I sometimes wonder if the cafe here in Highgate isn’t filled with lonely people. So many men and women come in here to read a book or do a crossword, or just sit silently in front of a little pastry. Some of them spend hours sitting in the same spot, occasionally looking up and trying to catch someone’s eye across the room. Sometimes I find it heartbreaking. I wonder what goes on in their lives and whether they’ve always been alone or whether coming here gives them a much needed opportunity to interact with another human being, even if it’s only a weak smile from the other side of the room. I’m sure many of them come to the cafe to escape the mayhem of their regular worlds. A trip here gives them a few moments respite; an hour of golden silence away from the barking dogs and the screaming grandchildren. I hope that’s how it is for everyone, but somehow I doubt it...
London’s a lonely place and Londoners aren’t very good at acknowledging this fact. Sometimes I feel someone trying to catch my eye but worry it’s going to lead to an unnecessary conversation and often I’m too busy for small talk. Worse still, if someone smiles in London, the assumption is hey’re mad... I’m sure we all miss out on so much...
On Saturday 7th April 1660, Pepys suffered his first dose of seasickness. The Nazeby was anchored in shallow water and there was something of a gale. Pepys described the sensation as feeling “dizzy and squeamish”. To make matters worse he'd eaten a shed-load of oysters. To prevent himself from vomiting frogspawn he walked back and forth on the deck all afternoon before retiring to bed at 5pm with a caudle* which fortunately made him sleep soundly.
I was once on a cross channel ferry when the sea got choppy. I was thirteen, un-cool and on a school trip. I was feeling really smug. I was the only kid in my class who hadn’t vomited. Surely this was going to increase my popularity. They’d think I was tough and cool... but it’s not easy trying not to throw up when everyone around you is a grey-green colour and the boat is wobbling like a Weeble.
I went out on deck for some air and stood next to a strange lad from another school whilst the wind massaged my face. A few seconds later it started to rain. The droplets hit my face, and rolled soothingly down my cheeks. But the rain smelt a bit weird and tasted even weirder. The lad next to me suddenly apologised. I looked at him in horror to discover that he was projectile vomiting in the style of someone from the Witches of Eastwick. There’s a phrase my Mother taught me about not peeing into the wind and at that moment I realised it’s the same with vomit, except for some reason vomit's more likely to hit someone else. I was literally dripping in sick.
I rushed to the loo to wipe my face. Every sink was filled with chunder, the plugs were blocked and there was no water in the taps. Utterly disgusted, I turned to rush out again, but as I ran across the lino floor the boat tilted, and I skidded on a pile of vomit so slippery it could have been used chip fat. I landed with my arse in what can only be described as pumpkin soup. I then knelt in something which looked like syllabub and smelt like offal.
I remained the only person in my class not to vomit on that crossing but I became the only person who kept the class waiting whilst all the suitcases were unloaded from the boot of the school bus so that I could change my trousers.
*a medicinal drink in this instance, not a fancy walking stick
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
The Troublesome Balty
We’re stuck in a dreadful traffic jam in Hackney on our way to Julie’s house. Despite the traffic, I’m feeling celebratory. This is definitely the first day of spring. There’s warmth and optimism in the sun and most people seem to be wearing little light jackets rather than big dark coats buttoned up to their eyeballs. I’m also celebrating a rather important milestone. I’ve just finished the sixth movement of the Pepys Motet, which means I’ve now completed the first draft of the entire work. Tomorrow I’ll start at the beginning again and work my way through the piece with a fine-tooth comb; thinning out the orchestrations, and cutting at least five minutes. It’s officially the longest work I’ve ever written and it's certainly the most complicated...
We met up with Fiona last night and ate at Stingray in Tufnell Park. Lovely cheap food, particularly the potato skins, although it’s now officially over for me and the Spaghetti El Greco which seemed particularly insipid last night.
On our way home, we took a detour via Hampstead Heath and went for a wonderful walk in the cool night air. The sky was that familiar milky orange colour, although there seemed to be a convenient gap in the cloud just big enough for us to see the Big Dipper. We walked through the fair, which was being packed up on the Western fringes of the park. Piles of miserable cuddly toys were face down in the mud, waiting to be thrown mercilessly onto passing trucks and brightly coloured flashing bulbs seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. I was hoping to find a toffee apple, but I’m not sure those things exist anymore.
As we staggered along the dark network of pathways which criss-cross the heath, stealth joggers appeared and disappeared again, reminding Fiona and me of a day one October when we crossed the heath and every little dell in the ground was filled to the brim with mist which swirled around our feet like dry ice. Fiona was really freaked out that night. She kept seeing ghostly white figures drifting around in the corners of her eyes. The Heath is such a magical, haunting place.
Fiona left again today for the next leg of her Placebo World Tour. This time she’s off to South America to catch tantalising glimpses of unknown countries through the windows of various tour busses and aeroplanes. I shall miss her.
350 years ago, Pepys was joined on board the Nazeby by his brother-in-law, the troublesome Balty. Balty was something of a maverