about a Requiem.

Quite how I managed to get here from the centre of town, I've no idea.

January 11th, 1662, and Pepys learnt all about the customs associated with the court of Genoa and wrote the most tediously detailed account about it!

Suicide Bridge

2012-01-10T20:58:00.000Z

Philippa came to the cafe this morning and we were joined there by Fiona, which made my day. I like it when they're both in the same place; it's a very rare occurance...

I don’t really have a great deal else to say about today. I went for a bracing run up onto the Heath, back down over Suicide Bridge and home via Stanhope Road. Whenever I pass Suicide Bridge I wonder when the last jumper jumped. It’s a macabre thought, but I've never really seen much evidence of the suicides which have given it its unofficial name. I once saw a little pile of sand on the road underneath, which I assumed was evidence of a clean-up operation, but I genuinely thought people were meant to jump all the time. I mention this only because, when I lived in Tufnell Park, I used to drive along the Archway Road, underneath the bridge, and wonder how anyone could live on a road so utterly marred by its association with death. When I moved here, I thought I'd see ambulances pulling up all the time. Perhaps the fences they’ve built at the top of the bridge have deterred jumpers. A friend of mine at drama school was nonchalantly walking up the road when a naked man landed at her feet. He’d thrown himself off the bridge. As you'd expect, it scarred her for life.

I’d like to say how profoundly irritating I’m finding my internet connection and want to take this opportunity to remind Talk Talk that we’re not living in the 1990s. We fall offline on an almost hourly basis, which is irritating at the best of times, but when we’re watching catch-up telly, it becomes the stuff of nightmares. If you lose your internet connection whilst watching something on itv.com, it plays you another three adverts before you’re allowed to return to the place where you were. Hell on a stick.

Pepys and his wife went to Elizabeth Hunt’s house to “gossip” and hand over a cup and a spoon to her newborn child, Elizabeth Pepys' godson. They returned home by coach, and Pepys read books until late, which irritated his wife, because, one assumes, the servants had to stay up late with him.

The West Lothian question

2012-01-09T20:56:00.000Z

I’ve just got back from visiting the Fleet Singers in Belsize Park. They've commissioned me to write some music to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. All the singers have been asked to write down a memory in no more than 200 words. The memories can be about anything. The only stipulation is that they are dated (roughly) and come from within the present Queen’s reign. Some astonishing passages have already been sent. A number of them deal with major events like 7/7, Diana’s death and the Great Storm of 1989, whilst others are deeply personal and terribly moving. It is fascinating to see the different lives that 30 people have had. The only thing that many of them have in common is that they all turn up to a Methodist church in Gospel Oak once a month to sing together. Music is such an extraordinary thing. It unites.

Aside from a quick visit to the gym, today has been about the Hattersley project. I am now fine-tuning the orchestrations; cutting and cutting and cutting, because the songs are terribly fragile and would be utterly engulfed by my normal style of sweeping string music. Trying to write rather hollow, empty material is a great challenge, and I am very much enjoying the process. It strikes me how important it is for a composer to set himself new challenges with every piece he or she writes.

The newspapers are filled today with one question; “should Scotland become independent?” The Scots are looking forward to a referendum. I have rather strong views on the subject. Having experienced rather breathtaking racism from representatives of BBC Scotland, I feel a severance would probably serve to make us much better allies; it would also mean a disproportionate amount of the BBC licence fee would no longer be spent on lovely Scottish programming! I am, however, not altogether sure the decision should be purely one that the Scots get to make. How about the English get a referendum to decide whether or not to kick the Scots out of the union? Why can't we sack them? If you had an employee working for you who was undermining the company ethos, you'd tell them to get in line, or fire them. If you're in a relationship with someone you suspect no longer loves you, you often dump them before they can dump you! Why is it that all English people are expected to toe the line and call themselves British, when the Scots are expected to do no such thing? I love Scotland. I love Scottish people and I am deeply proud to consider Scotland to be part of my nation – but I’m frankly rather bored of hearing that this feeling is not reciprocated - and if it is, I'd like a Scot to make a bit of noise on the subject!

January 9^th, 1662 was an office day for Pepys. There was much to be done. Christmas was over and the Duke of York wanted answers to various questions, and Pepys was still trying to get to the bottom of the rumours flying around regarding his clerk, Will Hewer.

Le Voyage Dans la Lune

2012-01-08T18:37:00.001Z

We're sitting in a very charming Brighton pub called The Mesmirist. There's a giant still from the film Le Voyage Dans La Lune on the wall; a miserable-looking Man in the Moon, with a rocket sticking out of his eye. It's such a stirring image. I can't stop staring at it.

We decided last night, after burying our little mouse, that it would be fun to have a day trip. Brighton felt like a good choice, as Fiona is mooting the idea of escaping London permanently and moving down here. I don't blame her. It's very easy to run out of reasons to live in London. It's expensive, frenetic and unforgiving and Brighton, even on a fairly ordinary day in January, puts on a wonderful show of laid-back-ness.

We hung out in Kemptown, which is the area to the East of the pier, and sat in a lovely cafe with Meriel, who came to join us as soon as she knew we were down here. Her dog, Berry, curled up on Nathan's lap and created the perfect Sunday afternoon tableau of lazy contentment.

We had a beautiful walk along the seafront, as the sun slowly dropped from under a cloud. Somewhere between 3 and 4 o'clock, we were treated to ten minutes of glorious, treacly sunshine. And then it was gone, and a misty, pinky light engulfed the sea front again.

350 years ago, Pepys went to Westminster Hall, where he heard some rather troubling rumours about his clerk, Will Hewer, whose uncle was apparently a rogue. In those days, being a bad egg was considered to be somewhat hereditary. Sir William Penn, chief gossip-monger, advised Pepys to get rid of the lad, despite "loving him greatly". Agenda anyone?

It certainly troubled Pepys...

R.I.P.

2012-01-07T18:27:00.001Z

I’m very sad to have to report that Cyril the mouse died in the night last night. It was a peaceful death. He made himself a little nest from an old red sock and some loo paper, and simply fell asleep. His funeral will take place in the little patch of woodland adjacent to Highgate tube this evening. His family have not yet been informed. Nathan and I would like to say how sorry we are about his death and hope that we made his last few hours as comfortable as possible.

The wonderful Bob Holness has also died. The game show, Blockbusters was such a seminal part of my childhood. “Can I have an R.I.P. please, Bob?” (Fiona Brice, 06.01.12)

Tuesday 7^th January 1662, and Pepys had a long lie-in, before walking, across the fields, with Sir William Penn to the village of Stepney, where they had a “very merry” dinner at one Mrs Chappell’s house. All of Sir William’s children were present, and later in the day, the whole crew trudged back to the City to play cards at Penn’s house. It’s almost incomprehensible to think that there were ever fields between the Square Mile and Stepney, although I’d cheerfully support the notion of turning much of what is presently between the two locations back to beautiful countryside.

The little mouse

2012-01-06T21:55:00.001Z

I was sitting in the cafe this morning, headphones plugged into my ears, listening to a particularly tricky bar of string music, when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny animal making its way across the floor. The creature was the sweetest mouse I’ve ever seen; no bigger than a large acorn, with the cutest little dumbo ears. He was wandering around, not at all frightened by the enormity of the world, staring like a new born child at a chair leg in front of him. I called out to the cafe owner, who was understandably a little concerned by the sight. “There are traps everywhere” he said, “where the hell do they come from?” “That’s not a normal mouse” I said, thinking it might even be a shrew. The cafe owner was about to stamp on it; “please don’t!” I shouted, “let me take him to Highgate Woods...” Fortunately, another customer was in favour of the Greenpeace solution, so we trapped the little critter in a pint glass. It wasn’t a difficult task – he was too friendly and inquisitive to run anywhere – and seemed to sit, perfectly happily on a piece of cardboard within his glass prison as everyone took photographs.

We carefully transferred him into a paper bag, and I took him home to Nathan, who I thought would be the best companion when it came to liberating the animal. In our time, we’ve looked after a number of sick animals. We cared for a dying pigeon in our kitchen and once saved a little frog from a guaranteed messy death on the Archway Road by taking it to a pond on Hampstead Heath. Neither of us can bear to see animals suffering and we’ll both go to great lengths to protect a creature who can’t protect itself.

When Nathan saw the mouse, he instantly fell in love. We looked online and decided that it must be some kind of field mouse, a very young one, and one that was growing increasingly frightened. It wasn’t eating or drinking, it was probably looking for its Mum, and if we’d turned it out in the woods, it plainly wouldn’t have lasted five seconds. So we stuck him in a little cage with lots of sawdust and soft bedding, in the hope that we could feed him up a bit and get him stronger before releasing him.

It’s a bit of a mess, really. I don’t think he’s going to last. He’s still not eating, and by the early evening had got so cold that he’d stopped moving and we thought he was dead. A little stint on Nathan’s hand warmed him up a bit, and he got a little chirpier, but part of me wonders if it wouldn’t have been better simply to allow the cafe owner to stamp on him, or for him to die in one of the traps, or of some terrible poison. Sitting in a cage is certainly no life for him, particularly if he’s so young that he’s not yet been weaned from him mother. He seems to be simply withering away.

Twelfth night – and the decorations have gone away for another year and everything feels a bit grey and miserable again.

Twelfth night in the 17^th Century was a much more important occasion. Pepys took his lute to Mr Savill the painter’s, and watched as the man made a proper hash-up of painting it. In the afternoon he went to see Sir William Pen, who was celebrating his eighteenth wedding anniversary with eighteen mince pies. Pepys returned home to find his young clerk, Will Hewer, in bed. The servants reported that he’d vomited before retiring, and was complaining of a bad head. Pepys immediately summonsed the lad, and royally told him off for being drunk, although Hewer protested that he’d been ill before drinking “a quart of sack” at The Dolphin. Hmm.

Howling gales

2012-01-05T21:05:00.000Z

Wind rattled our bedroom windows throughout the night. There was a proper gale battering London. For a while I insisted on the windows remaining open. The hollow moan of a gale is always so haunting and beautiful, especially when one is warm and tucked up in bed. The curtains were billowing like a sheet on a washing line. But all good things come to an end. An enormous gust of wind frightened the life out of me just as I was drifting off to sleep, so I decided it was best all round if the window was closed again, much to Nathan's great relief.

I battled my way through the driving rain this morning to get to the cafe. On my way I noticed about four discarded umbrellas, broken and shivering miserably in various gutters and dustbins.

I worked opposite two young Mums, both of whom, I quickly deduced, were actresses. I soon realised that the definition of self-obsession is an out of work actress with a baby on her lap. The two women talked almost exclusively about motherhood; competing with one another about methods of child-rearing. They pulled all the right faces, but weren’t listening to each other, unless there was some kind of compliment floating about. There was a particularly unpleasant moment when both women started to wonder if their babies were actually the most beautiful babies on the planet. At one point they started comparing them to great actresses. The one that looked like road kill apparently resembled Elizabeth Taylor, and the one that looked like a pile of insulation foam had the eyes of Angelina Jolie, or so her mother believed. Periodically they’d break off the baby talk to discuss work, and the plays that they were auditioning for, but this conversation would immediately return to babies; “if you get the role, you’ll have to start expressing milk...” They both laughed like hyenas. I wasn’t sure what was so hysterical about expressing milk. Perhaps they were laughing at the concept of getting a job. One of them had a face like a laminated gala melon. The other looked like pork in a wig. They’d break off periodically to see if anyone in the room was admiring their baby.

I went to the gym this afternoon and overheard a rather amusing conversation in the changing room:

BLOKE ONE: (to mate) You’ve got fat. You’re fat.

BLOKE TWO: I know. It all came on over Christmas.

BLOKE ONE: (prodding his mate’s spare tyre) What? All that? What did you eat? Your mother-in-law?

BLOKE TWO: Ha ha! Funny. You saw me before Christmas. I had a six pack.

BLOKE ONE: No mate. You had a Lurpak!

350 years ago and Elizabeth Pepys wasn’t well, so her husband went alone to church. He returned to the house for lunch and started to eat a piece of fine roast beef, but didn’t want to eat it on his own. His brother, Tom, called in, to say that he’d been to visit the parents of a girl that there was talk of his marrying. Said parents could only afford a dowry of 200l per year, which Pepys felt was a paltry sum –and one that should be passed over in the hope of finding something better. He was a fine one to talk; Elizabeth came with no dowry at all. In the evening he went back to church, and was horrified to hear a psalm, with a perfectly good tune, being sung to the tune of another psalm. He described the experience as ridiculous; probably how I felt on Christmas Eve when I was expected to sing “updated” lyrics to O Come All Ye Faithful. I sang the original very loudly indeed!

Jody who?

2012-01-04T22:12:00.001Z

Here’s a thing... If you find yourself feeling a little listless of an evening; if your creative juices are in need of a bit of a shake-up, take yourself for a long run in a storm! I’ve just returned from a circuit of Highgate village in lashing rain and thrashing wind. Far from being unpleasant, the experience was exhilarating. I was accompanied by dramatic music on my iPod and for much of the time I felt like an actor in an epic film. It was incredible. It didn’t matter that I was getting soaking wet; the elements were blasting the tension out of my bones!

I walked into Muswell Hill with Fiona this afternoon. We were both feeling a little gloomy after hearing the news that a good friend of our’s has lost a baby in the eighth month of its pregnancy. It’s almost impossible to know what to say to her. She must be utterly devastated. Fiona went with the baby's father to Islington Town Hall to simultaneously register the birth and the death. It just seems so unbelievably unfair; a horrifying way to start a year which should have been filled with absolute joy.

I’m glad to see that they’ve finally put some of the hideous creatures behind bars who killed Stephen Lawrence. The newspapers are filled with the aggressive, twisted faces of the two lads, and we’ve already started blithely describing them as monsters; whipped up, once again, by the media. But here's my issue; the killing of Stephen Lawrence wasn't unusual. Hate crimes happen. People regularly murder transpeople because they’re transpeople. A young Asian bride is murdered by her family because she's taken the wrong lover. We don’t waste pages and pages of column inches demonising these killers. Half the time the police simply wash their hands of the crime, or behave so shambolically that vital evidence gets sullied or lost. Yes, the killers of Stephen Lawrence should be behind bars - they're odious little toads - but we need to get a handle on hate crime, particularly when it's legitimised by religion. Stephen Lawrence has become a buzzword. It's safe to say we hate his killers, because we know it's bad to be a racist, but hands up if you know who Jody Dobrowski is? Or Kellie Telesford? Does anyone remember the faces of their killers smeared across the tabloid press?

350 years ago, Pepys spent the morning hanging the new pictures by William Faithhorne he’d brought the previous day, and fitting a pair of pewter sconces to the bottom of his new staircase. He went to Westminster by water and met a man called Mr Chetwind, one of the clerks with whom he regularly went drinking. Chetwind had a dog, who became the centre of a scandal when another man appeared and claimed the beast was actually his. The dispute was settled when the dog was placed equidistantly between the two men, and ran to Chetwind when called. I seem to remember something similar happening to Bouncer the dog in Neighbours! Mrs Mangle won.

Requiometer

2012-01-03T20:42:00.000Z

I worked very hard today. I had a huge amount to do; hundreds of pies that I needed to start sticking my fat little fingers into. Amongst much else, I made a tentative start on the process of orchestrating the Hattersley music. Nathan and I sat up late last night going over the songs, making sure the lyrics were scanning properly. We worked our way through two of the songs, so I suspect we’re on for another late night tonight to sort out the next two.

I can’t take my eye of the ball this year – not for a second. I’m juggling so many projects that I'll need to start compartmentalising my days so that I can dedicate enough time to all of them. I simutaneously need to remember to continue pitching projects for later in the year and find the time to start the process of getting funding together to record the Requiem. I feel another Blue Peter-style totaliser coming on; A Requiometer... But we’re going to need to collect a very large number of milk bottle tops to get this one flashing. £20,000 of milk bottle tops, to be precise. I emailed the record company who are interested in releasing the piece today to get some useful figures from them; how much money we should expect to make from every unit sold, and how many copies we’d need to shift before going into profit. It's all bewildering. I’m bewildered.

I celebrated my bewilderment by battling through a hellish storm to visit the gym this afternoon. I ran for 6km and then cycled for 6km, and now my legs feel like pieces of plastercine. I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the changing room and mistook myself for a flump. Just call me Pootle until you begin to see the effects of the diet I started today.

On that note, I'm very much looking forward to watching The Biggest Loser on ITV tonight. There's nothing better than watching a group of fatties hauling themselves around a football pitch before bursting into tears to make you want to lose weight. I very much enjoyed the show last year. It will, no doubt, remind me of being in Newcastle this time last year. It was an incredibly happy and relaxed period of my life. I’d rush back to my Travelodge room to watch the show whilst eating an apple, an orange and a malteesers bunny.

Anyway, with no structure to today’s blog, I think it’s time for me to bow out gracefully before anyone reading falls asleep. I am sad to read today of the whale who met his end on the beach at Hunstanton. Frankly, there are better places to die...

Friday 3^rd January 1662, and Pepys went to William Faithorne’s studio to buy some of his pictures. They were obviously quite expensive, because he spent the rest of the day panicking about his accounts – and the sheer amount of money that he was allowing to drip, like water, through his usually thrifty fingers.

Inertia

2012-01-02T22:35:00.000Z

2012 seems to be rather slowly cranking its tired self into existence and today’s bank holiday has added to a sense of inertia. I couldn’t work out whether I needed to be working or not, so had a lie-in and then did a few lazy hours' composing before heading to the gym, which I didn’t realise was due to shut at 4pm. It would appear that LA Fitness will close these at the drop of a hat. Gone are the blissful days when you could tip up at 6 in the morning or 10 at night. One day I'm sure I'll get there and discover it's only open at lunchtimes.

After running for my allotted twenty minutes, I drove across North London to Columbia Road to see Philippa, Dylan and Deia, who was in a proper strop when I arrived. She hid under a little trampoline, and then threw the present I’d given her at a mug of tea which spilt all over my iPod. Fortunately, she very speedily cheered up, and was a delightful companion for the second half of my visit. We ate mince pies, drank tea and did jigsaw puzzles. Philippa was off to the new Westfield shopping centre, which I thought was a fairly optimistic prospect for a bank Holiday evening.

I picked Nathan up from work, but got there early and had about an hour to wander around Soho in the freezing cold. Fortunately, Foyles bookshop came to my rescue, and I had a lovely time browsing the music department there.

We’re watching telly tonight over a plate of pasta. We sat through the new show with David Jason; the one where he plays a Royal body guard, and both of us were horrified. It’s awful. Really cheap. The incidental music sounds like The Rugrats, and as Nathan pointed out, Jason has started doing physical theatre in the style of Hyacinth Bouquet! I find it hard to believe that a self-styled national treasure would opt to act in such a shoddy turkey. Surely he could tell from the scripts that this one was a dud - and without his name attached to the project, the license fee money would never have been wasted so shockingly.

350 years ago, and Pepys went to a posh lunch at the Wardrobe with Lady Sandwich, which was attended (amongst other fancy types) by Sir William Montagu and his wife Mary, who was meant to be a great beauty, but Pepys wasn’t impressed... "She seemed so far from the beauty that I had expected her from my Lady's talk to be, that it put me into an ill humour all day, to find my expectation so lost." (What a ridiculous notion!) Obvious in some kind of a grump, Pepys returned home and sat in his bedroom playing his lute until midnight.

To finish the blog, here are two pictures from my weekend in Lewes.

Brighton Beach

The hills above Kingston

A perfect year

2012-01-01T17:20:00.002Z

Last night became a fairly magical evening. We had a beautiful meal with Hilary, Rupert, Meriel and Roy, played some games, announced our New Year's resolutions and then went out into the garden to watch people lighting fireworks across Lewes. We could hear people in the distance shouting greetings at one another and we shouted our own in return into the darkness...

Brother Edward 'phoned just as we'd gathered into a huddle to listen to ABBA's Happy New Year on Nathan's iPhone. Edward sang along on the other end of the phone whilst standing on a roof top somewhere in Canary Wharf, watching the fireworks bursting across London.

Meanwhile, my other brother, Tim, texted to say that he'd proposed to his partner, John, and been given an affirmative answer. Happy days!

We left a very tired Hilary to do Jago's night feed and decided to drive to Brighton beach. We were astonished to discover that the big Ferris wheel was still running, so at 1am were hovering in a four-seater pod, high above the town, looking down at the huge winter waves crashing onto the pebble beach below.

At about 2 am, we were lighting fireworks on the beach and jumping for joy like silly children every time a rocket burst in the sky. Perfect.

We were in bed by 3. Any later than that and I'd have turned into a pumpkin.

This morning we went for a walk with Meriel and Roy in the hills above Kingston, which is the little village outside Lewes in which they live. It was raining pretty heavily, but the tops of the hills were shrouded in beautiful cotton-like mist. We were accompanied on our journey by a puppy called Berry; a little cocker-poo, or spoodle. She's grown a great deal. When I last saw her, she was a tiny little ball of wool sitting like a merkin in Meriel's lap. She's become a really charming little creature; less dog, more teddy bear/weasel cross!

The first day of 1662, and Pepys woke his wife up by smacking her in the chops in his sleep. It was an accident, and the incident made him feel rather guilty.

Despite his new year's resolution to try and avoid trips to the theatre, Pepys spent the afternoon doing just that with the Penns, who subsequently invited him to their house for a mirth-filled game of cards, which became even more hilarious when it was discovered that Sir William had left his sword in the cab that had brought them home. Pepys' boy, Wayneman, was sent rushing after the coach, which he finally found somewhere on the Strand.

Once a Puritan

2011-12-31T18:01:00.001Z

We're somewhere on the m11, heading from Huntington to Lewes. The car stereo is blaring out dance floor classics, I have a bag of wine gums and life is good. Bring on 2012.

I'm looking forward to seeing the back of 2011 for so many reasons, and having just had lunch with Lisa, Mark and Poppy, who lost George this year, I know I'm not the only one. It might be my take on things, but it feels like 2011 has been a very violent and unfair sort of year; a year where bad things have happened to many good people. My birthday was marred by the worst rioting seen in this country for a hundred years. People are poor, people are put upon, people are stressed and people have been ill. It feels like it's been a year for wicked people to rub their hands together in glee.

I guess it's been something of a year of consolidation for me. Matt Lucas always says that you alternate between years spent taking steps forward and years where you take stock of your achievements and polish your armour for the next defensive. I've won awards this year, written a Requiem, had a concert to celebrate fifteen years of writing, lined up jobs for 2012, and floated to the surface when I was expected to drown. Many people in my life have shown themselves to be extraordinarily loyal friends. I feel loved. I am healthy. Those around me are healthy. Maybe it's not been as bad a year as at times it's seemed!

On the last day of 1661, Pepys and Elizabeth went back to Mr Savill, the painter, who put a few final touches to Elizabeth's portrait at Pepys' request. When they were done, Elizabeth's little black dog was plonked in her lap, and drawn, much to the merriment of everyone present.

Pepys then went to his office to finish totting up the Navy's debts on behalf of the Duke of York. They came to a staggering 374,000l.

After being trimmed by the barber, Pepys wrote up his journal, summing up the year, estimating he was worth 500l, moaning about the business of his Uncle's will, listing his servants, claiming to be in good health but for a slight cold, and so on... He vowed to spend 1662 searching for a wife for his brother, Tom, and vowed to be less of a spend thrift. His final resolution was to drink less and pay fewer visits to the theatre. Quite why the theatre was considered so morally reprehensible, I've no idea. Pepys loved plays. They made him happy... But once a Puritan, always a puritan...

Drenching

2011-12-30T21:47:00.001Z

We're at Julie's house, watching the film version of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. It's beautifully shot, but it's as dull as dishwater. In fact, it's duller than dishwater. We've actually just given up on it!

On the way here I did a terrible thing. It's been pissing it down all day. The roads are shining like glass, reflecting headlamps and neon lights and creating something of a blaze. As I drove along a road somewhere near Bermondsey, with misty, smeary windows and not a great sense of what was going on around me, I found myself hitting an enormous puddle. A massive wall of water surged from underneath the car and burst onto the pavement next to the road, just as someone was passing. Unfortunately that person was a) an old man b) a very old man c) a disabled, very old man d) a disabled, very old man, struggling his way down the street with the aid of two enormous sticks. According to Nathan, he got a drenching, and I am going straight to hell!

350 years ago, Pepys hosted a dinner at the Mitre Pub, to which twelve friends from his previous job at the department of the Exchequer had been invited. He shelled out for a good chine of beef, three barrels of oysters, three pullets and "plenty of wine." At the end of the mirth-filled dinner, Pepys made a "foolish promise" to do the same thing in twelve months' time. By the end of the day, however, he'd decided that it was definitely a promise he wasn't prepared to keep!

Man 'flu

2011-12-29T22:53:00.000Z

At 2pm this afternoon, whilst Miss Marple was on the telly, I heard the sickening crack of my iPhone hitting our tiled kitchen floor. I’m now the proud owner of one of those rubbish iPods with a smashed screen that looks like it’s been dragged through a spider’s web at dawn. I've had to stick tape everywhere to prevent shards of glass cutting my ears to shreds every time I make a phone call. Frankly, I’m astonished it still works, but this iPhone has survived all sorts of falls, Frisbee incidents and immersions and doesn’t seem to want to give up the ghost at any cost. I immediately took the poor thing to the Orange shop in Crouch End and was told I'm just 11 days away from a free upgrade which means I can progress to a sparkling iPhone 4s, or something...

It would apparently cost me £50 to make what’s called an early upgrade, or, for the same amount, I could set the balls rolling on an insurance claim. I am (as I am with all the technology I possess) insured up to the hilt. The man in the shop, and the guy on the phone both agreed it was better for me to claim for insurance rather than opt for an early upgrade, because - and I was astonished to hear them both saying it - "you can flog it on the Internet when you get your free upgrade in 11 days time." Wow!

Anyway, here I am, trying to back up all my contacts, which is surprisingly difficult if your laptop is not made by Apple. Nathan is currently on the phone to Orange (what is this? A fruit salad?) stranded in the mother of all automated systems which apparently costs 5 pence per minute. For every extra second that he spends listening to a silly woman's voice, I feel less guilty about my plans to flog the iPhone as soon as they deliver it tomorrow!

350 years ago, Pepys found himself drafted in to sing with the choir at Westminster Abbey! It seems an almost impossible thing to imagine. He was musical – and had regular singing lessons – but I can’t imagine a passing singer being offered the same opportunity these days, however talented he was (and however many of the boys had gone down with man 'flu)

Bedknobs and Broomsticks

2011-12-28T20:31:00.001Z

It’s been a slow kind of day; rather typical for this time of year. We had a bit of a lie-in, and then got up, rather languidly, to do some work. Nathan sat in front of the television watching what seemed like an endless episode of Only Fools and Horses. I shivered at my keyboard in the loft, trying to come up with some melodies for the Hattersley project, constantly aware that the tunes I write need to be catchy enough for non-singers to remember, but dark and melancholy enough to fit the mood of the films I want to make. For my own sake, I need these films to be a real departure; very different to the celebratory pieces I've made in the past.

I worked sporadically, looking for any opportunity to down tools for an hour or so. I went for a run; up over the heath. It was like pushing a broken shopping trolley around a supermarket; heavy, listless and a bit comical. Still, I feel a great deal better for the exercise. After my run, I treated myself to a massage, which has left me very relaxed. I returned to find Nathan watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks and felt obliged to join him for old times’ sake. I must have watched that film at last once a year throughout my childhood. It goes on forever, however, and always leaves me with one question: Was Angela Lansbury ever actually young? Whilst we're on that subject, I think this little ode to the final “wacky” freeze-frames of Murder She Wrote is worth a gander. This is a comprehensive guide to fabulous ham acting.

The following picture was taken on Christmas Day at Nathan's house. When my Mum and Dad left the party, everyone gathered at the window to wave.

And here's the light that my father described as "Oswestry light"

Saturday 28^th December, 1661 found Pepys in his office, summonsed there by the Duke of York, who wanted a speedy estimate of all of the outstanding debts of the Navy. He went home in the evening with Sir William Penn and his children – and they played cards until late.

Birthday wishes

2011-12-27T23:14:00.000Z

We've been in Thaxted all day celebrating my mother's birthday with various Thaxtodian friends. It's been a very charming day, although my body is now officially screaming the word detox. I feel like a cream sponge soaked in chip fat.

I cooked most of the afternoon. A soup for lunch (for much-needed vitamins) and a couple of quiches for the party in the evening (for a massive dairy overdose. I should have deep-fried the buggers whilst I was at it!) Nathan, meanwhile, sat in front of the open fire knitting socks. You'd struggle to find a more homosexual stereotype than the pair of us this afternoon.

I also managed to rustle up a chocolate log. We've always had a tradition in our family of making a wish as we fold the flour and cocoa into the eggs and sugar. The rules are simple. It has to be a selfish wish. It's the one time in life you shouldn't feel obliged to ask for the happiness of someone else. This is when you get the chance to wish for a baby or money or a job! The success rate is freakishly high!

...And so we enter the really bizarre part of the year when nothing really happens. Some poor sods return to work and sit miserably behind their desks, sweating Christmas pudding and dreaming of the January sales. The lucky ones, the ones who have been forced to take holiday, simply sleep and watch Busby Berkley films on BBC 2, contemplating visits to the gym and long walks which never materialise . Being a freelancer, I get to decide what I'm going to do. I suspect I need to knuckle down to some serious writing for the Hattersley piece, although, the way I'm feeling tonight, I think I'd sooner stick a pin in my belly to see whether I burst like a balloon.

350 years ago Pepys spent the day looking for a decent thesaurus to donate to his old school, St Paul's. Imagine attending the school that Samuel Pepys went to? That said, they probably take him a bit for granted. I'm sure St Paul's school has a list of famous alumni as long as your arm; like the Brit School, only Nobel Prize-winning. The Ferrers School in Higham Ferrers (which is where I went) is famous for nothing and nobody. I find it sad that I'm regularly asked back to York University to talk about my career... And, in fact, to schools across the country to try to encourage kids that it's okay to dream about careers in the arts. But I've never once been even approached by my old school, which, ironically, now claims to specialise in the arts!

Cake coma

2011-12-26T19:59:00.000Z

We're speeding across the Midlands from Wales to my parents' house in Thaxted.

We stayed the night at Nathan's sister's last night and I insisted on sleeping with the window open to hear the noise of the wind buffeting the trees in the fields outside. It was such a romantic sound, which made me feel very safe and warm. The room we were sleeping in had an enormous window and we could see the stars from the bed. I almost didn't want to go to sleep, I was enjoying the experience so much.

By the time we'd had breakfast this morning it was past noon, and none of us could work out where the time had gone. We were on the road by one o'clock.

We stopped off at Fiona's parents' in Northampton and laughed a lot at their fancy leather sofas which reclined at the push of a button. We ate mince pies, cheese and Roses chocolates. I have no will power. Even when I'm full up, there's always something tastier to sample. I can feel my arteries slowly clogging up, and my body screaming for low fat foods. When we arrived, Fiona's partner, Paul was entering a cake-induced coma, which lasted for about half an hour. For the next few days I want nothing but soup to pass through my body.

Brother Edward returns from Germany this evening and I'm very much looking forward to seeing him back at Till Towers in time for M's birthday tomorrow.

Boxing Day, 1661, was a proper day of celebration. It couldn't have been more different in that respect from the muted shades of the day before. Pepys worked in the morning and then went for a walk with Sir William Penn and his son (the founder of Pennsylvania) in Moorfields. The weather was foul, so they headed to the nearest tavern for cake and ale. When they were stuffed to the gills, Pepys invited his servant boy, Wayneman, to eat the crumbs and was horrified when the poor boy, obviously misunderstanding the offer, ordered himself a couple of fresh cakes from the bar. I'd have thought Pepys might have let him off. It was Christmas, after all, but he resolved to tell him off at a later point.

Whilst in the pub they played cards, ate turkey and we treated to some wassailing (or washeallbowle1ing). Now that sounds like a good old-fashioned 17th Century Christmas to me!

"Here we come a wassailing among the leaves so green..."

Penley

2011-12-25T21:55:00.002Z

It's Christmas - and we're all in a little village called Penley in Wales doing a big quiz. Penley is where Nathan's sister lives. It's been a right-on, rather modern Christmas. Nathan's family and my parents sat down to a lovely Christmas meal together, just after we'd conference-called my brother, who's in Germany with his partner and his family.

We did a lot of singing around the piano. Nathan's lot are big singers and at every opportunity we burst into multi-part harmony.

The sunset this evening was extraordinary and included every colour from black into brown into orange into salmon pink into yellow into white into blue. My father described it as an "Oswestry" sky, after the town down the road where I was born. I guess the position of the Welsh mountains might have an effect on the way that clouds bubble up and the sun sinks in these parts.

Talking to my brother a couple of thousand miles away in Germany was slightly unsettling. It's the first Christmas I've spent away from him and I think my mother also found the experience of talking to him on a camera phone rather moving.

We went to Midnight Mass last night in a church right on the edge of a windy Shropshire moor. The place looked so pretty with warm, yellow lights pouring into the darkness from out of the stained-glass windows.

Christmas day, 1661 wasn't a hugely exciting day for Pepys, in fact, he spent much of it on his own, having fallen out with his wife for burning the meat at lunchtime. No parties. No presents. No mention of Christmas. Just a bitter row. What's going on?!!

Stuffing my face

2011-12-24T20:55:00.000Z

Christmas Eve, and we appear to be somewhere in Wales, Wrecsam to be precise, which is pretty much the town that my Nana Miriam was from. It's also within spitting distance of the place where I was born, but tonight we're here as part of Nathan's family's Christmas celebrations, which always include a Christmas Eve visit to Pizza Hut.

I didn't know it was possible to cram as much food into my face as I've managed to cram in during the last couple of hours. I feel quite ashamed, and am quite sure I must resemble a pizza by now. Nathan might have to roll me out of the car when we reach his mother's. We're singing Christmas carols on the way home, and I'm singing as loudly as I can in the hope it might make me lose some weight!

I was pimped into dressing up as Santa Claus earlier on to deliver presents to some of the children on the estate where Celia and Ron live. Obviously I made a big song and dance about how uncomfortable I felt with a pillow sellotaped to my stomach, but after the initial embarrassment wore off, I quite enjoyed the experience. It is rather sweet to see how children respond to a man dressed as Father Christmas; however crudely! I secretly wished I was in a green Santa suit, however, rather than a walking advertisement for Coca Cola!

We went to Shrewsbury this morning, which is a terribly charming market town and a lovely place to shop. Part of me wishes I'd left all my shopping til the last minute, because I could have bought some lovely things today. It's a nick-nacky sort of place. The river looked particularly swollen today, which is strange because I didn't think they'd had a huge amount of rain up here recently. I think it's obviously a town which is very used to flooding, but the big question, of course, is whether to say Shrovesbury or Shrewsbury. I've always said the latter, but is that because I was born in the county or because I've been corrupted by too many years living away?

December 24th 1661 generated the dullest entry ever from Mr Pepys. He stayed at home, then went to work and that was it...

Mother Goose

2011-12-23T18:49:00.001Z

We're joining the M6 somewhere north of Coventry, in the vicinity of Nuneaton. It's a proper nostalgia-fest for me, as I have strong childhood memories of travelling from Cov to Nunny; from one set of grandparents to another.

We used to go along the Foleshill Road, which had a phenomenal number of traffic lights on it. If we caught the first on red, we'd be scuppered for the entire length of the road but if the first was green, we'd sail down it like a pleasure cruiser on the Nile! I can hear my father now, slamming his hands on the dashboard if it was red...

The Foleshill Road was a very Asian area. I remember being intrigued and a bit frightened as a child; a fear that wasn't helped by my Grandparents' slightly less than enlightened views on the subject. The game we were always encouraged to play as as we drove along was called "count the white people."

There were a lot of chip shops in the area as well. My Grannie would drive for miles looking for a chippie with a queue outside because it meant they were being freshly fried. I remember thinking it was really cool that my Grannie ate chips. Being the child of a CND supporter, who preferred to cook with wheat germ and carob, chips were always something of a forbidden fruit!

We went to see Grannie's grave and I was horrified to find there were no flowers on it, not even plastic ones. I should have thought to take some with me, but the weather was foul and we were pushed for time. Entering Stoneleigh (which is where she lived) felt very natural. We went there every Christmas of my childhood. We were listening to ABBA as we turned right at the hunting lodge and dipped down into the village. I could have been ten years old all over again.

We're on our way to Shropshire for Christmas and stopped off in Coventry to see Mother Goose at the Belgrade theatre. Our friend Ian was playing the evil king, and he did it beautifully. I'm gonna hold my hands up and admit to getting a little teary-eyed when, during the obligatory UV lighting sequence, Mother Goose flew through the sky on an enormous goose. I thought how amazing and magical it must have looked to the kids in the audience. I over heard one in the interval asking her mother if the fairy was ACTUALLY magical! Oh to be young again! We all need more magic in our lives...

A busy day for Pepys 350 years ago which saw him up before the sun to call in at the Lord Privy Seal's private residence in Chelsea. He needed some last minute emergency signatures before LPS vanished into the country for Christmas.

In the early evening, Pepys went for a quick browse in the bookshops in St Paul's churchyard. It was here that he met, by chance, one Mr Crumlum (fabulous name), who was with the second master of St Paul's school, Pepys' former school. The three men went to a tavern and had a lovely evening, which ended with Pepys bequeathing 5l to the school to be spent on books "of their choosing."

Multi-task-tastic!

2011-12-22T20:47:00.000Z

I’m multi-tasking like a crazy thing. I’m doing five minutes of tidying, whilst thinking of lyrics for the Hattersley piece, before washing the floor, before sending emails to recording studios, before sitting down with interview transcripts and thinking of more lyrics, before sending text messages to Paul in Manchester to find out if elderly Mancunians use the word “grand” in the same way as Yorkshire folk. I’m on fire! (Incidentally Paul maintains that the word “sound” is more appropriate than "grand", but if anyone reading this has any thoughts, then please add a comment...)

I worked in the cafe all morning, trying to whip the Hattersley songs into shape. I now have a rough framework. I know what needs to be said, and am debating leaving quite a lot of the lines verbatim – simply setting exactly what was said in interview to music. It means there won’t be any rhymes, but I’m not sure that matters. It’s much more authentic. Besides, Kate Bush very rarely rhymes her lyrics.

We’re off to the Midlands tomorrow for Christmas, which explains the cleaning frenzy. I want to have the house looking decent before Nathan gets back from work, but there’s also that hideous sense that the world will stop if things aren’t sorted before the big day. You try to meet friends for a pre-Yuletide drink. You leave your house nice and tidy. You deal with every last piece of admin in your inbox. In my world, if it’s not sorted before Christmas, nothing will happen before the end of January. People who work in telly must really cane it at the New Year. They don’t even return to their offices until about the 10^th!

I had lunch with Fiona and Paul today who are back from Prague, where it apparently snowed “filmically”. I am obviously very jealous. I would absolutely love a holiday.

In the last ten minutes I swept through the bathroom and cleaned the sink and the bath before sticking my hand all the way down the pan of the loo. I feel rather proud of myself for doing that... I’m hardcore. I didn’t even use a rubber glove. I don’t like rubber gloves. They’re weirdly kinky.

We have a record company interested in releasing the Requiem should we find the funds to get it recorded. They’re well-respected and I would be more than happy to go with them. Gone are the days when record companies would hand over ridiculous sums of money to make albums. Even the big companies are not prepared to take a risk, so the model these days is that you have to record it first and then find the company who will release it. I guess it’s similar to film in that respect – and it allows a creative person a great deal more control. Anyway, I’ve done a costing – and come up with a figure of £20K (over half of which would be used to pay musicians and singers.) It sounds like a lot of money, because it IS a lot of money – but when you consider that there are shows in the West End which need to take £200,000 per week in ticket sales just to break even, then the figure suddenly seems rather reasonable. The joy with a recording is that it never goes away. It could suddenly chart in ten years' time.

This project isn’t about hand-outs, however, it’s about investment, so I will come up with a plan early in the New Year and start ruthlessly searching for wealthy people with a few extra pounds in this hideous financial climate. If the same number of people brought the London Requiem as bought the DVD of A Symphony For Yorkshire, we’d make a profit, which is a comforting thought.

350 years ago, and Pepys was picking arguments with his wife again; “home to dinner, and there I took occasion, from the blacknesse of the meat as it came out of the pot, to fall out with my wife and my maid for their sluttery, and so left the table, and went up to read.”

I think Pepys probably soon regretted his grumpy outburst, for later on, when he and Elizabeth went to church, they found themselves joined in their posh gallery pew by Captain Robert Holmes in his “gold-laced suit”. Pepys was wary of Holmes because of some “old business” involving Elizabeth, which obviously dated to the time before the diary. One assumes it was some kind of sexual advance, which is why Pepys was so intimidated by the man appearing in his fancy suit, just after he’d given his wife a million and one reasons to be unhappy!

Lord Privy Seal

2011-12-21T21:15:00.001Z

I’ve only managed about half a day’s work each day this week. Something Christmas-related always draws me away from my favourite seat in the cafe. Today it was the need to do some last-minute shopping. We’re off to Nathan’s family this year, which means a whole host of extra little presents; some for people I’ve not yet had a chance to meet. It was only last night that I consolidated everything I'd bought so far, and realised, to my horror, that I’d brought some people two presents, and others nothing at all. It’s a freekin’ mine-field, this yuletide business!

Still, Christmas cheer had definitely descended on Muswell Hill this afternoon. Strangers were chatting to each other in the queues, swapping ideas for gifts, and trade secrets regarding where to find said gifts. One woman was determined to help me find a photo frame, even though I wasn’t looking for one, and if I had been, certainly wouldn’t have entertained the thought of a Winter Wonderland-inspired three-dimensional horror. "Lovely for the kids," she said. Surely a photo frame is the last thing a child would want for Christmas? Surely buying anyone a Christmas-inspired anything for Christmas is a very silly idea? By the time Christmas rolls around next year, it will be buried in the bottom of a drawer, entirely forgotten.

I've been doing some work on my Golden Jubilee commission for the Fleet Singers; a choir who rehearse in Gospel Oak. We’ve asked them all to submit two memories from two different decades – in about 200 words. The memories can be anything; from something deeply personal; a thought, a conversation, a moment in time – to something which documents a major event; 7/7, the eclipse, the ‘89 storms, the Silver Jubilee. There are some wonderful submissions – which will, I’m sure, inspire me greatly.

Pepys went to the Privy Seal office, 350 years ago, to be told that no more signatures would be granted this month. Sir John Robartes, Lord Privvy Seal, was spending Christmas 30 miles out of town. Pepys was secretly pleased, though worried that the King might decide to send him after him to get an important document signed.
The Lord Privy Seal is often used in documentary making terms as a warning not to do too much visual word-painting. If, for example, a person being interviewed mentions that they enjoy gardening, an inexperienced director or editor might show a cutaway of a garden – despite the fact that we all know what a garden looks like. It’s called Lord Privy Sealing after the apocryphal tale of a young researcher who was told to go away and find pictures of Lord Privy Seal. He returned with photographs of Lord Lloyd Weber, a toilet seat and an elephant seal!

Poggy

2011-12-20T19:28:00.001Z

I decided to go for a run tonight. I went up to Kenwood House, and then down through Hampstead Garden Suburb. As I was approaching the A1, I came upon two women with an Alsatian dog ambling across a little area of dimly lit grass. I was slightly annoyed that the women didn’t try to bring the dog in line as I jogged past. I hate running past dogs. They often bark, or jump up, and I often find myself plagued by childhood memories of our nutty miniature long-haired dachshund, Sally, who used to bite the ankles of joggers in parks.

I decided to cross the busy A1 at the traffic lights by the garage where the road forks up to East Finchley. As I jogged on the spot, waiting for the lights to change, dancing slightly to “Moves Like Jagger” on my iPod, the women and the dog drew level with me. There was a lull in the traffic. I saw my opportunity and darted across the road.

The next thing I heard was a sickening thump and a scream. I turned round, thinking that one of the girls had stepped out in front of a passing vehicle, but saw instead the pitiful sight of the Alsatian howling by the side of a car which had screeched to a halt. I’ve never heard screams from a dog like that. He was in terrible distress. The two girls were in shock. One of them was standing on a little wall with her hands over her ears. She stayed like that for 2 minutes. The other simply ran away not knowing what to do.

The dog got up and ran – still yelping – towards more cars, which were playing dodge ball with him in the middle of the busy road. Fortunately, a sensible woman pulled over and ushered the dog towards her. The poor creature’s back legs weren’t looking too good, but he’d at least stopped crying.

Another woman appeared. “I’m from Dogs Matter” she said. It seemed very strange that she would appear at the scene of an accident so promptly, until I followed her pointing finger, and saw that there was, rather handily, a shop called “Dogs Matter” on the other side of the dual carriageway.

It transpired that neither of the two young women who had been with the dog had anything to do with him. They’d thought he was with me. The owner was nowhere to be found. The sensible woman carried the dog into the back of her car, and they drove off to find a vet, which left me to deal with the driver of the car who’d hit the dog and was in terrible shock. The poor woman had been completely ignored whilst everyone rushed around trying to deal with the dog, which had done a fair amount of damage to the front of her car. Little bits of bumper and headlight were strewn across the road, being smashed into ever smaller pieces by the passing traffic. I went over to her; “there was nothing you could have done, you know that don’t you?” She nodded, “and the dog looked like he was going to be okay” I said. She nodded hopefully. We went to have a look at the damage to her car and I gave her my phone number for insurance purposes.

She said she didn’t have far to travel, so I suggested she get herself a nice cup of tea, and sat down as soon as she got to where she was going. It’s weird when you’re out jogging with no phone or wallet. I felt rather helpless.

I hope the dog’s okay. I really do. And I hope there’s a reason other than neglect that it was wandering by the side of a busy road without its owners. I also hope that the woman who hit him is okay. That is not a nice thing to happen to anyone, but she seemed particularly kind, and terribly fragile.

350 years ago, Pepys had a lie-in before heading to a tavern with his bessie mate Henry Moore and a gentleman by the name of Mr Swan, who bored Pepys to death with his “old simple religious talk.” The “coxcomb” said he was going to write a book entitled “The unlawfull use of lawfull things” which Pepys thought was utterly pathetic. It was a dark night, so on the way home, the men were forced onto the relatively well-lit Cornhill. One assumes the back alleys would have been a haven for a) potential accidents and b) pick-pockets.

Taciturn

2011-12-19T20:53:00.000Z

I’ve spent the day transcribing some of the interviews we did in Hattersley. There’s a lot of them –which means a lot of words. I hate the process – not only because I’m not the fastest typist in the world, but because listening to the interviews involves listening to myself interviewing people. I drone on in a monotone, slightly lisping, patronising voice - getting through half a question, and then changing my mind. I can’t imagine why anyone would bother to listen to any of the questions I ask!

It’s this stage during any project that scares me the most. It’s a very slow process of pulling stories together and finding the conversational sound bite that will trigger a decent lyric. I feel like I’ve been in a box all day, plugged into my computer, Mancunian voices bouncing around my brain like a metal marble in a pin ball machine. I haven’t really spoken to anyone all day, which means when Nathan returns from work I’ll be taciturn, which might upset him.

I went to the gym earlier on. I’ve been pigging out on all sorts of unsavoury food stuffs for the past month and can feel unsaturated fat limping through my veins. I very much need to get the blood flowing properly again. The experience of running on the treadmill felt worryingly unfamiliar – and I got a bit anxious at one point. Absolutely proof positive that, in the words of Olivia Newton John, “I better shape up.”

350 years ago, Pepys’ wife dressed herself up to go to the christening of Elizabeth Hunt’s child. In the interests of killing two birds with one stone, she was ushered to Mr Savill, the painter’s studio, for a lengthy portrait sitting. It was whilst they were at the Mr Savill’s, that Pepys’ boy, Wayneman, arrived to pass on the news that the christening had been postponed for a week. Pepys and Elizabeth returned home but "in the way I took occasion to fall out with my wife very highly about her ribbands being ill matched and of two colours, and to very high words, so that, like a passionate fool, I did call her whore, for which I was afterwards sorry...

I’m not surprised. What a ridiculous argument to have picked!

Fourth advent

2011-12-18T20:46:00.000Z

It's the fourth Advent, and we've been with Brother Edward and Sascha at Till Towers in Thaxted. When I was young, the four advents - or four Sundays before Christmas - were always something that we marked. On the morning of the first advent, we'd go for a long walk across the misty fields to find holly, fern, berries and ivy to use as the basis for an advent crown. All manner of green stuff got ripped from hedgerows and gardens across Higham Ferrers and mounted in oasis alongside four proud red candles. It was one of the most exciting routines that we had as kids. It signified that Christmas was very nearly with us... After making the crown, we'd light one of the candles and leave it burning whilst we ate our roast dinner - a nut roast for me and my Mum - on a table which had been set up specially in front of the open fire in the sitting room. On the second advent we'd light the first candle again alongside a second one, and so on, until the last advent meal when Edward and I would battle over who got to light all four candles for the first time. We'd then go to a carol concert and sing songs about a bloke called Jesus who shared my mate Stephen's birthday.

Brother Edward is spending Christmas this year with Sascha's family in the Black Forest. It'll be the first time in our lives that we'll be apart on the day, so today was our alternative Christmas. We exchanged presents. I got a lot of delicious chocolate and an amazing Poole pottery plate.

We had a little stroll around the town and saw some brilliant houses which were lit up like space ships with hundreds of waving elves, flashing stars and nodding reindeer.

On the way home, we paid our annual homage to the ultimate Christmas House; so ultimate, in fact, that it's known amongst my friends simply as The Christmas House. Its owners activate the lights on December 1st, and they delight passers-by for a full month. They encourage visitors to pull up outside, pop in and wonder around a courtyard filled with thousands of tiny twinkling lights and hundreds of projections of angels, snowmen and semi-religious-looking Santas. Christmas music is piped out of speakers. A full nativity scene rests on an ornamental fish pond. It's gone beyond ghastly and tawdry into an epic world of great beauty. Children stand and stare at every corner with open mouths; the absolute magic reflecting in their eyes.

It's times like this that I remember the true meaning of Christmas, namely the joy of sparkling lights and the effect that beautiful shiny things, and buckets of snow and wonderful mythical stories, have on a child's imagination. The whole Mary and Joseph story can be used to trigger all sorts of interesting paintings and songs.

350 years ago, Pepys spent much of the day at The Wardrobe, the official residence of his patron, Lord Sandwich, who was still in Portugal. Pepys felt responsible for looking after Lady Jemima Sandwich whilst her husband was over seas, and she became increasingly dependent on his help. In later years, when the Sandwich star began to descend, she would even borrow money from him to see her through leaner times.

The Christmas House

Poor Zeneb

2011-12-17T22:48:00.002Z

We're at Julie's house, watching the final of Strictly Come Dancing and feeling incredibly pleased that Harry won. It's been a somewhat eventful day, which started with pie and mash in Camden.

We went to Julie's house via Central London and had an afternoon of craft and cake whilst listening to manic oboe music.

We were joined by Jess, who was knitting a very complicated jumper, and Julie's cleaner, Zeneb, who was knitting a tiny pair of booties and speaking to everyone in German.

Zeneb left the room at one point and, as she went down the stairs, I heard a muffled rattle, followed by a couple of coughs and a sigh, which were barely louder than the tapping of knitting needles in the room.

About a minute later we heard Zeneb's voice; "Julie! Hilfe! Hilfe"

I rushed out of the room and found Zeneb in a little heap half way down the stairs, whimpering like an animal trapped in a snare. It was a very upsetting sight. She'd obviously had a very nasty fall and was in a great amount of pain.

For the next hour, Julie and Sam held her hand as we waited for the ambulance to arrive. We were told not to move her or give her pain killers until the medics arrived. Sadly, they couldn't prioritise her, because she was conscious, so the wait was excruciating.

When they finally arrived, she was given laughing gas (a slightly comic sound) and carted off to hospital. Julie went with her. Six hours later, we discovered that she'd badly torn the ligaments in her knee and been sent home with two paracetamol and a pair of crutches. Poor woman!

Julie's Christmas tree has real candles on it, which is such a treat. I've felt Christmassy for the first time this year, despite the terrible drama.

350 years ago, Pepys went to Mr Savill the painter to see how his portrait was progressing. He then trundled off to the Privy Seal office where he was kept waiting for hours, much to his chagrin.

Chaos

2011-12-16T21:48:00.001Z

On the tube today, I sat next to a woman who was writing the most brilliantly vitriolic text message, which included a liberal smattering of the c word, alongside various threats of violence and a few cries of "pity me!" I tried not to look, but it was all too delicious! I was sort of hoping that she'd reach her destination and decide not to send the text, but the look of defiance on her face told me it was a done deal! Happy Christmas!

The tubes in London are full of very strange people at the moment. Christmas time has arrived. During the day, thousands of over-excited school children scream and wave and run around, and in the evenings it's people dressed up to the nines, pissed out of their skulls, barely functioning and destroying the lovely clothes that made them look so sharp and sophisticated at the start of the evening. Yesterday, as I tried to rush from the Central line to the Northern line at Tottenham Court Road, I came across a group of girls trying to negotiate a small flight of stairs. It was not pretty. There were broken stilettos, patches of mascara and clasp handbags spilling tampons all over the place. One girl had decided it was all too much and was lying horizontally along a step. It took me 3 minutes to negotiate the obstacle, during which time not a single one of them seemed to notice me or realise I was trying to pass.

Last night's autocue gig was hideous! There was a technical problem which meant I couldn't actually hear Matt. I could hear his echo and could lip-read him on a monitor, but nothing else. I kept going too slowly. I think he thought I'd got myself drunk in the break! We had to keep re-doing links and I felt terribly guilty.

This afternoon I did a corporate drumming gig for the wonderful Drum Pulse at the Truman Brewery in the East End. It was great fun, although hauling 70 large drums up several flights of stairs brought on a few little whoops. When on earth will I finally shake this blooming' illness?

350 years ago, and Pepys was up at 5am by candlelight. He went to Chelsea to do some work with or at the Privy Seal before returning to London where he went to the theatre.
The Cutter of Coleman Street was a premier, which meant tickets were double the price. To save money, Pepys and Elizabeth sat in the gallery - and were pleasantly surprised by the view.

Dai bach

2011-12-15T19:26:00.001Z

I'm still giggling about the brilliantly tragic computer-automated message triggered by the word "taxi" on my last blog.

I'm eating a pot of leek and potato soup in the break before we shoot the last in the series of The Matt Lucas Awards. It's been a very tiring rehearsal, but the extraordinarily high calibre guests would wake even the most tired man up! We're fortunate enough to have David Baddiel, Ruth Jones and Griff Rhys Jones. With Harry Seacombe's daughter, Katie in the show, it's an all-Welsh affair. I learnt today that Baddiel's father is actually Welsh. Welsh AND Jewish; the best combination. They're actually singing a folk song in the show which includes the words "Dai Bach", a name I remember my Nan once calling me in the days I decided my Welsh heritage was more important than my Biblical name!

Matt sent me a lovely card and some champagne to thank me for doing the autocue. He is the nicest man in show business and a very generous friend.

I'm secretly rather loving this job. All those months of living on the absolute breadline this year, I'd forgotten that autocue is actually a job I'm quite good at. Maybe I don't need to enter the police force after all!

I can guarantee this is the last time I'll ever set foot in BBC TV centre, which is a rather sad thought. If I hadn't been booked for a last-minute drumming gig tomorrow, I'd consider having a little drink!

The 15th December, 1661 was a Sunday, and Pepys went to church twice. He retired to his chamber all alone and read until bedtime. Yet again, Elizabeth was rowing with the servants. Pepys' description of the business is written in such colourful 17th Century language, it's worth quoting in full...

"I have been troubled this day about a difference between my wife and her maid Nell, who is a simple slut, and I am afeard we shall find her a cross-grained wench."

Taxi!

2011-12-14T21:12:00.001Z

I got a letter this morning from the Inland Revenue reminding me that I'll need to pay about £4,500 in tax at the end of January.

It seems my earnings for 2009/10 went above a certain threshold, which means I have to start paying my tax in advance again - in effect, a double payment, which I'm going to struggle to find. I think it's utterly ridiculous to expect a creative person, whose earnings fluctuate, to pay his or her taxes in advance based on his or her's previous year's salary! This approach surely only works if a person's earnings are remotely consistent. And it's not just the tax system which doesn't work for freelancers. We also struggle to get mortgages and pensions because it's apparently invalid to live a life of feast or famine...

Here's a conundrum. The money I was forced to pay back to the Lincolnshire Soul Sisters was money I'd already paid tax on. My earnings for 2008/9 were actually two thousand pounds lower than the figure on which my tax was calculated. One assumes I can expect a rebate on the tax I paid that year, and that the tax burden for this amount now rests with the Choir Invisible instead?

Fiona and I went to the markets in Camden today. It was freezing cold, but the experience of shopping on a week day in the run up to Christmas is considerably less painful than the hell of a Saturday afternoon in the Arndale Centre!

We even managed a spot of lunch, which would have been very bourgeois, had I not been scoffing a slightly mangy veggie burger (sold to me by an ageing hippy) whilst Fiona chowed down on pie and mash. She said it was so delicious it had made her week. Or should that be "made her weak"?

I like the markets at Camden. A seemingly endless warren of corridors and passages, all smelling of frankincense and Thai noodles whilst selling anything you could ever imagine recycling, or crafting or knitting or sculpting. We even found old-fashioned tapes, turned into necklaces. Camden market really has maintained a sense of true independence and nutty Bohemianism, whilst everywhere else in London, these sorts of places have sold out, raised their rents and become the exclusive stomping grounds for chi-chi furniture shops, cafe Pauls and "too-cool-for-school" designer brands. Take Spitalfields for example, or Hoxton... Or the King's Road.

I've just been to meet a record producer in Kennington. We talked about music for the Hattersley project and I like him very much. He's top notch and I think he's going to bring something highly unique to the table which could well force me to raise my game big time. We met a number of his colleagues in a pub who included the most astonishing bundle of energy I've ever encountered. He appeared from nowhere, clutching a pint of beer and delivered a 32 minute monologue about microphones and sonic waves without pausing for breath. I listened intently, desperately trying to learn something from the experience, but couldn't understand a word of what he was saying! Not one word!

350 years ago, and Pepys had a long lie-in with his wife, something he confessed to having done more and more of late. Perhaps it was the cold weather. Perhaps he was simply getting lazy!

Shit sandwiches

2011-12-13T19:59:00.000Z

I left the hotel room for the last time this morning and did an obligatory “whally check” as I left. I think there’s something very wrong with the way I process visual information, however, because as I faffed about at reception, attempting to check out, a cleaner came rushing up to me with my camera. My camera is not a small thing. Heaven knows how I missed it as I glanced around the room thinking; “must make sure I don’t leave anything important behind.” The last time I stayed in an hotel, I left my shoes behind. I’m sure Freud would have a field day on me...

Today the sun shone across Manchester and the sky was a brilliant blue. We decided not to go to Hattersley. We’ve already found our five protagonists, and most of the groups that we’d planned to visit were either taking a break for Christmas or had been cancelled. We went instead to Salford Quays to create a buzz about our project amongst the good people of BBC Manchester.

The new BBC building will never cease to delight me. It’s incredibly well thought-through, highly practical and very pleasing to the eye. We had a long chat over lunch with someone from the National Union of Journalists who had been handing out fliers. She asked if I was a member, so I proudly flashed my Musician’s Union card at her. She looked suitably impressed, and said that she liked the MU because members of the BBC Phil had been helping her with the NUJ’s ongoing battle for better pensions.

I think our visit ticked all the right boxes. We thrashed out a very detailed timescale for the rest of the project and got a number of people excited about what we’re doing. There is, after all, no point in making a beautiful film if the people with the power to “talk it up” don’t know it exists.

Nathan just 'phoned to tell me that all the box office staff in the theatre he’s working in received a lovely Christmas card from the producers of the show they're currently selling. They were all terribly touched. It was a lovely card, with a picture of the theatre on it covered in snow, and a lovely message printed inside. The gesture instantly became the mother of all shit sandwiches, however, when they discovered that the cards had come from a stack, wrapped in an elastic band, with a post-it note attached to the top which simply read; “casual staff – card only.” What a way to make your staff feel really special – and then immediately dispensable! I love the concept of a shit sandwich; a shocking insult delivered with a charming smile, a kiss from a person with smelly breath, a commission from a choir in Lincolnshire...

The train I’m on is delayed in the station; 25 minutes and counting. To make matters worse they’re now allowing people on board who would have caught the next train, which means it’s becoming more and more crowded. It’s also incredibly hot.

Friday 13^th December, 1661, and Pepys stayed at home all morning. The recent spell of freezing weather had caused considerable pains in his bladder. In the afternoon, he accompanied Elizabeth to Mr Savill the painter’s, and watched as the “dead colour,” or first layer of paint, was applied to a pencil outline. He thought the result was rather fine, although seemed to be much more interested in a “pretty lady’s picture" hanging elsewhere, "whose face did please me extremely.” Typical Sam. Lusting over a painting. Whatever next? Embroidery porn?

4 baubles

2011-12-12T22:13:00.000Z

I was up with the lark this morning, walking along the Archway Road as the blinding orange winter sun rose above the dark terraces. I don’t remember a great deal about my journey to Manchester. I had a cup of tea. I sat in a window seat, and then I was asleep. I slept all the way; my head lolling around and periodically bashing against the window. I finally woke up somewhere in the Peak District, which looked particularly magical in the misty early morning sunlight.

I got off one train and onto another – this one to Hattersley, which looked a whole lot more attractive against a back drop of blue sky; the hills behind, a patchwork of yellows and browns. I now begin to understand what it was that brought the inner city people here.

We met a local poet called Terry; a real livewire, who introduced us to his unique world. We went to the housing offices with him, to the supermarket, to his house, met about 600 people who he seemed to know, and went through his books of extraordinary poems.

The ladies at the community centre gave us a tour of their very special building, which is like a Tardis. Behind every door is another wing. There are changing rooms, classrooms, kitchens, bar rooms. There was even a room they used as a police station at one point. These days, everything is crumbling. The ceiling tiles are broken. The heating doesn’t work. Various doors, that would have been open to everyone are now kept locked. For the past 7 years, the authorities have been trying to close the centre down and replace it with a private building (no longer council-run), across a busy road, on the outskirts of the estate. This building, once the venue for weddings and fabulous New Years Eve parties, is soon to be no more. I have grave worries that the building that replaces it won’t be run by the community anymore. I worry that no one in the community will be able to afford the facilities.

Today, a group of pensioners were playing bowls on an enormous green baize carpet, which they rolled out and carefully hoovered before using. I just can’t imagine them being allowed to do something like this in another space, and that makes me feel very sad.

I bought 4 baubles from the table as a memory of my first period of time on the estate. They wanted 40p. I gave them a pound.

I came back into Manchester this evening and went out with Brother Tim and John; a couple of drinks sandwiching a very nice Italian meal, which John kindly paid for. We talked about politics. Both of them are horrified by Cameron’s recent behaviour in Europe. I’ve given up even caring about politics because I know there’s no point.

350 years ago, Pepys dined with Lady Sandwich and was worried to see a “strange gentlewoman” dining with them at the table as Lady Sandwich’s servant. Pepys assumed that this meant that the usual serving “Madamoiselle” had been dispatched, but he later learned that this wasn’t the case.

Autocue village

2011-12-11T18:55:00.002Z

We left Brother Edward's rather late last night and because I had a crumblingly early start, I didn't really get that much sleep.

I'm currently at the BBC, sitting in autocue village in a ten minute oasis of tranquility before the mayhem kicks in and we record Matt's show.

I rather like the calm you always get before the storm of a well-organised recording. Everyone goes on a break at the same time, and silence descends. I even have the time to write this blog whilst pulling pieces of roquette out of my sandwich. Roquette, in my opinion, is the scourge of all vegetarian cuisine. No veggie dish seems complete these days without a mountain of the stuff obliterating all the nice flavours with its bitter after taste.

Today's rehearsal went well, although it was utterly exhausting towards the end; a combination of my being knackered and Matt making a lot of last minute changes to the script. The last hour turned out to be one of the biggest adrenaline rushes I've ever had. I was making notes with my left hand and spooling through the script with my right, whilst operating a talk back system with my chin! The moment there was a pause in the script, I was double checking things I'd been forced to type at freakish speeds seconds before. I deserve every minute of this break! It's a shame I couldn't find anything more interesting to eat than this blessed tasteless, soggy BBC canteen sandwich. I did want soup, but it was carrot and coriander flavoured, and smelt, like coriander always does, of baby sick, soap and phlegm.

350 years ago, Pepys was a very busy man. He was invited to a dinner, and turned up to find no one there who he recognised, so went home in a bit of a strop, feeling horribly hungry

He went to a pub with Sir William Penn after a walk in the freezing air at Moorfields, and ate a plate of cheese and bread, before calling in on the other Sir William, who was absent, but his daughter fed him the spoils of last night's dinner, which were apparently fabulous!

Shaky!

2011-12-10T18:00:00.001Z

I had a bit of a strange turn last night. I was exhausted, but felt that, because it was a Friday night and I was in Manchester, I ought to go out. I made my way down to the hotel foyer but immediately began to feel agoraphobic. I sometimes get like that when I’ve spent a long period of time away from my close circle of friends and family. I could hear the hotel bar teeming with people, all screaming their heads off. A cover version of that terrible Shakin Steven’s Christmas song was playing. There’s only one thing worse than a bad Christmas song, and that’s a cheap cover version of a bad Christmas song. I started to panic, went to the reception, and immediately ordered room service. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve needed to order room service. It felt decadent and unnecessary, but I just wanted to hide.

This morning I was awoken by the sound of guests shouting at each other and slamming doors through the paper thin walls of the Days Hotel. I switched the television on, and watched in disbelief as the sports presenter on BBC Breakfast was asked to demonstrate an adult baby-grow. It wasn’t funny. It was emasculating and silly. I now know how my Grandad felt when he tried to stop us from watching playschool because there were men playing with dolls!

After a while, and seeing that there was a smudge of blue sky outside the window, I got dressed and took myself to the Arndale Centre, which is a dreadful, dreadful place! I was searching for a bowl of porridge for breakfast, but ended up having to make do with a Greg’s pasty. As soon as I’d entered the shopping centre, I knew I’d made a horrid mistake. The artificial lighting, the shiny decorations, the Santa hats, the nasty music, the ever-growing hoards of people. Within five minutes, I was in a panic, running about in ever-decreasing circles in an attempt to find the way out, which I reached just as the heavens opened and engulfed Manchester in another terrible hail storm. Hopeless.

I did, however, manage to buy myself a pair of shoes and a winter coat before the panic set in. I’ve started to grow weary of people telling me I look like a tramp, and thought I needed something that might make me look smart for a change.

I had lunch on Canal Street in the most deserted-looking pub I could find. I ordered a cranberry juice and was astonished to find it cost £2.15, and even more astonished to hand over £3 and get no change. “You haven’t given me change,” I said to the sour-faced Lesbian with a man’s voice behind the bar. “Actually you gave me £2.10,” she barked, with a frown I could have driven a train across. There was something of the Fat Pat about her and she was in no mood to back down, “there was a 5p on the bar, so I didn’t ask you for the rest.” It was a strange statement, which rather disarmed me, but I wasn't going to thank her, because I didn’t believe her for a moment. “I definitely gave you £3,” I said, “if I didn’t give you the right money, and you were doing me such an astonishing, and pointlessly alturistic favour, why on earth didn’t you say?” She looked at me blinkingly until I retired to my seat. I couldn’t wait to get out of the place, and scuttled back to my hotel room for some peace and quiet.

I’m now on the train back to London for a day in the big smoke. I return to Manchester first thing Monday morning and am going to watch the X Factor final at Brother Edward’s tonight, which I'm very much looking forward to.

It’s very claustrophobic on the train. I’m sitting next to a Grandmother and Grandchild. As an act of kindness to make space for other passengers, the Grannie’s put the child on her lap, but there’s now a tower of person between me and the train aisle. It’s very sweet, but it’s playing “peep-o”, it hasn’t stopped bouncing up and down and yabbering and it’s eating a chocolate éclair, which I’m terrified is going to squirt all over me and force me to tell the Grandmother that I don’t mind because the jumper needed a wash anyway, and I’ve always loved the smell of fresh cream going rancid on my clothes. I’m hoping the inter-generational tower of person is not coming all the way to London with us.

350 years ago, and Pepys went to a formal dinner at Sir Thomas Crew’s house. He doesn’t say what was on the menu, or who he chatted to, simply that he ended up in a 45 minute traffic jam on the way there and nearly didn’t make it. How little London changes.

Hobbling

2011-12-09T18:16:00.000Z

Bizarrely, after yesterday’s blog entry, I am thrilled/horrified to announce that the heel of my shoe fell off last night. I think the rain was just too much for it, and somewhere between York and Manchester, it dropped off. I hobbled back to the hotel from the train station as one of the nails from within the broken shoe pushed its way up into the sole of my foot. In the absence of any time to replace the shoes, I’m forced to wear my hideous trainers today, which is the only other footwear I have up here.

I was in York last night for all of two hours; another meeting about the Ebor Vox project; the choral work I’ve been commissioned to write to celebrate the 800^th anniversary of York City being granted its charter. I am rather blithely saying yes to everything at the moment, very much aware of what happened when I said no to things last year. I’m going to need to be astonishingly organised if everything comes off, however. I’m also going to have to think about having weekly massages or something, simply to keep myself relaxed; walking around Hattersley in the driving wind and rain whilst carrying computers, keyboards and cameras is slightly more than my shoulders can cope with at the moment.

I received a text message from Alison yesterday, telling me she was on her way to Manchester. Not only this, it transpired we were staying in the same hotel. I had thought I’d go and find them, but when she told me where they were, it seemed an awfully long way to hobble with a nail sticking into my foot. At about midnight, however, she texted again to say she was on the way back to the hotel, so I went down to the bar in my pyjamas and we chatted for an hour over a glass of whiskey. Alison produced A Symphony for Yorkshire, and we’ve shared much over the last couple of years; soaring highs and crashing lows. It’s always a treat, therefore, to see her. Her relentless “can-do” optimism took a bit of a bashing from BBC politics and lack of funds over the summer, but she seems buoyant again – and making plans. It must be very disheartening, however, as the BBC Regional network is being starved of funding and, as a result, turning much more into a newsgathering organisation, which could well mean there will be no more projects like Hattersley. Surely, as society struggles its way through recession, news is the one thing we don’t need in abundance. I often find myself turning the news off because it’s depressing, and I’m powerless to do anything about what Cameron does in Europe, or the weather, or the state of the economy. Sometimes, I just want a bit of escapism, or a few ideas as to how I can make an actual and direct difference in my own community.

On that note, I found myself incredibly moved yesterday to learn about a little table in the community centre at Hattersley. The table has existed for years. It’s very much in the “bring and buy” tradition; those on the estate with things that they no longer need bring stuff to the table; books, clothes, toys etc. The people at the community centre price them up, and they are all sold on to other members of the community – for silly low prices. A little doll’s house might sell for £3, or a soft toy for 45p. They’ll simply give something to someone they know is in trouble. Some books do continual rounds; they get sold to a person who reads it and then brings it back for someone else to buy for 15p... At the end of the year, whatever the table has made is used to fund the Christmas celebrations within the community centre. They made £800 last year, so every penny counts. Maybe I was hormonal yesterday, but I found the whole thing incredibly moving. Because it’s Christmas, the table is filled with toys at the moment – and children were rushing in all the time to see what they might be able to buy. What a fabulous resource for someone in a financial crisis. It could well make the difference between a child getting a present and not this year. It’s this sort of example of a community supporting itself which makes me feel very proud to be British.

Today’s trip to Hattersley was incredibly fruitful – bitterly cold – but fruitful. Throughout the day, the sky must have changed colour 100 times, from cornflower blue to brown to yellow to pink to black. It snowed, it hailed, it rained, the sun shone... but at all times, it was bitterly cold.

We met even more wonderful people and now have enough stories to fill our five slots; a wonderful position to be in with 2 days to go. I think Paul and I are very excited. Tonight is all about R and R in my hotel room.

350 years ago, Pepys went to The Wardrobe, and found Lady Wright, a bit of a snob, bemoaning the fact that the age of gallantry was over, and that most English men were not fit to be courtiers “but such as have been abroad and know fashions.” The woman was obsessed by fashion. A couple of weeks earlier, she’d launched a diatribe at Pepys over a very similar issue.

Pepys sat up until midnight writing letters to Lord Sandwich and many of his other comrades at sea. His friend, Monsieur d’Esquier was off to join the fleet, so Pepys wanted to use the opportunity to make sure various important letters were delivered by hand.

Soaked through

2011-12-08T17:17:00.002Z

I am fantastically unlucky with shoes and have spent a lifetime trying to work out why this might be. Perhaps it’s because my feet are like Hobbit feet; almost as wide as they are long, and flat as flat can be. Maybe it’s because I walk like a slightly disabled person with a pigeon-toed, low-gravity shuffling gait, that could never be described as elegant. I shuffle. It might be because I can never justify spending top dollar on shoes, because I assume they’ll merely fall apart within seconds? Or perhaps there’s simply a shoe God who wants to punish me.

I suspect it’s a mix of all these things, and maybe myriad reasons I’ve not yet considered. Whatever the case, it’s not much fun. People laugh at my shoes and then look at me, with pity in their eyes. Every time I visit my parents I’m frog-marched to the nearest shoe shop because they feel so ashamed to see their son looking like a tramp. But often the shoes I’m wearing are brand new! I go to the local shoe shop with them – buy another pair – yet within minutes, something goes spectacularly wrong. The lace snaps, the side splits, or more often than not, the heel mysteriously drops off.

I took my most recent purchase to the new cobbler on our street a couple of weeks ago, and he gave them a lovely new lease of life. Imagine my horror, therefore, in the midst of the traumatic hail storm yesterday, when I discovered that some of the stitching on the top of the boots had disintegrated and was letting in water? I immediately bought myself some superglue to remedy the problem, but had to sit all day with wet socks, no doubt slowly developing trench foot whilst chatting to old ladies.

I went out in Manchester with Ellen last night, an old university friend who recently relocated here after becoming a writer on Coronation Street. She looked fabulous, and we had a tasty Japanese meal in a really cool restaurant with a dark little shop in the basement selling all sorts of weird and wonderful Japanese delicacies. Ellen is very happy up here and it shows in her face. She describes Manchester as having a village-like feel. All her friends are within a much smaller radius, and she loves the fact that it doesn’t take her at least an hour to get anywhere – as it always seems to in London.

We went for a drink on Canal Street, which is the gay district up here, famous for its erstwhile vandalised sign, which had the first two letters of each word painted out, thus spelling “Anal Treet”. It’s also the prettiest road in the centre of Manchester. Wednesdays in Manchester is trannie night. The bars were very quiet, but a large number of the customers were trans-people, which I liked. One lady looked absolutely fabulous; really dignified and willowy, in an arty, very demure sort of way. I was going to compliment her, but decided she might find me somewhat patronising. She was also sitting next to someone wearing a Queen Elizabeth II wig, who looked terrible, and I didn’t want to feel obliged to compliment her!

We’ve been in Hattersley all day, consolidating things and doing in depth interviews with two people I think we want to feature in the film; a lady called Jean, who was one of the first people to move into the estate, and a young photographer who sees Hattersley through very different eyes. “The architecture here is dull” he said, “everything is uniform... except the people – who are the opposite...” Yet again, we were welcomed with open arms into people’s houses, and I now have tea pouring out of my ears.

I’m also soaked through. During the 3-minute walk, from one particular house to the community centre, we could see a weird, and very thick white cloud hanging over the hill in front of us. “I wonder what on earth that is” I said, and 30 seconds later we found out, as torrential rain and wind almost battered us to death. I have never experienced rain like it. It was like a thousand daggers hidden within a million buckets of water. All we could do was laugh hysterically with another woman who was similarly caught out, Back at the community centre we were rewarded with cups of tea and a plate of cheese on toast by a group of lovely ladies. I have never felt such warmth from a community I’ve worked with.

December 8^th, 1661, was a Sunday, and Pepys lay in bed wondering if he wanted to take physique, but it being frosty outside, Elizabeth “would not let him.” It’s a strange remark, which makes me quite convinced that my interpretation of “taking physique” (ie staying within the house all day and mooching around) is incorrect. Perhaps taking physique is actually taking a form of medicine – which Elizabeth would need to prepare on his behalf, or visit some kind of apothecary to purchase. Who knows?

In any case, Pepys didn’t take “physique” and went instead to visit Lady Sandwich at the Wardrobe. They talked about a christening the day before, which had been filled with more pomp and ceremony than anything either of them could ever have imagined.

On the way home from Ludgate Circus, Pepys called in at every church that he passed, one assumes simply to soak up the atmosphere. I don’t know why this diary entry should please me so much – but it does! I assume one of these churches was a pre-fire incarnation of St Mary At Hill. A comforting thought...

I save the sugar bit for the wine!

2011-12-07T19:44:00.000Z

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I think I was cold, which is really strange for me. The duvet on the bed was as flimsy as paper, and I fell asleep with the television on. I woke up periodically through the night to hear little snippets of various TV programmes, culminating in BBC Breakfast. It was very surreal. I got up having subconsciously ingested the main headlines of the day and learnt how to sign the word "explosion."

I had a horrible breakfast near the train station; half-cooked mushrooms on soggy toast, before meeting producer Paul by the train to Hattersley. The weather turned nasty as we trundled out of Manchester. A thin rainbow was glowing in an otherwise angry sky and then it started to rain.

The walk from Hattersley train station to the community centre where we were basing ourselves for the day was cataclysmic. The skies opened and we were attacked by millions of razor-sharp hail stones, one of which lodged itself in my eardrum and melted painfully.

The community centre was buzzing, however; filled to the brim with tables neatly set out for a Christmas party. Sitting at the tables were 150 elderly people tucking into plates of pork pies and turkey sandwiches. A middle-aged man with a mullet was singing classic hits to backing tracks, whilst his wife sat at a computer looking like the lovely Debbie McGee. We felt a little bit like intruders and, as we arrived, the community centre manager rushed over to say she’d been trying to contact us to tell us that today wasn’t a very good day for us to start our search.

As it happened, it turned out to be the most perfect day to hang around the community centre. Everyone was in a really good mood, we were able to make a little announcement to tell people what we were doing, and we were very wonderfully welcomed into the community fold. Hattersley estate, with its links to the Moors Murderers and Harold Shipman, has had a lot of unnecessary bad press over the years, but, and maybe even because of the press, its sense of community spirit is remarkable. We were sat down, given a cup of tea, and then a lovely plate of meat, and then even a little Christmas present.

We met some proper characters including a wonderful lady who cares for a blind gentleman who’s also slowly going deaf. She is literally becoming his eyes and ears, and he is utterly dependent on her, which is particularly sad as he’s a pianist and she used to depend on him as her accompanist when she sang.

Quote of the day came from a lovely woman with purple hair, who, upon winning three pots of jam in the raffle, took a large glug of wine and announced excitedly; “I love the pots... I can’t eat the jam, of course, I’m diabetic. I save the sugar bit for the wine.”

350 years ago, and Pepys was hanging out with a Captain Ferrers and a German gentleman, one of Montagu’s footmen, called Emanuel Luffe, who borrowed Pepys’ theorbo, and by playing beautifully reminded Pepys what a wonderful instrument he’d acquired. Ferrers and Luffe departed after a breakfast of mince pies, but the German returned minutes later, covered in blood, nursing a massive wound to his head, saying that Ferrers had been killed by a waterman at the Tower Stairs. Pepys immediately rushed to the place where the murder had happened, but found all was well. Captain Ferrers, in true Ferrersian style, had picked a fight with a couple of watermen, provoked a rather sound beating for himself and his German companion, who had rushed at one of the watermen with his sword, before heading back to Pepys’ house for extra manpower. In the meantime, Captain Ferrers, who had at least nine lives, had escaped on a passing boat. Pepys returned to his house to find his wife dressing a wound on the German’s head. Luffe was presented with a cravat to protect another wound on his neck, and a crown as a thank you for protecting their troublesome mutual friend.

Is it grim up North?

2011-12-06T21:17:00.001Z

I'm on a train, wending my way through the Midlands towards Manchester. I have no idea where we are, and it's incredibly dark outside, so I can't see if there's snow on the ground. I've heard it's very cold up north, however. It always is when I start these film projects. Last year, my trip to Newcastle was accompanied by some of the coldest weather the North East has ever experienced. My first meeting about this project was two years ago, and happened on another snowy day. The latter part of my journey from London to Manchester was terrifying. The city centre was experiencing a white-out and I was weeping as I drove along. I went into a massive spin at one point and simply deserted the car where it came to a halt, somewhere near the pavement, somewhere near the BBC!

I'm excited and nervous because, as ever on these projects, I've no idea who I'm going to meet, what I'm going to write, or what the film is going to be about. All I know is that it will be fabulous!

I spent the day with Penny in the East End. We're making an application for funding for a performance of the Requiem in a graveyard next September and were talking to Rich Mix about the possibility of their coming on board. They seemed to love the idea, as everyone has, really. This particular work has stirred up so much emotion and imagination. Everyone has a different, yet equally interesting take on how it might be used as the basis for outreach work, or associated projects. I suppose the bottom line is simply that death is inspiring. Perhaps I am also inspiring.

I got to Euston station way too early and the place was rammed with commuters heading home. There was nowhere to sit, so I found myself perching on a little ledge behind the Sock Shop. Periodically, a train would be announced and a terrifying, seemingly endless cluster of people would rush past me in the direction of the platforms. None of them seemed to notice me squatting there at knee height, and they kept knocking my suitcase over without apologising. On one occasion I vanished temporarily underneath a passing coat. It smelt musky and damp, like a gym changing room. The only person who came close to spotting me on my little ledge, merely commented on the paper cup I'd left on my right hand side. "Mind the paper cup, Mum," she said, "it might have something in it." Mum trod on it, and tea squirted onto my trouser leg.

The man sitting next to me, who I know has seats booked for himself further down the carriage that he "couldn't be bothered to walk to," is coughing like a maniac. Normally I wouldn't be bothered, but having still not entirely got over the whoops, the experience is terrifying me. He's also giving off a huge amount of heat, so trapped between a radiator under the window and Fuzzy Bear, I feel like a toasted sandwich.

350 years ago, the Navy office did a trade deal with the East India company. Bombay had just become part of the British Empire as a result of Charles II's union with Catherine de Braganza.

The Navy crew went to talk to the King about the deal, but there was a major falling out on the way home after Pepys jokingly accused Sir William Batten of only wanting to visit the Three Tuns pub to catch an eyeful, and probably cop a feel of the pretty bar woman there. Not a word was spoken all the way home and their relationship would never fully recover!

British Pride

2011-12-05T19:20:00.000Z

I don’t have anything to say today. Not one thing. I’ve not done anything interesting. I’ve merely sat at various tables, attempting to tick mundane tasks off a list written on the back of an envelope. I’ve done washing, I’ve tidied things, I've sent invoices, I've played with the rats, I've sent ideas for projects to various producers, drank copious mugs of tea, sent a shirty email to an agent who crossed someone I care about. Nothing of any great consequence and certainly nothing to write about in great detail.

I notice that the government has decided to double the budget for the Olympic games opening ceremony. Another £41m to spend on a massive display of British pride. No doubt an old rocker will play guitar licks, and Leona Lewis will wail a bit, whilst 26,000 deaf school children hold little cards above their heads to form a variety of world flags whilst signing "Hey Jude" or Elbow's "One Day Like this a year will see me right." I’m pretty sure there’ll also be some optical illusion/ lighting effect which turns the entire stadium into a lake, whilst a life-sized ferry floats through the sky on wires. There's a limit to what you can do in a circular stadium when it's raining. The audience will all be given glow sticks - and from helicopters the whole place will look like the milky way. I suspect the injection of cash will mean the key artists double their fees. The 25,000 school children, wheelchair dancers and community choirs, however, will still earn nothing.

I was really proud when I heard that the original plan for the ceremony reflected the austerity of our times. When there’s less money, people have to be inventive. Leona Lewis drops off the list of performers, but you get someone less well known - but crucially, better! We all know we can’t afford the Olympics. They're going to cripple the economy, and I hate the fact that we’re using the platform to try to pretend to the rest of the world that we’re fine and dandy. What’s wrong with an austere opening ceremony? Why don't we spend £40m on creative projects outside London for people who can't afford to be there?

350 years ago, and Pepys went for a fourth sitting with Mr Savill the portrait painter. The picture still wasn’t pleasing him, and he was starting to get worried. Pepys had mince pies for lunch. Sadly, I think it was a coincidence that he ate them so near to Christmas, as they used to be eaten all year round. They were enormous things as well – a savoury/ sweet mix of meat, fruit and sugar which could weigh up to 20lbs. Still, they were obviously something a bit decadent, reserved for a special occasion, as Pepys used them as the basis for an impromptu party. The evening was spent at the theatre, seeing Hamlet.

All change

2011-12-04T21:35:00.002Z

It's gone very cold and we've retreated into the sitting room to watch The Cube whilst eating a pizza.

We've been helping Jem and Ian to move this afternoon. They've left the horrors of Streatham and are now in the relatively civilised confines of Totteridge and Whetstone, which is only a ten minute drive from us.

Their new flat is lovely; incredibly light and very open plan. It's part of a 1960s block, which would have been very fancy when it was first built. Many of the original features are still there, including sliding internal doors and enormous picture windows.

There's nothing else to say about today. I'm just trying to relax so that I can face my incredibly busy week in Manchester with properly recharged batteries.

Wednesday 4th June, 1661, and Pepys went to Whitehall by boat with the two Sir Williams. At Westminster Stairs, where the boat was moored, Pepys discovered the corpse of a man who'd drowned in the Thames the day before. One assumes, in those days, it was no one's problem, so the corpse, like the heads of traitors on various spikes across the city was probably merely left to rot, or kicked back into the river to float somewhere else.

Pepys went to his painter to collect his wife, who was also having her portrait done. They went to the theatre, but arrived too late for the show, and Pepys wasn't feeling too good (describing himself as being a bit "out of tune") so they went home and read until bedtime.

Strange lights

2011-12-03T21:45:00.002Z

Whilst driving through the country lanes that twist their way towards Stansted Airport from Thaxted this evening, I became very conscious of the strange reflections that the headlights of my father's car were casting in the sky on the left hand side of the car. A shower of feint lights seemed to be dancing in the darkness.

I pointed them out to my Mum, who said "gosh, is that just the effect of the headlights?"

...It wasn't. We turned a corner and drove along a straight section of road, where the hedges were low, and were astonished to discover that the lights in the sky were nothing to do with our car.

I warn all readers that there is no satisfactory end to this story. I will probably never know what caused the phenomenon. Low in the Eastern sky, two smudgy rings of light were hovering in the sky. The rings spread out and then closed in again, repeatedly, like one of those bizarre electric jelly fish you get miles below the surface of the sea.

It was plainly not something supernatural. I'm sure it was merely a set of party lights on the ground that were somehow being reflected by low-hanging cloud. It was, however, rather odd to see, so close to the airport, as though some strange space ship was trying to make contact with the metal flying birds it had observed on earth!

I had a lovely afternoon today on Upper Street with Julie and the guys who run the beach bar we used to hang out in in Italy. It was such a privilege to hang out with them. They've become complete Anglofiles and were photographing every street sign, antique store or display of wool that we passed!

I don't think there's anything more important in life than enthusiasm. I have inherited a love for life from my parents, who I guess must have taught me that there's something uniquely interesting or entertaining in any situation. "Only boring people get bored," my mother would say, and she was right. Boredom is dangerous. Those without a lust for life become engulfed by bitterness which eats away at them from the inside. I therefore greatly appreciate the great lovers on this planet. They're the ones who will keep us going when we're all forced to return to more simple living.

Less fun was trying to find a space on Upper Street, where parking only becomes free on a Saturday after 1.30pm, and otherwise costs a staggering £5 per hour. I drove round and round desperately looking for a meter, only to find one that was broken. The only method of payment available was the dreaded automated phone system. I was in my parent's car, and its registration wasn't logged on the system under my phone number. My most recent debit card was similarly unrecognised by the computer voice, which eventually decided it was best all round if the virtual conversation was brought to an abrupt halt. "Goodbye!" she said, before f***ing off!

By the time I'd called again, and painstakingly typed various letters and numbers into the system, periodically failing, and needing to start all over again, it was almost half past one. The whole process took precisely 23 minutes, which cost the council about £2 in lost parking revenue.

350 years ago, and Pepys sat for Mr Savill the painter. He obviously had a crafty peak at the unfinished picture, because he left feeling unhappy that the image wouldn't be a good likeness.

He lunched with Lady Sandwich and a ghastly woman who talked obsessively about the importance of being on trend when it came to fashion, and spent hours rubbishing country gentlewomen for their outdated taste in clothes. Pepys was unimpressed, despite being something of a 17th Century dandy himself.

He had a run of very vivid dreams that night. He dreamt that his wife had been thrown badly from a horse and broken her leg and then that he himself was in so much pain that he woke up... In terrible agony. Fortunately, it appears the pain was psychosomatic, as the following day, he was as fit as a fiddle. Maybe waking up with the terrible pain was also part of the dream. Poor Pepys, ever worried by his health.

Floods and sewage workers

2011-12-02T23:49:00.003Z

I am about ready to drop. My eyes are going slightly blurry as I type and my face feels hot. I’ve been a very busy boy this week and cannot wait for the weekend.

Today, I was up at ridiculous-o’clock to go to Birmingham. Unfortunately, none of the taps in the house seemed to have water coming out of them, so I was forced to do the thing I hate most in the world – and start the day without a bath... or a cup of tea.

My mood was lifted, however, by the dawn sun, which was casting the most extraordinary light on one side of the pavement of the A1 outside. I watched, transfixed, for some minutes as commuters emerged from the shadows and immediately brought their hands up to shade their eyes from the intense orange light, which lit them up like halogen lights.

As I was preparing to leave the house, I found the chap who lives in the downstairs flat – also called Ben – rather pathetically standing at his door. It became apparent that the cause of the lack of water was something to do with his flat. When he woke up this morning his kitchen was under a good inch of water, which was still pouring out of his washing machine. It was dripping down into the shop below. The poor man had tried to mop the water up, and then thrown every towel he owned on the kitchen floor, but the water continued to pour, and his face continued to redden and sweat.

I felt awful leaving him to his crisis, but I needed to be in Birmingham. I cruised up the M1 at hyper-speed. 8.30am is obviously a good time to head north out of London. I was at Watford Gap within about an hour, so stopped off for a cup of tea and a nose about. Watford Gap was the focus of one of my musical films, which featured all sorts of friends from back home in Northamptonshire. It was a wonderful project, and the place is full of happy memories. It’s a troubled place, however. Once almost legendary as the spot where all sorts of pop and rock stars converged in the wee smalls after gigging around the country, it had character and charm. It’s now part of a generic chain of service stations; branded to the heavens, and decorated cheaply. It had a refurb before we shot the film, and it’s had another once since. It still looks tatty. Like a Woolworth’s shop. You don’t even enter the place by the main doors any more – and horror of horrors, the Wimpey has now been replaced by MacDonalds.

The job I was doing in Birmingham involved teaching a group of sewage workers how to sing, but they were a fabulous bunch of people. It was an absolute privilege to work with them. They were charming, friendly and up-for-it, which made my job so easy. I taught them to sing Winter Wonderland in two-part harmony, whilst ringing hand bells, and making the sounds of snow. Every time I get north of Watford Gap, I realise how much more friendly the people are. There was no edge to any of them. They were true West Midlanders. A number of them were from Coventry, which pulled my accent all over the place. I sounded like Cat Dealey by the time I left! The guy that met us knew my Grandfather’s butcher shops in the city and sounded like my old Uncle Charlie. I recognised immediately that he was from Cov and the first question I asked him was “so, where in Cov are you from?” “Coventry” he said – before realising quite how specific my question had been. I explained my link, and later over-heard him telling someone that I had a broad Coventry accent as well. I must have done by the time I’d finished talking to them all. It’s an accent that makes me feel very safe.

I came home via Northampton, and picked Fiona up in Collingtree where she’d been spending a couple of days with her family. Barbara, her mother, created an enormous and glorious collation of food in the time it took me to play Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends with Fiona’s hysterical nephews. There were five different types of cake. It would have been rude not to sample them all.

We drove back to London nattering – and here I am, really. The top half of me suited and booted, the bottom half wearing pyjamas.

It’s the second of December. Can someone tell me where the year went?

December 2^nd, 1661, and Pepys went for a sitting with the painter, Mr Savill, who was doing his portrait. Mr Savill was ill, however, so no work got done. The rest of the day was spent with various friends, their various mistresses, in various pubs, at various theatres, drinking merrily.

Turncoats and snubbers

2011-12-01T23:53:00.001Z

I'm on the newly refurbished Northern Line platform at Tottenham Court Road. I use the word refurbished with a pinch of salt. The walls are barely plastered and the whole place looks distinctly unfinished. It's either some form of shabby-industrial-chic statement, or the money/ time ran out and this was the best they could do!

Another day spent in the bowels of BBC Television Centre. I haven't seen anything like enough daylight. I've also eaten rather too much canteen food, so feel bloated and tired.

Matt's show was brilliant tonight. The guests were Louis Walsh, Jermaine Greer and Clive Anderson, and the humour bubbled up really nicely without anyone trying too hard. All the guests came across as genuinely nice people, so I was a little disappointed to be slightly snubbed by Professor Greer afterwards.

She'd announced to the audience that she lived on Junction 9 of the M11, which is just north of Thaxted, so afterwards I sidled over, announced that I'd been doing autocue, and mentioned that my parents lived in Thaxted. "Oh" she said, imagining, I'm sure, that I'd crawled out from a slimy pit and was going to request her autograph. Her tone was so dismissive that I instantly felt ashamed and started to burble. "Is that close to you?" I asked. She looked over my shoulder, "Thaxted is south" she said, "at junction 8." "Yes" I said, "but it can't be that far away. Which village are you in?" There was a stunned silence, like I'd just asked for her age, followed by her bra size. I felt even sillier and burbled on... "you must live near Saffron Walden, or Duxford, or something like that?" "Something like that" she said, and nodded and moved on to the man behind me, painting a glorious smile across her face because he was a somebody, and to her, I was a nobody. Quite why she didn't have enough charm to say, "isn't Thaxted beautiful" or ask if I'd grown up in the area, I've no idea.

I hope one day that someone will make her feel as silly as she made me feel.

December 1st, 1661 was a Sunday, and Pepys entertained an old university friend whilst Elizabeth went to church. They ate Braun and "rare" gherkins, drank a great deal of wine and gossiped about politics. Pepys referred to the bad treatment of the "poor cavillers" during the interregnum. Turn coat!

Jerry Jerry

2011-11-30T21:29:00.001Z

I learned today that Jerry Springer was born on the platform of Highgate tube during the blitz. I consider this to be an interesting fact. Highgate Station celebrated its 70th birthday earlier on this year and there was a little poster on display with all sorts of (mostly semi) interesting facts which I'd not noticed before. If only I'd've known. I'd have written something celebratory!

I spent much of the today rushing around London. I went to St Mary's Church to return the keys, and thank them for having us, before meeting Rupert at Victoria Station to return a suitcase which Hilary had left in the church after the gig.

The suitcase obviously wanted to live in the church, because I managed to leave it there a second time. I was back on the tube before I noticed, and had to do the mother of all detours. I was terrified that I'd return to find the bag fenced off, about to be detonated by an anti-terrorism squad!

I had a meeting with James Davey in Victoria about the project I'm doing with the Fleet Singers in Belsize Park. We now have a much clearer sense of what's going to happen. The commission celebrates the Diamond Jubilee, and we're going to look at some of the memories the choir have collected over the last 60 years, which I think could be charming.

We're now off to Thaxted, essentially to borrow my parents' car. I have a gig in Birmingham teaching people to sing on Friday, and Nathan needs the car, so, yet again, my parents have stepped up to the plate.

Philippa just 'phoned to say she's had every last piece of jewellery stolen by her cleaner, who's subsequently vanished off the face of the earth. She apparently cleaned houses for a large number of the mothers Philippa hangs out with, and many of them were robbed in the same week. It's an horrific thought. This woman cleaned houses for some of them for over two years and had come hugely recommended. It seems very strange that she would suddenly go off the rails so dramatically. I can only think she had some major life crisis which, required a large injection of cash and couldn't think what else to do. Very sad for everyone, really.

350 years ago, Pepys reported that various coins that had been issued and used during the Interregnum had been taken out of official circulation. In one of his regular end-of-month summing ups, he reported to be in good health (but for a little cold) yet still worried that he was "vainly" spending too much money.

2011-11-30T00:18:00.000Z

It's 11.30pm, and I'm on my way back from the BBC in White City, wondering if I'll make it above ground in time to post this blog before midnight. I've been at Television Centre doing autocue for Matt Lucas' new TV chat show. It's one of the last comedy programmes they're ever going to make within this iconic building; a fact which makes me feel a little sad. What child of the 1970s doesn't remember Roy Castle tap-dancing around the doughnut in the middle of the complex, or Terry Wogan whinging about the BBC canteen food. I remember sitting there as a teenager, about to perform with the Northamptonshire Youth Orchestra on Blue Peter, my stomach knotted with excitement.

Yet soon the place will be nothing but a few listed buildings rented out by all sorts of non-BBC organisations. Children's telly and sport have already migrated to Salford, and everything else is moving to newer premises down the road within the next few months.

I feel quite honoured to be doing the job. It was my first day today. I was fairly nervous this morning, but got into my stride relatively quickly and everything went smoothly. I feel tired, having been too excited to sleep, for many reasons, last night, but elated after a good day's work.

Guests on Matt's show included Maureen Lipman and Julian Clary, who was in the cast of Taboo, so it was lovely to see him again. He seemed confused to find me running the autocue, as he would no doubt also have been to discover I was a composer! I was very firmly wearing my director's hat when we last worked together.

I forget how much I like doing autocue. It's quite an adrenaline-fuelled experience. If you disengage your brain for even a second, you end up making terrible mistakes and potentially making the presenter look like a fool. I've done some terrible things in the past, which include royally shafting Jeremy Vine on an outside broadcast for an episode of Newsnight from the Tory Party conference in Blackpool. In my defence, the equipment broke down. That particular disaster wasn't a lapse of judgement on my part, but there have been plenty more where I was guilty as hell. I once did Charles Kennedy's autocue and wrote Mrs Quim instead of Mrs Quinn.

Ten years ago, I did this kind of work a fair amount, and I can even claim to have been in demand! I've done autocue for all sorts of people including Brucie and Tony Blair (at Downing Street of all places.)

So much for my week of doing nothing. I have countless meetings tomorrow, am working on Thursday and Friday, and then am off to Manchester next week to start my next film project up there.

Talk about a roller coaster!

350 years ago, Pepys went to wait on the Duke of York, but ended up feeling ignored and useless, unable to make much impact on the conversation or offer any advice to help the Navy situation. Typical Pepys immediately went to buy books to improve his mind.

He also went to the theatre. The cheap seats were so crowded, however, that he was forced to shell out for a box... And a very rubbish play!!!

Autocue

2011-11-30T00:08:00.002Z

A cut above

2011-11-28T23:38:00.001Z

I've wanted to curl up on the sofa all day and do nothing but watch telly, but ever since the briefest of brief celebratory lie-ins, I've been out and about in London. I've had various meetings about the Requiem, I've wandered around Soho with my brother and John, and this evening, we went to the press night of La Soirée, which has just started a short run at the Roundhouse. It's a kind of burlesque-meets-circus experience and it's really very good; a fabulous mix of laugh-out-loud slapstick and awe-inspiring and often quite moving trapeze and balancing acts. Throw in a few songs performed by an enormous black drag queen, add a bit of sparkle from a hoola-hooper, and you have a show which is well-worth seeing.

I'm still in a bit of a haze after yesterday. I'm thrilled that things went so well, although I've been told off by a number of people for being so self-deprecating in my little talks between numbers. I'm not really one for banging my own drum, and stories of disaster and failure are surely always more interesting and amusing than someone saying "and then I won 3 RTS awards and was invited to play the 'cello in front of the queen."

The truth is that I'm utterly proud of all the music I write, I think it sounds bloomin' lovely, but it's more interesting when heard in context. The musical Blast for example, from which many of the songs we performed came from, has never been performed, which can hardly be described as successful, and much of the music I wrote in the early days came out of a place of genuine struggle.

I'd much rather an audience be astonished by the quality of a body of work which has essentially been ignored, than bored to tears by a man patting himself on the back for his far more successful forays into film and TV! Maybe I'm just way too English...

I've just opened a card which came from Meriel, Tanya, Hilary, Fiona and Meriel with a cheque inside, which has turned me into a quivering wreck. I am a lucky, lucky
man with extraordinary friends. I've no idea what I've done to garner such an astonishing amount of love and generosity, but I feel blessed. Actually blessed.

350 years ago the Pepyses took delivery of a new maid, one Sarah, who was tall and "very well favoured", but not destined to last very long as a servant in Seething Lane. Elizabeth seemed to argue very badly with all of her wenches. I think she'd suddenly started viewing herself as a cut above the rest...

Triumph

2011-11-27T23:53:00.001Z

Floating on air. The concert was extraordinary. Very emotional. Katina sang Shone With the Sun and brought me to tears. Requiem beautiful. I cried when I introduced it. The whole thing felt like This Is Your Life. My friends, my whole family. I felt loved and talented. The Lincolnshire commission went down a storm. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Sally Brown!

I finally know what it feels like to have my ego massaged by an extraordinary choir. It feels wonderful! The pain is over and I can finally move on.

350 years ago Pepys' wife parted with her made Dorothea. Tragique!

Cock II

2011-11-26T21:47:00.001Z

We're on the Jubilee line heading from Canary Wharf to Waterloo. It's been the longest day in the world and still it continues...

I was up with the lark preparing for the concert before rehearsing Em Brûlée at noon, who's come down from Leeds to sing the theme from A Symphony for Yorkshire.

Tim, John and I then trundled into town, and I had my hair cut at Mr Toppers, which means I now have annoying little half hairs prickling on my neck. I'm not really keen on the whole thing of sitting in a hairdresser's chair staring at myself in a giant mirror lit by fluorescent light. It's times like this when you start to realise how old you're beginning to look. There are now grey hairs all over my head, which I rather like, but my eyes looked like dough balls and my forehead was like a ridge and furrow field! I once had a nightmare that cress was growing in the deep lines in my forehead. They've always been the cause of much embarrassment and have now gone way beyond anything I can describe as "characterful"!

We lunched in Stock Pot, the only place to eat if you work in theatre, but are out of work. The moment you get a gig in a long running show, it's fancy restaurants all the way!

We met my parents on the Southbank, and then Edward and Sascha cooked a meal for us all. It was a shame Nathan was at work because I don't think there's ever been a time that my Mum and Dad, two brothers and all associated gay lovers have been together in a room.

Tim, John and I are now going to Naked Boys Singing to admire and laugh at Nathan's penis! What a life I live!

350 years ago, Pepys woke up feeling very poorly (a hangover plainly not helped by his wife falling out with her maid.) When he finally emerged from his bedroom after lunch, there was nothing for it but to start drinking again, and he drank like a fish. Do fish drink?

Foy

2011-11-25T23:58:00.003Z

Another day of frantic preparations for the concert, which included a full hour spent sellotaping orchestra parts together, and about 5 hours’ organ practice. I kept gluing the wrong pages together and then having to rip them apart. I feel quite ashamed to hand the music to the players because I've managed to sellotape various pubic hairs and bits of food into it. I’m still struggling with the organ parts - things are improving, but I'm terrified I’ll sit down to play the tomorrow and find myself back at square one. There’s something about a keyboard that is so much less forgiving than a piano. Maybe it's because there's a great deal less control when it comes to the volume. The merest scuff of a wrong note reverberates like a squeaky clarinet in a school orchestra.

My brother Tim arrived from Manchester at about 8pm with his partner, John. They’re staying with me this weekend. In fact, many of my friends and relatives are arriving in London for the concert. I'm beginning to feel excited. We went up into the village and had a drink at the Flask with Fiona’s parents. I always feel very proud of Highgate when we have visitors – it radiates middle class charm! All of our guests seemed particularly impressed by the open air notice boards which are scattered about in these parts. I suppose it is rather bizarre that no one has tried to set them on fire, or covered them in grafitti or excrement. It's also rather nice to see how much stuff is going on up here; yoga classes, singing lessons, film and book clubs, music concerts... You name it.

Tim was very keen to go to the top of Parliament Hill because it was the first place we visited after finding each other. Tim is my half brother. He was taken away from my mother after he was born in Liverpool in the 1960s. I knew of his existence from my early twenties, but it took me the best part of ten years to finally track him down. It’s a long, and very wonderful story, filled with so many co-incidences that co-incidence eventually turned into fate. When I found him, he was living in Holland, and within days of my contacting him, he came back to England to meet his birth family.

I picked him up from Stansted airport. We were both incredibly nervous and I couldn’t think of anything else to do other than take him to my favourite place in the world. We walked onto the Heath, climbed the hill and stood and looked down across the twinkling lights of London, aware that life would never be the same for either of us again.

The lights looked very beautiful this evening as well. The sky was dark and clear and they seemed to be shimmering. The Shard of Glass looked particularly impressive. It’s the first time I’ve seen it from that angle at night time. It’s entirely changed the shape of the horizon in the city... very much for the better, I feel.

Today is the year anniversary of the first performance of The Pepys Motet. It seems like a lifetime ago.

350 years ago, Pepys attended a "foy", which I'm told is a final meal thrown by a navy man before he goes to sea - one assumes to make peace with the world in case he didn't return. Today's foy was a meal of wine and oysters. Pepys went to the theatre... twice, the second time to make up for the fact that he hadn't enjoyed the first.

He then went drinking with mates. He drank too much - and was hoarse by the time he got home, no doubt because he'd shouted like an alcoholic all night. He'd also spent much of the night drinking toasts to the memory of a beautiful woman he'd admired whist studying at Cambridge university. That would make anyone hoarse.

Time

2011-11-24T23:59:00.002Z

I’ve been getting in a bit of a state today... For no other reason than the sudden realisation that there’s an enormous amount for me to do before Sunday’s concert. I have to work out what to say between numbers, I have to learn the bass parts in the songs where I’m singing in the choir, I have to learn Hannah’s song in case she can’t perform it, I have to learn piano parts – but worst of all, I have to play the bleedin’ organ in the Requiem... I can deal with most of this, but the moment I start to play the organ part, I go into melt-down, and then imagine the rehearsal on Sunday, with my face buried in the music, being unable to either appreciate what I’ve written or offer constructive notes to the other musicians – and then I start to panic all over again...

Still, we’re slowly ticking things off the list. We made the programmes today, and copied 200 of them at the print shop. We thought about doing them in colour, but that was going to cost £100.

The rest of the day has been spent sitting on a sofa in front of a computer screen, trying to sort everything out, but because I’m panicking, it’s taking even longer than I have. This blog is even starting to take longer than I have. “Dear Jim’ll, please can you fix it for me to have an extra day this week, so that I can relax a bit before the concert? Thank you. From Ben (mental age) 4 ½.” Now then, now then...

November 24^th 1661, was a Sunday, and Pepys went to St Clement Eastcheap church, which is the church that gave its name to the famous nursery rhyme. Obviously Pepys doesn’t mention this fact, but I often wonder whether Oranges and Lemons was a known poem in his day.

It was one of the churches that gave me my all time most spine-tingling moment. In 2009, I wrote a version of Oranges and Lemons which featured every church bell mentioned in the longer version of the rhyme, which includes all sorts of City and East End churches, and rhymes like; “two sticks and an apple say the bells of Whitechapel.” Every bell in every church was recorded separately. 200 bells in 17 churches. I then wrote a piece of music that would include them all – ringing in harmony. I wanted to feature a choir in the piece, and because I’m slightly insane, I decided they all needed to either work or live within earshot of one of the sets of bells. This meant that the standard of singing varied wildly, which made for a very long day of recording in the studio, which lasted until 1am.

I missed the last DLR and had to walk from Limehouse to Bank to find a bus. I was absolutely exhausted, and as I got into the City, my legs gave way, and I collapsed in a pathetic heap. The City at night is a wonderful place, however. It’s utterly silent and completely empty. I sat in a crumpled mess for a minute or two and suddenly, all the bells across the city started to chime in unison. It must have been 1am, or 2 am. But the place went from being utterly silent, to being filled with the sound of bells. At that very moment, someone, a total stranger, cycled past me. He was the only person I’d seen for at least 2 minutes – and he was singing. He was singing Oranges and Lemons. There are some moments that you wouldn’t believe if you saw them in a film, but for just a few seconds I wondered if God was looking down at me and grinning!

Cock

2011-11-23T23:06:00.000Z

I woke up this morning to find Highgate sitting in a pool of the most beautiful sunshine. I say a pool, because the news was filled with stories about the heavy mists across London. The roving weather girl was in Kew Gardens and you could barely see her for the fog. She’s a funny girl, that weather girl. She takes a very audible gulp of air before every sentence and always makes me want to hold my throat. Anyway, the rather peculiar weather was creating traffic chaos all over the place, including locations less than 400 meters from where our house is. It was very confusing to look out of the window and see nothing but sunshine.

I left the house and immediately saw that the mist was moving incredibly quickly and I’d been engulfed by the time I reached Highgate Village. It was cold and, to quote Topsy and Tim, “it smelt like old ashtrays.”

Rehearsals for me today started at 10am in Kilburn (with two sopranos) and then continued throughout the day back in Highgate. There were one-on-ones, duets, quartets, and then, at the end of the very long day, a full choir rehearsal. At some point I even managed to feed everyone. I’m not sure how. I ran about like a mad thing, adrenaline pumping through my body for most of the day. I now stink – and my head is kind of spinning. I don’t know if I’ve dedicated enough rehearsal time to everything. I don’t know what sounds good. I don’t know what’s ready. I don’t know if the music I’ve written is any good. I’m absolutely full to bursting and just want to go to bed and sleep forever!

350 years ago, Pepys went to see an artist by the name of Mr Savill (I’ll call him Jimmy.) Pepys wanted to commission him to paint a portrait of himself and his wife. In the evening, various people called Sir William (and someone called Captain Cock) appeared in the house to drink, eat and play cards. Captain Cock! Tee hee...

Epsomists

2011-11-23T02:16:00.002Z

We appear to be in Epsom of Epsom Derby fame. It's the middle of the night, the streets are empty and mist-shrouded. Everything looks very romantic.

We've just spent the evening with Hannah Waddingham rehearsing for the concert on Sunday. She's singing a song I wrote for Blast called The Most Deluded Dream, which has only ever been sung in public once. We hope she'll be able to perform the song. It's looking like she might be called up to film an episode of Doctor's, which obviously she can't turn down.

She was on good form tonight and we did a lot of laughing, which brought on one or two coughing fits. I think the change in weather hasn't been great for my whooping cough recovery process. All this dampness in the air is no good for a Victorian ague. I wish it would just go away!

The rest of the day has been spent sending countless emails, printing pages of music, writing programme notes, practising the piano and generally faffing about the concert. I can't really tell if I'm excited or just terrified...

350 years ago, and a group of Pepys' work colleagues and their families congregated at The Dolphin pub. They ate, drank, sang, danced, flirted, played games, gambled and had a whale of a time, and we're astonished to be landed with a bill of well oven 4l, including tips for the musicians.

Pepys returned home to find his wife had hired a new maid, one Sarah, who was described by our hero as "pretty." I fear for her...

The tan that tanked

2011-11-21T22:48:00.002Z

For much of the day, London has been sitting underneath a rather thick mist, which is currently swirling around Highgate like smoke in a war-time pub. I read a Facebook entry from my brother, Edward, which said the mist was so thick he couldn't see the other side of the Thames from where he was standing.

I picked Nathan up from Heathrow this morning, who arrived with hundreds of exciting tales about South Africa. He seems to have been genuinely affected and inspired by the experience. Some of the photos that he took at the top of Table Mountain, with clouds cascading down the sides of great big ravines are utterly astonishing. He's seen circular rainbows, penguins, sharks, ostriches and baboons, and performed at a massive concert in aid of one of Desmond Tutu's pet charities.

Fiona and I met Nathan in the arrivals lounge holding a sign with his name on it which we'd made out of a paper bag. He arrived looking tanned from a distance, but peeling like a glue on a child's finger on closer inspection. The poor bloke had badly burned his face and neck at the top of Table Mountain and the damaged skin had started to go a comic shade of mahogany. He had a bath back at home, rubbed a flannel across his face and immediately removed all traces of his ever having been in a lovely hot country!

This evening I went to listen to the Fleet Singers; a community choir based in Gospel Oak. They've asked me to write some music to help them celebrate the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, and I'm very excited at the prospect of working with them.

Poor Nathan has spent 18 of the last 36 hours in aeroplanes and doesn't appear to have slept at all since leaving Africa. He is absolutely exhausted. He's currently trying to get our new router working, but I'm wondering how long it's going to be before the eyes close and he sinks into the deepest, most satisfying sleep...

350 years ago, and parliament voted in favour of over a million pounds being given to the king to pay off his debts. An astonishing figure! Perhaps the tradition of governments bailing out the unworthy is older than I thought! What is it they say? History never repeats itself, man always does...

Pepys purchased a copy of "Camden's Britannia" from his mate, Mr Moore and immediately took it to St Paul's churchyard to be bound by one of the many booksellers who hung out in the area.

William Camden's Britannia was a major historical/geographical account of England, Scotland and Ireland (no mention of Wales), which was written in Queen Elizabeth I's time. It was a "must have" for any aspiring collector of books, and Pepys was very definitely one of them!!

Matchsticks in my eyes

2011-11-21T01:17:00.000Z

For the past three nights I've forgotten to post this blog before midnight, which is a strong indication about how busy I've been.

Today went by in something of a blur. Michelle stayed the night in our attic and we had breakfast together. I woke up with about two hours' sleep left in me but needed to get up with enough time to tidy the house for a day of rehearsals and prepare two enormous lasagnes for everyone to eat.

Michelle and I had a quick sing through some of her parts and then Kurt, the tenor arrived to do some work on his.

The rest of the choir arrived at noon. We were three short of a full house. I suspect we'll never all be in the same space until Sunday, which is a shame because there's so much that I'd like to finesse - particularly when it comes to balancing the singers.

Still, things went incredibly well and the tenor section is particularly strong. There were moments when I felt very excited, and am fairly convinced that everyone else felt the same way.

I sort of collapsed in front of the telly when everyone had gone before becoming engrossed in Barbara Windsor's autobiography. I'm so exhausted now that I suspect there are shopping lists and letters to Jimmy Saville that are more interesting and better written than this blog.

Pepys went by water to Westminster first thing on this day 350 years ago. He saw the King in his glitzy royal barge on his way to open Parliament.

I'm sorry, but my eyes just won't stay open any more...

Three Pepyses and a cheese and tomato baguette

2011-11-20T02:05:00.002Z

I went to the local baker this morning to buy a sandwich for lunch and asked the girl behind the counter for "a baguette with cheese and tomato." She smiled the winsome grimace of a Pole, and immediately put something in the microwave, which I assumed was a baguette. It was a strange thing to do, but I thought perhaps she was trying to make it toasty in a damp, microwaved kind of manner. She then held out her hand for payment. "How much is that?" I asked. She looked confused, shrugged in a sort of "I can't speak English" kind of way, and pointed at the other girl behind the counter, who sauntered over and asked if she could help. I asked for a baguette with cheese and tomato and she got to work, whilst the first girl took a random pasty out of the microwave, stuck it in a paper bag and put it on the counter. "Who's that for?" I asked. She pointed at me and smiled a sarcastic Eastern European smile. "But I didn't ask for a pasty." She shrugged, put the heated pasty back on the shelf, took a different, random pasty from the display, and carried it to the microwave. "Is that for me too?" I asked, somewhat incredulously. She nodded. "But I don't want a pasty." She smiled. I left the shop.

We went to a music quiz in Bishop’s Stortford tonight; me, Philippa, Dylan, my parents and Michelle from the choir. We travelled to Thaxted beforehand, but got stuck in dreadful jams on the A12 somewhere near Stratford. Yet again, London’s infrastructure finds itself creaking under the weight of so-called improvements. We sat in stationary traffic for 30 minutes because they’d closed an underpass for what seemed like no reason. There were certainly no workmen present... just lots of red and white flashing cones.

When we finally reached Thaxted, my mother had created the most astonishing spread of food. The only thing missing was my parents' customary open fire. Apparently the last time they “lit up”, an entire room of people had to be evacuated, because the whole thing started smoking so badly. The chimney sweep can’t fir them in for a full month, so we’re all keeping our fingers crossed there’s not a cold snap before Christmas this year! I think, perhaps, in Thaxted there's an opening for another chimney sweep, although my Mum swears that no one in the village would ever turn their back on the one they already have.

The quiz was excellent. We came second, but lost to a team who can only have got about five questions wrong in the whole evening. Perhaps they were autistic... or robots. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that they’d had one person more on their team, so if you divide the end scores by the number of players, we beat them hands down! We sang all the way home. ELO mostly. My whooping cough still gives me a bit of gip, but it's so lovely to be able to sing again!

Back at the ranch, our mad rat, Pol has just bitten Michelle in an incident which has got to rank as one of the more embarrassing pet experiences of my life. We had a mad dog when I was a child who used to bite joggers. She was a bit embarrassing – especially when she started to bite children’s faces as well.

350 years ago, Pepys returned home from work to find his wife in an upstairs chamber alone with his friend John Hunt. He was initially troubled, but his mind was somewhat eased by the fact that it was washing day, very cold and that the upstairs chamber was only place where Elizabeth could entertain in front of an open fire. Pepys then went to the christening of his cousin Judith’s child. Rather confusingly, Pepys had been chosen as a godfather along with his cousin Samuel Pepys of Ireland. In those days, a godfather was often allowed to chose the name of the child, and Pepys picked the name... Samuel. Three Samuel Pepyses in one room!

Them and us

2011-11-19T02:12:00.000Z

I've just been to BAFTA on Piccadilly to see a reading of the first episode of Carol's new TV drama series. The purpose of the reading was to bring the collective attention of a large number of industry types both to Carol's wonderful writing and the fact that there are way too few British dramas being authored by black writers.

The head of drama commissioning for the BBC was part of the panel and I very much liked him. I thought he coped admirably with the slight "them and us" situation that developed in the room. He gave Carol some very useful constructive criticism, but unfortunately, the first person from the audience to put their hand up, came across as rather aggressively defensive. Worse than that, she gave the impression she was an over-zealous friend of Carol’s, who was talking slightly out of turn. The subtext of what she said seemed to be something along the lines of, "don't you white bullying people criticise my black friend." Perhaps she didn't realise that the entertainment industry thrives on constructive criticism, which is usually considerably harsher than what we'd heard! She didn't exactly win any supporters by admitting she'd been late for the reading and missed the first half of it, particularly as much of the criticism was about the first part of the screenplay. Off the soap box, lady! That's not how to win the war! Sometimes it’s important to acknowledge that everyone’s on the same side and that not all white people are racist.

Slightly uncomfortable moments aside, the intended point of the evening came across loud and clear. We need to invest in television which allows black people to be seen as more than stereotypes, and in order to do this, we need to invest in black writers. I was very proud of Carol. She handled herself brilliantly and her work was terrific.

Over the course of the next month, my diary is going to go bananas and I’ll need to start managing my time with a form of military precision which sort of started today. In amongst sending out music for the concert to all the players, I found the time to start practising my own parts and also to make two lasagnes for Sunday's rehearsal. I kept splitting the roux, however, which I don't understand. I wondered if the flour I used was a bit old. It's rare for me to muck up a white sauce.

When I returned home this evening I found a set of brownies on the kitchen table which Fiona had made and left for me tied up with a little red bow. They were high quality brownies and I ate four. Who cares? I've been running every day this week, I deserve a treat.

And what of Pepys? Well, 350 years ago, he went to St Paul’s to watch the choristers doing their thing. He was sad to see how few people had bothered to turn up to watch them - just a cluster of street boys and vagrants. He then borrowed 100l off a colleague and had dinner with a young parson who got drunk. Pepys thought the show very unpleasant.

Positivity

2011-11-17T20:30:00.000Z

I spent the morning in the cafe formatting scores. I've pages and pages of music now to print out for the players. Heaven knows how much it’s all going to cost in ink and paper! Whilst I was there, I talked to Nathan on Skype. The internet in the little guesthouse he's staying in is unreliable and seems to be sending him into something of a paddy. It's not a great deal of fun to look forward to talking to someone so much but to have them sound so horribly anxious. It's strange how we've all become so unbelievably reliant on the internet and I'm sure if he were there with someone else he wouldn't feel so cut off from the rest of the world. (He said that travelling isn't as much fun when there's no one there to share it with and I know what he means.) I'm equally sure that when he's not grappling with technology, he's having a lovely time. He was due to go to the top of Table Mountain today and I'm excited to hear how that went.

I went to visit the church where we'll be performing in ten days time, and it's a very special place. St Mary At Hill is a Wren church, situated just off Eastcheap, which is a stone's throw from where Pepys lived in Seething Lane. It had all of its pews removed following a devastating fire in the 1980s, so has a rather barn-like "puritan" vibe. Its walls are merely whitewashed and there’s a distinct lack of clutter in the shape of religious icons, probably because the space is also used as for karate once a week! It’s only drawback are the enormous curtains hanging behind the alter, which are a touch on the Laura-Ashley-circa-1986 side. They’re the sort of curtains which could pull you in and haunt you forever, like the Yellow Wallpaper... except they’re green.

What struck me most of all about the space was its positive atmosphere. I often walk into churches expecting the hackles to go up on the back of my neck, but it feels incredibly vibrant and quite electrifying; a very unexpected church atmosphere.

I came home and went for a run on Hampstead Heath as the sun melted into a deep blue sky. I felt very privileged to be there. Everything at the moment feels a little magical. I often feel optimistic in autumn, but there’s something else going on that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like things have come into focus. I’m intensely aware of the past, but simultaneously hopeful for the future. Perhaps it’s because I’m about to start proper work again. Perhaps I’m excited about the concert. The heath smelt incredible; a mix of wood smoke, and the dark green odour of rotting leaves and wet undergrowth.

Sunday 17^th November, 1661, and Pepys went to church - twice - but slept through the second sitting. The sermon focussed on the praise of religious music, and the preacher’s objection to men wearing hats in church. I’ve never understood why it seems perfectly acceptable for women to wear hats whilst worshipping. I can only assume it’s religious people, once again, looking on women as second –class citizens. It doesn’t matter what they do, as long as they look pretty and keep quiet. Ghastly.

I think Pepys was mortified to have slept his way through the service, but he didn’t remain embarrassed for long and was soon back at the house, eating, drinking heavily and being merry. Puritan who?

Marching penguins

2011-11-16T22:06:00.000Z

The doctor finally phoned me today to tell me that I’d officially had whooping cough. He said there wasn’t much else he could do, but hoped that the information would at least put my mind at rest. I suggested that the other doctors in the surgery – primarily the one who’d told me that my inability to breathe after coughing attacks was psychosomatic – would be informed that they’d missed a corker of a diagnosis. “It’s a very rare condition” said the doctor. “Which they instantly spotted with my brother- in-law.” I said, “I just think, if it’s out there, it might be worth doctors considering it as an option when patients come into the surgery with the same symptoms in the future. After all, how many times can you tell a patient to come back in 2 weeks, before it becomes clear that something very bad is wrong?” At that instant I was reminded of my visit to the same surgery just after Christmas this year to say that I was worried about my voice because it felt gravelly. “I assume you're worrying that you have something like cancer?" Said the doctor, "you don’t look like someone with cancer.” As it happened, I had a polyp – which needed to be tested for cancer. It frightens me what GPs miss...

Anyway, the doctor I spoke to said he’d pass on my comments, and sure enough, within about 20 minutes, the doctor who'd misdiagnosed me called me up. She might as well not have bothered. Her voice bristled with passive aggression. “Thank you for letting me know about your diagnosis,” she said, through clenched teeth, trying to find a smile in her voice, “it’s so kind of you to keep me up to date.” No word of apology, of course. She waffled on for a while about how rare the disease is. “But it’s out there, isn’t it?” I said. “It looks like my partner, my brother-in-law, and possibly my father have all had the same thing. It might just be worth adding the illness to the list of things you look for when someone comes in with a bad cough.” Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get her off the line, and I think the feeling was fairly mutual.

Fiona and I went to the colourless business park at the bottom of Colney Hatch Lane this afternoon. It was a fairly revolting experience. Fiona said it reminded her of countless out-of-town malls in Texas, and we laughed at how little we could think of to buy there. I went essentially to buy a new bulb for the rear light of our car and a very nice gentleman even fitted it for me for a ludicrously low fee of £3. The bulbs themselves were only £2. I thought the whole thing was going to set me back at least £30!

We took the opportunity to look around Currys and various electrical appliances stores, which made me feel weirdly claustrophobic. I loathe looking at rows and rows of things made in China. I hate that our entire world is cluttered up with cheap items of tat made in a country with such a grotesque human rights record. I bought an iron to replace the one that exploded a few weeks ago and was horrified at the level of customer service. I waited about five minutes to be served, and then, just as I reached the front of the queue, another member of staff interrupted, and without apologising, asked the bloke serving me if he could help her with another transaction. He duly obliged, I twiddled my thumbs for another two minutes, and then, just as the man started serving me again, he was interrupted once more by the same (plainly incompetent) member of staff. Still no apology. He eventually returned and started some spiel about a special offer. I rudely snapped at him, telling him I felt like walking out without paying. My comments were neither witty nor charming, and Fiona immediately told me she was horrified at my rudeness, which rightly made me feel ashamed. I’m just on a bit of a soap box at the moment. I think, with so many people out of work at the moment, those of us with jobs, should be polite, hardworking and above all, effective. Readers will be unsurprised to know that all of this happened in Comet, which is currently losing most of its branches. Good riddence to them, I say...

The highlight of my day was undoubtedly a Skype call from Nathan in South Africa. I was even able to see his face on my camera phone, and he showed me the room he’s staying in, with its little twin beds and red cushions with pretty African ladies drawn all over them. He went out onto the balcony and a glorious orange sun immediately lit his face. It is, of course, the height of summer over there. I wonder what he’ll think of the stars. Everyone says that the southern hemisphere stars are the most extraordinary things.

The 16^th November, 1661, yielded a three sentence entry from Mr Pepys. He worked at the office in the morning, had lunch at home, and then went to the Temple to do some business. Nothing like as interesting as the penguins I’m watching on telly!!

Beaten and whipped

2011-11-15T23:01:00.000Z

Nathan left London this evening for a week's work in the sun of South Africa. The poor lamb is flying with Emirates, so has to go via Dubai, which will add eight hours to his journey time. A visit to the Middle East is fine, I assume, if you can have a bit of time to explore the place, but if you’re just sitting in a departure lounge at shit o'clock in the morning feeling exhausted, the idea becomes considerably less appealing.

I dropped him off at Heathrow. I say dropped him off; I mean that I battled through broken London's appalling traffic chaos for 3 hours and nearly got us killed on the M25. To add insult to injury, we were even stopped by police, because one of our car’s back lights wasn’t working. It was a horrifying journey which has left me feeling both shaken and stirred. Our goodbyes to one another were fairly fraught as a result, and the whole experience has left a rather bad taste in my mouth.

I came home, feeling dejected and missing Nathan, but fortunately Fiona was on hand with baked potatoes, and we had a good natter.

My blood test results came back today. I was passing the surgery, so popped my head in on the off chance. Quite how long they'd have left it before telling me I’d tested positive for Pertussis (Whooping cough) I don't know, and the receptionist couldn't make any sense of the report that had been sent, so merely printed it out and handed it over. Frankly, I could have been anyone! She didn’t ask for any identification. Still, I’m very pleased to officially know what's been so dreadfully wrong with me, but slightly angry at the same time that it took the doctors so long to spot it. It’s doesn't bode well for future diagnoses!

350 years ago, Pepys and Elizabeth called in on Lady Sandwich to show her the very handsome handkerchief that had been made out of the lace she insisted Pepys bought for his wife. In the afternoon they went to the theatre to see the second act of Davenant’s, The Siege of Rhodes. The journey home was something of an adventure, which I’ll leave Pepys himself to describe:

"The coach driving down the hill through Thames Street, which I think never any coach did before from that place to the bridge- foot, but going up Fish Street Hill, his horses were so tired, that they could not be got to go up the hill, though all the street boys and men did beat and whip them. At last I was fain to send my boy for a link, and so light out of the coach till we got to another at the corner of Fenchurch Street Fenchurch Street, and so home, and to bed."

The Magnificent Seven

2011-11-14T20:02:00.001Z

Today is one of those days that I wish I could have spent indoors. London has been engulfed by a gloomy, dank mizzle which seems intent on permeating every last fibre of my body. It doesn't help that I'm not feeling too good. General aches and pains, no doubt caused by the weather, but also slightly tender skin, coupled with the odd shooting pain coursing along the line of a nerve. I'm definitely doing too much.

I visited Abney Park in Stoke Newington this morning with my friend Penny. We're looking into the idea of premiering the requiem in a cemetery, and this is probably the most atmospheric graveyard in London.

It's one of The Magnificent Seven; a suite of mega-cemeteries built in early Victorian times as a response to the dangerous over-crowding in City churchyards. The most famous of The Magnificent Seven is probably Highgate. Others include Brompton and Kensal Green. They were built on the outskirts of the then city and are all filled with extraordinary tombs, catacombs, icons and monuments. The Victorians were nothing if not totally over-the-top when it came to responding to death.

Anyway, these days Abney is classed as a "closed" cemetery, which means no one can buy a plot there, even though burials still happen from time to time with those who purchased family plots some years ago. It's actually classed as a nature reserve, and is the home of many unusual species of birds, bats and fluffier creatures.

The people who run the place are refreshingly laid-back, and keen to get involved in our project. I think it would be the perfect back-drop for a Requiem, particularly as it looks like it might be possible to perform the piece at dusk by lantern light. Almost too exciting for words, I feel!

(There's a girl on the tube opposite with a bruise and bump on her head which is the size of an egg. She doesn't seem to be too bothered it, but it looks like an alien is about to crawl out of it...)

I went from Stoke Newington to Catford via the new, bright orange East London Line... Or is it the North London line? It's the new line which links Highbury in the North to New Cross and Croydon in the South, and its trains are remarkably wide, like barns on wheels... And totally empty!

I was rehearsing at Julie's house; an impromptu alto sectional, but as I staggered my way through the bleak south east London streets, I wondered why anyone would actually choose to live there. I called in at the post office and was confused to find that there were no envelopes for sale. There were no postcards either, or shelves collapsing under the weight of piles of stationery, like in our little post office up here in Highgate. The Catford post office is merely an enormous empty room, with a series of rather frightened-looking individuals skulking behind bullet-proof glass counters. All the envelopes and things were hidden behind the glass with the staff. I assume the sad truth is that anything displayed in front of the glass would be in danger of being nicked in an area like Catford.

350 years ago, Pepys ate his lunch in The Sun on Fish Street. He was thrilled with the food, commenting on "a pie of such pleasant variety of good things, as in all my life I never tasted." He loved his food. And his superlatives. And his strange uses of negatives to imply positives.

The Green Chamber

2011-11-13T22:49:00.000Z

Philip’s party last night was great fun. It was held at his friend, Sarah Loftus', who lives in a stunning house overlooking an enormous secret private garden. Hidden London is an endlessly fascinating place.

The theme of the party was old people, and everyone went to town on the costumes. It never ceases to amaze me how much money people seem to spend on fancy dress. Some people were even wearing fake prosthetics! Others remained in character for the entire evening, which felt incredibly tragic. I tried to ignore them. The weirdest creature was a 6’5” man, thinner than a pencil, dressed from top to toe in beige-coloured latex. He kept appearing in my peripheral vision like a sort of shiny cipher.

I was surprised by how many people I knew. Many had been at the midnight parade we organised after Philip was attacked in Soho. I was also pleased to see a whole set of my friends there who I hadn’t seen for a bit, including Matt, whose presence was particularly strange, because I’d dreamt about him the previous night.

Today featured an epic 6-hour choir rehearsal at our house. We got up early to make the place look nice and tidy, and to prepare food for 12 hungry singers. Rehearsals went well, but we only have two more sessions, and some of the choir have yet to join us. Fingers crossed they’ll have done their homework and will slot right in, so we don’t have to waste any more time note-bashing and can focus on finessing the sound we make, which is always the exciting bit.

350 years ago, Pepys and a crew of his colleagues went to wait on the Duke of York. They hung about in the duke’s bedroom whilst he put on a riding suit in preparation for a journey to sea. I think it’s really weird to want to sit and watch whilst someone puts clothes on. I’m surprised the Duke didn’t tell them all to sling their hooks, especially when they handed him a letter requesting more funds for the Navy. He said he’d look at it when he returned from his journey.

Pepys went to the theatre in the afternoon and then spent the evening worrying about how much he was spending on life’s great fripperies – like fancy clothes for his wife.

Maybe as a way of saving fuel bills, he decided to move his bed into “the little green chamber, where the maids lie.” It’s not clear why he decided to bunk in with the servants, wife and all... The servants weren’t too happy about the business either. Poor Nell, the maid with no known surname, was told if she didn’t put up and shut up, she’d have to sleep in a chair.

Pong!

2011-11-12T19:53:00.001Z

I looked at myself in the mirror yesterday and decided it was time to put the whooping cough behind me and get fit again. I don’t like being a big blob and am craving some facial definition, so I went running this morning. I ran to Finsbury Park and back along the Parkland Walk. I have to say, it didn’t feel very good – and I was particularly horrified to be overtaken by a fat girl... twice. I was also unfortunate enough to have run past a group of men from the council as they emptied dustbins designed for dog poo. I've seldom smelt a more disgusting pong and because I was taking great big unhealthy gulps of air as I ran, I got an absolute face full! Imagine doing that job for a living, and smelling that rancid stench all day long? I can’t imagine anything worse.

Unfortunately, I’ve had to work all day, formatting scores and things for the concert on the 27^th. Nathan called me in the afternoon, and urged me to take an hour off before I went out this evening, more than anything else to put a bit of down time between a day of silence and an evening where I’ll be surrounded by loud people with rather large personalities. I’m going to Philip Sallon’s 60^th birthday party. The theme is old aged pensioners, so I’m going as an undertaker, because I go to all fancy dress parties dressed in the same clothes. It will be lovely to see Philip, and celebrate such an important event, but I’m slightly worried I’m going to end up feeling a little bit like a plonker. I’m going on my own, which means I'll need to make small talk. I find meeting people for the first time cripplingly embarrassing, particularly if they’re constantly looking over their shoulders for more interesting people in the room. Still, I suppose if I get there and can’t shake off the agoraphobic tendencies, I can always come home and have a hot bath! Prematurely elderly? Me? That said, I do seem to have allowed my potatoes to boil dry for the past two nights running, so perhaps I’m actually going senile.

350 years ago, Pepys went to watch Ben Johnson’s Bartholomew Fair acted by puppets. He liked the play. He’d seen it many times before, but he didn’t like the puppets. I know how he felt. I’ve hated puppets ever since I was asked to improvise with a dirty sock with little eyes attached to it when I auditioned for a drama school in the mid 90s. A bohemian woman called Penny appeared in the room carrying a bucket full of puppets which she handed out to us all. Everyone else got something which resembled a proper puppet, but I was given the sock. I’m not an actor, I’m not an improviser and I’m certainly not a puppeteer, so the experience was one of abject humiliation. For some reason I pretended to be a giraffe and walked around trying to nibble the rest of the puppets from above like the reincarnation of emu. At one stage I nipped one of the other puppets so hard that one of its strings broke and its arm fell off and the girl operating it called me a bastard. I'm still not sure why someone applying for a director’s course in a drama school was expected to do that kind of rubbish, but there we go.

Pepys had raspberry wine and sausages for tea, which made him feel very merry, apparently.

11.11.11.11.11

2011-11-11T22:44:00.001Z

At 11am on 11.11.2011, Nathan and I switched the television on, and watched images of people in train stations, schools and various cenotaphs marking a two minutes' silence. The children in the school were delightful. One of them was playing "rock, paper, scissors" with herself. You can hardly blame her. When you're five, two seconds is a long time to stay sitting still! Every year, I vow to be standing somewhere more interesting when the clock strikes 11, but every year I forget. One year I was still asleep! I was particularly annoyed at myself on this occasion, however, because I like the notion of a palindromic date. I looked out of the window to see if anyone on the Archway Road had stopped what they were doing for a moment of private thought, and immediately called Nathan over in a rush of excitement; "the cars!" I shouted "they've all stopped in the street!" Nathan looked at me and rolled his eyes; "that's because the traffic light is on red!" #shameful.

The rest of the day was spent working – firstly in the cafe, and latterly at home on the kitchen table. We lost a tenor from the choir last night. I’d rehearsed him on his own, right at the start of the process, but then not heard anything from him. I kept texting and sending emails, but there was an eerie silence. Last night I decided he must have gone AWOL and sent a text saying; “I really shouldn’t have to chase you like this. Please can you let me know what’s going on?” Of course, I then received a stroppy email from him saying; “I don’t like your tone, and because of that, I’m going to pull out of your project," which was a disappointing response. Quite why he wasn’t brave enough to simply say he didn't want to be involved any more is anyone's guess. It's plain his radio silence was a product of his trying to think up an excuse, and I was annoyed to have provided him with one! There are far too few people in this world who are prepared to accept their own failings. Simply saying "no" or acknowledging that something isn't working is much fairer on everyone in the long term. Being left in the lurch with a quarter of the rehearsal time already gone is a very different experience from being left in the lurch two weeks before full-scale rehearsals have commenced when there's plenty of time to find a replacement. Still, we seem to have found a new tenor, so I guess all's well that ends well and I certainly don't want anyone to go through the hell of learning music that they just don't have the time to learn.

So, as of about 6pm this evening, I have a full complement of players and singers for the gig on the 27^th. Fingers crossed that this glorious situation will continue. I'm counting down the days...

I rehearsed Carmen, the delicious top sop today, who was totally on the ball and seemed to know the music backwards... Well obviously not backwards. I once told a community choir they needed to know the work we were singing backwards, and someone actually asked if I meant they had to be able to sing it starting at the end...

November 11^th, 1661, and Pepys called in on Lady Sandwich, to find his wife looking at different types of lace. Pepys had promised to buy her a length, and the two women were deciding which sort was the prettiest. The two women opted for something which cost a whopping 6l. (£600 in today's money!) Pepys pretended not to be shocked – but he was horrified.

Captain Ferrers, the rogue, took Pepys to his very first “gaming house” in the afternoon, which I assume was an early form of casino. It was in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Pepys wrote that it was strange to see "the folly of men to lay and lose so much money, and very glad I was to see the manner of a gamester’s life, which I see is very miserable, and poor, and unmanly."

Ferrers, ever the man about town, then took Pepys to a dance school in Fleet Street, where they saw "a company of pretty girls dance." Pepys added that he didn't "like to have young girls exposed to so much vanity."

Go East!

2011-11-10T22:50:00.000Z

Whichever route you pick, the journey down to Lewes is a horrible one, which is never less than three hours long, despite being less than 100 miles away from Highgate as the crow flies. You have three options. Either you go the most direct route, straight through the middle of central London where you risk getting caught in every traffic jam the world chooses to throw at you. Or you go West, past the infamous Hangar Lane gyratory and onto the hell of the M25 near Heathrow. Or you go East where you're likely to get stranded in the Blackwall tunnel approach. You’re basicially screwed whichever route you take, but my preferred option is always to go East. I don't really know why. Unbelievably, I was through the Blackwall Tunnel this morning like a dose of salts with a big smile plastered across my face... But then I hit the M25, where I ended up in stationary traffic for about half an hour. I took a fancy detour on a cross country route which snaked its way through Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells, but with every town and village I drove through, the traffic seemed to get worse. For the final 5-mile stretch, I got caught behind a learner driver who was terrified to go faster than 30 miles per hour...

Anyway, I was in Lewes for three rehearsals; two with our pianist, Rachel, and one with our soloist, Hilary. Rachel teaches in a college in Lewes, so we had to split the session in half to work around her lessons. We were at university together and I’d forgotten what an astonishing pianist she is. She was pretty much sight-reading, but has an extraordinary musicality.

Hilary, similarly, is an exquisite singer, and I urged her today not to allow motherhood to take her away from performing forever. It was wonderful to see her and her brilliantly chubby baby, Jago. I’ve missed her over the last couple of months, and it was fabulous to get the opportunity to catch up. We had lunch in a cafe, and then took a walk through the sometimes-misty, sometimes-sunny autumnal streets of Lewes.

Sometime in the middle of all of this, I caught up with Mez for a quick mineral water in a pub by the station. Mez brought her little puppy, Berry, who is terribly cute. He or she (I think it’s a she) looks like a tiny little black and white mop, and did nothing but lick my fingers, and sit in a little heap on Mez’ lap like a glorified merkin!

Sunday 10^th November, 1661, and Pepys heard Mr Mills preaching at St Olave’s Church before zipping down to the Wardrobe for lunch, where Lady Sandwich continued with her mission to get him to spend more money on his wife. Pepys was very troubled to discover that a fair number of people he associated with were dropping dead of dropsy, an old school name for excess amounts of water, usually in the legs.

Pepys went to the pub in the evening and ordered a couple of bottles of strong wine from the Canary Islands, which made him feel extremely ill (possibly read drunk), so much that evenings prayers in front of all his household staff, was a fairly excruciating experience!

It's like magic

2011-11-09T22:36:00.000Z

It's been another day of tiring rehearsals at Julie and Sam's house in Catford. The drive down here took me through Hackney and the Blackwall Tunnel and seemed to last forever. My back was aching by the time I pulled up outside their house.

We rehearsed with an orange and chocolate cake sitting on the table, which was obviously a very useful incentive, because everyone sang very beautifully. We were working largely on solo material, and I have to say that there are some extraordinary voices singing my music. I feel blessed. It's times like this I have to smile to myself at the thought that someone in the Lincolnshire choir actually wrote in a court document that I'd only wanted to work with them to have my ego massaged by the sound of a brilliant choir singing my music. Sadly, I never got to discover whether there was any truth in her claim, but I finally know how it feels to have my ego massaged by brilliant singers!

We've also just had a very lovely pasta dish for tea whilst watching reality TV, so all in all I'm feeling pretty good.

Pepys spent the afternoon and much of the evening with Lady Sandwich. They talked about many things, but Lady Sandwich put much effort into urging Pepys to lavish his wife with more gifts. Pepys took her point and resolved to treat Elizabeth to a bit of lace the next time he went shopping. Bless him! (I think...)

Nellie takes her bow

2011-11-08T21:04:00.000Z

I’ve spent the day very slowly working my way through an enormously long list of things to do. None of what I’m doing is particularly interesting, but it all needs to be done. I’ve created a mini list of things I need to do before I can settle down for the night, so this blog is going to be a short one...

I see that the pranny, Frankie Cocozza has been thrown off the X-Factor, for apparently “breaking the rules of the show.” I’m sure tomorrow’s red tops will be filled with sordid stories, but I’m just glad I don’t have to watch the berk strutting about any more. The very fact that I’m mentioning this extraordinarily dull occurance reminds me of quite how little I have to say today. I only hope that the show's producers will replace him with lovely little Jonnie, who was voted off on Saturday, much to my great chagrin, though God knows, I hardly bothered to vote.

The Roy Harper gig has received some lovely reviews in the press. A few of them said what wonderful musicians the band all were, but I can’t seem to find one of those for this blog, so you’ll have to make do with what the EveningStandard said.

Friday 8^th November, 1661 found Pepys hanging out with Sir Edward Hyde, the Lord Chancellor. By all accounts the great man resembled a fish (my words, not Pepys’) but Pepys was just thrilled to be spoken to kindly by the great statesman and grandfather of two future monarchs.

Pepys spent the rest of the day dining, drinking copiously and searching for a clerk who would draw up yet another set of papers pertaining to Uncle Robert’s will. Dull dull dull.

Prannie

Ooh, I had a lovely piece of cod for tea...

I see the autumn rain

2011-11-07T19:53:00.003Z

Ah! Columbia Road on a misty, murky Autumnal evening. There's something highly atmospheric about the East End of London on evenings like this. I wasn't at all surprised to find a film crew shooting a period drama when I emerged from the end of Philippa's street earlier. I've filmed on Columbia Road. It feels timeless.

I've had a lovely day. It was a deliberate attempt at something resembling a weekend, because I worked so hard over the last couple of days.

The day started with a rehearsal in Crouch End for my concert on the 27th. It didn't feel like work. We were with the wonderful actress, Sara Kestelman. She's joining Nathan on stage to sing a song I wrote called The Morning Always Comes. The piece is really about moving on in life, but has very sad connotations for us all, being one of the songs chosen for the memorial concert of our good friend, Kevin. Sara and Nathan sang it on that occasion as well, and as they remembered their way through the song, I very much felt the ghost of Kev was with us. He always used to do impressions of Sara's unfeasibly low voice singing the song, and I heard him again this morning.

The rest of the day was spent with Philippa, Deia, Gob and Kate. God-daughter, Deia, was in a singular mood, and she tied me to door handles on two occasions before pointing at me and mockingly saying "silly Uncle Benjy!" She's also started doing impressions of a local man who can only say "uh-uh."

It was Kate's birthday last week, and Philippa had made an enormous three-tiered cake out of beetroot. I was slightly confused as to why it wasn't bright red, but it tasted very good.

350 years ago, Pepys was visited by a musician called Roger Hill, who'd been engaged to give him lessons on the theorbo. Sadly, Pepys wasn't at all impressed by either his singing or his playing, so found an excuse to send him on his way.

He received a letter from his patron, Lord Sandwich, who was still in Lisbon making arrangements for the future queen of England's journey to London. He wrote about the Portuguese court, and Pepys was fascinated to read of a bull fight, or Juego de Toro, which Sandwich had been invited to attend.

In her veil of tears she sees no rainbow...

2011-11-06T17:02:00.000Z

We're in Tooting Bec. God knows what this place is other than a nasty hole filled to the brim with all sorts of undesirables and inadequates!

We've been doing another alto sectional for my concert on the 27th November. We were rehearsing two great singers who aren't music readers, so they sailed through the music I wrote for the Lincolnshire choir, which is now called Four Colours, and then started to slow down when it came to the behemoth which is known only as Busker III. It's a sort of Swingle-Singers-meets-Bach number, which was written and recorded as part of thr Busker Symphony. Heaven knows what possessed me to write something quite so complicated, but it's one of those pieces which will be an absolute showstopper if we can nail it.

I am still on a high from last night, although I woke up this morning in floods of tears! It's a rare phenomenon, but from time to time, I dream of something so sad and empty that I wake up with tears steaming down my face. Usually I've been crying in the dream. This morning was no different. I don't actually know why I felt so sad in the dream, but my friend Lisa was cradling me as I wept; ironic, really, after the dreadful year she's been having. I woke up at 8.40am, wondering if anything was wrong with the world, but ten hours later, I'm consoling myself with the hope that I would have heard if there was a problem with one of my loved ones.

Pepys started drinking wine at breakfast time 350 years ago, and was drunk as a skunk by mid day. He was invited out for lunch by his friend Luellin, and they ate more marrowbones and neat tongues and other substances, no doubt, too minging to mention.

My orders are to sit here and watch...

2011-11-05T22:50:00.001Z

Well, it's not often you get to conduct a sell-out gig at the Royal Festival Hall, share a stage with Jimmy Page and Joanna Newson, and become the living ghost of the late great David Bedford. I have done all three tonight and I am buzzing!

One of the highlights of my life will undoubtedly be conducting Me and My Woman this evening. They'd sold seats in the "choir" area, which is behind the stage itself, and because I was facing the musicians upstage, I had my own private audience of revellers who were conducting the music with me!

Everything went incredibly smoothly, but for a terrible moment in the song Commune, where Roy's fingers started playing very bizarre notes. At the end of the song, he waved to me, and said "Can we do the last verse again?" "Of course," I said. "Where shall we go from?" Asked Roy. "The Black Cap?" I suggested, laughing, because we'd discussed in rehearsals that it was not just a beautiful bird, but also an infamous gay pub in Camden. So we did the final verse again, and everything was perfect.

Brava Fiona for doing such extraordinary arrangements, for choosing such inspiring players and for being 37 years old today! They're lighting fireworks across London in your honour... At least I THINK that's why they're lighting fireworks...

Pepys spent much of the day drinking in pubs 350 years ago. They were already celebrating November 5th by 1661. At one stage, he reports that he was "seeing the boys in the street flying their crackers." Good old Pepys!

Everybody smiles

2011-11-04T22:43:00.000Z

I am utterly exhausted! My feet have literally not touched the ground since I woke up at 9am. That's a lie. Of course they've touched the ground. They've done nothing but pound the gound. What I mean to say is that I haven't yet sat down... Apart from in front of a piano, which therefore means I have sat down today. It's just my brain hasn't stopped. Well, a brain never stops, until you die in any case, but you get the general impression of a man who is so tired he's become slightly manic. I’ve been formatting scores, sending letters, taking phone calls, ignoring phonecalls. My rehearsals started at 1pm, and went through til 10. Individuals first, and then the first rehearsal with all of the choir – well, half of them, because some were ill, others were away on holiday. I haven’t had lunch, or an evening meal. I’ve had 50 cups of tea, 3 slices of toast and 4 biscuits. I am hoarse. I’m buzzing and probably won’t sleep tonight.
I guess the rehearsal today made it all seem very real. There were eight of us – two on each part – and at times I had a glorious sense of what this group of people could become. We’ll need a few gigs to get ourselves sorted and for the sound to blend, but the singers are so utterly versatile. I can ask the women to belt, and they open up their lungs like proper gospel singers, and then I can ask for the sound to be go much more church-like and mellow, and they all oblige. Sure, it’s rough around the edges, and in a 3 hour rehearsal, we only made our way through about half of the material, but I am excited. There’s a seed of something very special in the offing.

I can’t write too much else. I’ll fall over.

350 years ago, and Pepys ate a chine of beef and a dish of marrowbones. What was he? A dog?

Standing in the rain

2011-11-03T22:16:00.000Z

I spent the morning formatting music for my concert on the 27th, and then dashed off to the Royal Festival Hall for two rehearsal sessions with Roy Harper and the guys. I suppose what I’m appreciating most about this particular job is that I can focus on conducting Roy’s music whilst making sure that all the players are sounding as good as they can. I spend so much of the rest of my time carrying enormous weights on my shoulders. I’ll enter a space as composer, a director, a conductor, a producer, a peace-keeper, a note-basher and tea-maker, and it can be an excessively draining experience! There’s often a sense that if I leave the room, the cogs will immediately stop turning, and everyone will enter a state of anarchy until I return!
I’m not saying that my role in this particular gig is unimportant – far from it - but I rather like the fact that the success of the end product doesn’t largely hinge on me. There are many more important people, doing many more important things; and more importantly, we all have a good sense of how our skills fit into the over-all puzzle. I guess this is how most people feel when they walk into work. I often have to take a deep breath before entering a rehearsal room!

That said, today's rehearsals were tiring, but they were also great fun. The atmosphere is upbeat. Occasionally a childish remark, or a double entendre will send everyone into fits of giggles for a few minutes, before we knuckle down to work again. We share food. We share jokes. I encourage Roy to share his extraordinary anecdotes. No one feels rushed. No one feels pressured. This is exactly as everything should be and a great deal of thanks have to go to Fiona for setting things up with such a sense of OCD!

Funny story. The 'cellist in our ensemble is a relatively new mum, and just before she started to play, she felt something in her bra. She rooted around for a bit, and was utterly horrified to discover that the discomfort was being caused by a piece of ham! Her son's lunch, apparently!

I didn’t realise how exhausted I was until I walked from the South Bank to Goodge Street. It struck me that I’d been in a room with no natural light for the best part of 7 hours, so it felt important to walk for a while, whilst filling my lungs with gritty smog and the smell of rain. It had obviously properly pissed it down whilst we were rehearsing. I walked up through Soho to avoid the busy streets, and then into Fitzrovia. Does anyone still call the area around Charlotte Street Fitzrovia? Every time I’m in that area, I remember that all the new Romantics; Boy George, Philip Sallon et al, lived in a row of squats close to Goodge Street in the early 1980s. The houses in that part of town are now worth eye-watering sums of money, and yet, back then, you could live in them for nothing, sign on, do a few jobs on the side, walk everywhere, and live like bohemian kings. Sometimes I think it’s no wonder that such a huge amount of creativity emerged in that era. It was somehow still possible to “have a bash” at creativity without the realities of the outside world crushing your spirit.

I look back to those days with a slight feeling of envy, but then realise that ¾ of them either died of HIV related illnesses or drugs overdoses, so feel rather grateful to have been born a decade too late!

I returned home to be told by Nathan that I have panda eyes. Poor me. Pee.

350 years ago, Pepys took “physic,” which meant he was feeling poorly and had decided to stay at home all day. It was a Sunday, so he was basically merely skiving church. He spent the afternoon reading books, and, oddly, composing music, writing that he "did try to make a song in the praise of a liberal genius (as I take my own to be) to all studies and pleasures." I thought the default in those days was to write music in praise of God, rather than liberal genius. Still, it's always good to have a nice high opinion of yourself...

I'm so tired I wanna go home

2011-11-02T23:02:00.000Z

I’m utterly exhausted. I have a cold and my day seems to have lasted forever. It didn’t help that I couldn’t sleep a wink last night. I was awake until at least 4am with hundreds of little thoughts darting around my head like a game of space invaders. I got out of bed. Put the telly on. Got back into bed. Got out of bed again. Bashed my knee against a piano stool. Trod on something hard and plastic. I ended up in the kitchen going through all the drawers to find some kind of sleeping tablet. I don’t like pills and potions, but I like insomnia even less.

My morning started in the cafe. I sat with a pot of tea, a pile of tissues, and my scores for the Roy Harper gig, which I studied like an A-level student. As I left the cafe, the owner called me over and wrote “timbre” on a piece of paper. He said he’d been arguing about the word's pronunciation and meaning all morning and thought I was the man to provide the answers. He was right, and I bored him silly with my response.

The rehearsal with Roy happened in the Blue Room at the Royal Festival Hall. It sounds rather fancy, but it's really just an airless room with no windows and a table with a coffee pot on it. The RFH (as I like to call it) is a venue that most classical musicians have played in. I've never performed there, which is hardly surprising as I'm not a performer. I did have a dressing room there once when I was helping ballet dancers to act (an impossible task), but I couldn’t find the stage door for toffee. I kept rushing up to people who looked like staff members, and asking where it was, but they all said they didn’t think there was one. It was only when one person said; “oh you mean the artistes entrance” that I understood the error of my ways. A bit of a fancy-schmanzy name for a stage door, if you ask me...

We had a very good session. Fiona has booked some remarkable players. I was hugely impressed by the standard of their musicianship, particularly as they’re having to play in some properly bizarre keys with more flats and sharps than I think it's healthy for a string player to deal with. Roy was incredible. I think we all felt rather privileged to be in his company.

I returned home to find 4 basses and a tenor sitting in my bedroom ready for a choir sectional/ note-bashing session. We certainly have a large amount of music to learn – and some of it is not at all easy... But the rehearsal went well, despite the fact that I could barely talk by the end of it. There’s a great amount of good will within the choir, and people seem particularly excited to be singing the requiem. It seems to bring out the best in them, which is a particularly lovely feeling for a composer.

So that’s about all from me. If I don’t stop working now, I’ll end up a quivering wreck. My glands feel like apples on my neck!

Pepys’ boy servant, the wonderfully named Wayneman, got himself into a rather peculiar situation on this date 350 years ago. It would seem that he’d found some gunpowder, stuck it in his pocket, forgotten about it, lit a match, and set off a mini explosion! Pepys went to see what had caused the loudish bang, and found Wayneman in a cloud of smoke, with burns on his legs and hands from reaching down to his trouser pocket to put the fire out. Pepys quizzed Wayneman about the origins of the gunpowder and was unsatisfied with the response he received. He therefore beat the lad “extremely”, which “troubled him” even though it was "necessary." So the third degree burns weren’t punishment enough?

Sun is shining in the sky

2011-11-01T22:30:00.000Z

The sun shone brilliantly across London today. I found myself, at about 2pm, in Earl’s Court, walking across a canal bridge. Roy Harper was playing on my headphones. The sun was warming my face. The white art deco buildings were glowing yellow. I made a note to myself to remember how lovely that moment felt.
I’ve done nothing today but listen to Roy Harper songs. Rehearsals begin tomorrow and I think it’s my duty both to him, and my dear friend Fiona (who did the arrangements for the gig) to know exactly what I’m doing and at any given moment. I’m also aware what big shoes I’m having to step into. The last person who sat behind Roy, and subtly waved his arms about, was the great David Bedford, who sadly died a few months ago. He did the orchestrations on more seminal albums than I’ve probably ever listened to! I think it’s going to be a very emotional concert, not just for Roy, but for all of his followers.

Speaking of Roy Harper songs, I'd love to bring your collective attention to this Peter Gabriel/ Kate Bush duet, which I didn't know existed until very recently. There's something about the wall of sound vocals in the second verse that makes me feel so excited I want to scream!

I went to the brand new offices at Decca today to talk about my Requiem. I very much liked the guy I met. He spoke candidly, which I appreciated. I can sense a bit of a chicken-and-egg scenario brewing, however, as it’s pretty clear that the requiem works much better if listened to with an awareness of the story behind it. Afterall, what's the use of a wonderful quote from a gravestone if you don't know it's from a gravestone. And that requires help from TV people, which ought to be my zone of expertise, but there’s so little money in telly right now, that I almost don't want to ask! Afterall, every time another TV exec says no, a little piece of hope in my soul splinters off and stabs whichever organ it is that sits beneath the soul!

I guess there was that slight sinking feeling as I left the offices. At the back of any creative person’s mind is the glimmer of hope that someone will scream; “Get the contract department up here. I wanna sign this genius before he walks out the building!” No such exclamations happened today, but I did go away with a genuine sense that the guy I met enjoyed my music and was captivated by the concept of the work. What else could he have said after listening to just three of the movements played on nasty computerised sounds? He urged me to develop the piece, so I'm sensing the need for a pared-down premier of the work in the new year. As ever, with these grand plans, there are many mountains to climb before Xanadu appears on the horizon!

I went back to Highgate via central London and met Nathan for a late lunch in a pizzeria. On top of my whooping cough, I now seem to have a cold. It’s a fairly grotesque irony to be tripping off my tits on anti-biotics whilst merrily developing a second illness. I now seem to have a bacterial infection AND a virus. Oh Jubuilate! I think 2011 has to be the year of great sickness. Everyone I know has been ill in some way at east five times!

Right. Back to the scores. Or maybe Glee. I’m tired and hungry. What do they say? Feed a cold, starve a fever? I was so delirious this afternoon as we walked to lunch that this particular quote dripped out of my mouth as “feed a cold, starve a pizza.”

Is it me, or does this blog have no flow to it?

The pumpkin that Nathan carved two days ago has entirely caved in and now looks like a Venus Fly Trap.

350 years ago, Pepys met Sir William Penn’s eldest son, who was also called William. He'd just finished his studies at Oxford and was invited to spend the evening with the two Sir Williams and Pepys at Pepys’ house. By all accounts they had a lot of fun. William Penn, the younger would soon leave London, and keep heading West until he reached America. More specifically, Pennsylvania... which was named after him!

The pumpkins in their prime!

Oh dear...

Casting shadows on the walls

2011-10-31T19:07:00.000Z

Last night we had an adventure on our way home from Brother Edward's house. It was fast approaching midnight and we were very keen to mark the arrival of hallowe'en by hollowing out a pumpkin. It's an age-old family tradition. I've carved pumpkins on October 31st every year of my life for as long as I can remember. As children, we used to go to a magical yard, where hundreds of different sized pumpkins were stacked up. The large ones cost ten pence and the small ones were 5p. I think we were allowed to pick one of each sort, and it was the highlight of the year. I longed for hallowe'en more than I longed for Christmas. I've always been a proper little pagan!

Anyway, at 11.30pm on a Sunday night, searching for pumpkins is like looking for the Holy Grail. We drove through Holloway, Muswell Hill and Crouch End, searching for little shops with racks of vegetables outside. A surprising number of these sorts of shops exist in North London, but most of them are Greek or Turkish-run, and pumpkins must be fairly culturally insignificant to these Mediterranean types! They don't know what they're missing...

We almost gave up, but decided, just before heading home, to make a detour along the Stroud Green road, where, to our great excitement we saw a great big row of glorious, bright orange creatures, waiting patiently for us under a halogen street light. The feeling of excitement as we rushed over to them and selected two for carving was incredibly reminiscent of the feelings I had as a child in that yard in Bedfordshire. The very best things come to those who wait, and we carved the pumpkins in front of Glee, whilst Castor and Pollux tried to run away with the little stringy, gloopy, mushy, cruddy inside bits which we were decanting into a washing up bowl. We put little candles inside our masterpieces and they danced all night!

This morning I went to the hospital for my whooping cough blood test. The male nurse took a look at my form, read the words "suspected pertussis" and went a little pale! He vanished for a while, saying he needed to have a little chat to one of his colleagues. I half expected him to return wearing a mask like those little camp Chinese boys in the nail bars. I have seldom felt so much like a leper!

The rest of the day has been spent preparing music for my concert and studying the music I'll be MD-ing on Saturday's Roy Harper gig. Rehearsals begin the day after tomorrow and I'm excited. It's such remarkable music. I feel incredibly privileged to be helping...

I'm currently in Soho waiting to hear Nathan performing a song from the musical Taboo in a fundraising gala. I expect to feel extraordinarily proud, although I've just had a text from him saying the rehearsals are over-running and that he's planning to "wing it." Jeopardy in a blog. Perfect!

October 31st, 1661, was a terribly boring day for Pepys. HE might not have been bored, but I'm afraid his account of things is utterly tedious. In short, the diary entry is all about his uncle's will. Someone came from the country to talk to him about the sale of a house that came as part of the estate. I'm falling asleep writing about it... Gonna go hear some West End Wendies!

The anguish of humiliation

2011-10-30T22:47:00.000Z

We're sitting in brother Edward and Sascha's sitting room watching the results shows of various talent contests whilst eating delicious wraps.

We've had a very relaxing day, although the anti-biotics I've been prescribed for my suspected whooping cough are leaving the most revolting metallic taste in my mouth, which has been getting on my wick all day.

There seems to be a bit of a ruckus brewing with the so-called psychic Sally Morgan, who's been invited by various sceptics to take a test on Hallowe'en to prove decisively whether or not she can talk to the dead. Derren Brown has got involved, and there's been a lot of mud-slinging on twitter but I find myself feeling slightly uncomfortable.

Here's my issue. However much of a money-grabbing charlatan this so-called psychic is, what she's doing is bringing hope and closure to people who are grieving. If people want to believe she's for real, and take solace from what she's doing, then I'm afraid I don't have a problem with her doing it. I certainly don't think she needs to be exposed in some sort of clinical trial.

More than this, I believe what she's doing is no different from what priests, vicars and preachers across the world are doing on a daily basis, and no one challenges them. Has Rowan Williams ever been invited to take part in a scientific experiment aimed at definitively proving the existence of God!?

And don't tell me Psychic Sally is different because she makes money out of vulnerable people. There are plenty of born again nutters in the states who'd give her a pretty good run for her money in that respect!

October 30th, 1661, and Pepys spent the morning playing his newly altered lute, which pleased him greatly.

He spent the afternoon in Deptford on a ship called The Norwich, meticulously examining every single nook and cranny. Pepys was nothing if not thorough.

He returned home to the news that his great friend and mentor Sir Robert Slingsby was to be buried without funeral. His corpse was apparently beginning to stink, but Pepys was furious not to be given an opportunity to pay his final respects.

A dreadful mighty killer

2011-10-29T21:56:00.000+01:00

Hmm. It's the nearest Saturday to Hallowe'en and I seem to be dressed as Dracula, or Beethoven, or someone in a frock coat. I couldn't find anything in the house to give the effect of dark tubercular smudges around my eyes, I so set fire to a piece of paper and smeared the ash all over my face. I look like a pudgy, middle-aged chimney sweep. That's a thought. When does a person officially reach his middle age?

I'm off to a party, by the way, I'm not just dressed like this for a laugh..,

We had a second choir rehearsal today. This time it was the turn of the sopranos to cram themselves into my bedroom. Before anyone accuses me of impropriety, the bedroom is where the piano is kept in our house, ever since my next-door neighbours started banging on the wall every time I so much as opened the piano lid!

The rehearsal was exhausting, but it went very well. Everyone got the gist of the songs relatively quickly and we were able to do some detailed work.

After the rehearsal, I went with Nathan into town, and we met Ellie for whatever the afternoon equivalent of brunch is. Lupper? Tunch? Ellie forgot to eat several times, which was amusing.

Back via the tube, which broke down at Goodge Street. I worry about the Olympics in this city. How is the infrastructure ever going to deal with the massive influx of people?

I'm sad to read of the death of Jimmy Saville. What a bloomin' icon, eh? How many of us wrote to him as children asking him to fix something for us? My letters always started "Dear Jim'll", 'cus I thought that was his name. I thought the letters that they read out which said "Dear Jim" we're rather disrespectful. And for those reading this blog from further afield, Jimmy Saville presented a children's request show in the 1970s called "Jim'll fix it." He was a bit creepy, but we loved him! He also ran the London Marathon 'til he was 118 years old. Strange that he died in his 80s, therefore!

How weird does the first sentence of Pepys' diary 350 years ago sound?

"This day I put on my half cloth black stockings and my new coat of the fashion, which pleases me well, and with my beaver I was ready to go to my Lord Mayor’s feast, as we are all invited."

Double entendre aside, it appears Pepys was all dressed up with nowhere to go, as the two Sir Williams decided the event would be too crowded to stomach! Pepys was not impressed, but as fireworks whistle and whizz past my window, I find myself feeling it was rather an appropriate night for a damp squib!

Giving up the fight

2011-10-29T01:09:00.000+01:00

How easy it is to forget to blog before midnight these days!

I probably forgot to blog because I don’t really have anything to write. The day, as ever, was spent preparing music for the concert on the 27th, and printing out parts for the singers who requested them. Postage is ridiculously expensive. It costs about a fiver these days to send a set of scores to someone...

I went into town to meet Nathan for lunch and we ate at a greasy spoon called Diana’s. I was served a plate of road kill masquerading as a vegetarian lasagne, but ate it with great alacrity. The journey home ought to have taken about 45 minutes, but it was actually never-ending.

We had an incident with a stroppy bus driver. It’s an all-too-familiar occurrence for Londoners. The bus drew to a halt just before Archway Station, and the driver announced that everyone would have to get off because he’d been re-called to the depot. As we milled around on the lower deck, he informed us that there was another bus just behind, which is something they always say. I HAD made a resolution not to pick any fights this autumn, but there was something in his manner which made me want to scream. He seemed to have no concept that his actions were seriously disadvantaging his erstwhile passengers and seemed to take great pride in chucking us all off his big shiny bus.

Fortunately a woman with a baby in a pram made a stand. “I’m not leaving this bus until the next one pulls up” she said, “I don’t want to stand in the cold with a newborn baby.” Obviously, a bit of cold never did a newborn any harm, but I felt proud of her for being belligerent. I joined the game; “I think you’ll find we’re well within our rights to stay on the bus until the next one arrives.” And at that point, the driver got very shirty. He shut all the doors, started the engines, and shouted that he was going to drive us all to the depot if we didn’t get out of the bus. He started to pull away from the curb, so I hit the emergency door open button, and he promptly slammed his foot on the brake.

I went up to his pathetic little bulletproof plastic screen, and asked if he could tell me for a fact when the next bus was coming. “It might be very soon” he said. “But it might not be?” I asked, sarcastically. He shrugged. “Well, can you radio someone and ask?” “I’m on my break” he replied, “I don’t need to talk to you anymore.” And with that, he put his feet on the steering wheel of the bus and took out a newspaper. “Look, just radio your boss!” I demanded, “I don’t want to have to complain about you.” He childishly pressed the appropriate button, and after a seemingly interminable wait, a voice came over the system. The voice asked how he could help, but the driver simply shrugged and indicated that he wasn’t speaking. He looked like a grotesque mime act. I opened the cab door and shouted through; “hello, I’m one of the passengers on the bus. We’ve just been asked to get off, but there’s a woman with a baby on board, so we’re all staying put until the next one comes along. Could you tell us when that will be?” There was a pause, and then a slightly surprised voice replied; “the next bus is just leaving Kentish Town. It will be with you in about ten minutes?” “Thank you” I said, “can you tell me why the bus driver is refusing to co-operate?” The disembodied voice then said something really weird; “some people in this world are nice, and others aren’t.”

There was nothing that I could say to that, so I went and relayed the news to the pregnant woman, who pretended to be listening to me, but made it very clear she was only interested in gurgling at the baby. Am I the only one who gets fed up with going on and on about the fact that they’re amazing multi-taskers? If you’ve ever tried to have an in depth conversation with a mother who’s anywhere near her child, you will know that women aren’t quite the multi-taskers they’d like to think they are!
# Controversial.

The next bus eventually drew up, and by the time we’d negotiated a set of road works, we were all about 45 minutes late.

I finally heard from the doctor’s today about the whooping cough tests. Apparently I need to have a blood test at the Whittington, but by the time he phoned to tell me the news, it was too late. I’ll have to wait until Monday morning. He did, however, write me out a prescription for anti-biotics, which they usually only give to people in the early stages of the illness, but he said it could do me no harm. I’ve taken one, and am already wondering if it’s done me some good. This obviously irritates me no end, because I feel it’s something that should have been spotted more than a month ago, before I potentially ruined my voice by hacking my vocal chords into my tonsils every five minutes!

350 years ago, Pepys went to St Paul’s churchyard to pick up his theorbo, a kind of lute, which he was having altered. It cost him 26 shillings and George Hunt, the instrument repairer, told him it was now as good a lute as any in England. Pepys lapped this particular comment up like a hungry kitten drinking milk.

He went to the theatre with the roguish Captain Ferrers to watch a production of Argalus and Parthenia, and noted that the lead was played by a woman; a woman with “the best legs that ever I saw.” He was well chuffed. Pervert.

In the evening, the men went to the pub, where Pepys brought a belt for “second mourning” which cost him 24shillings, and was, apparently, “very neat.”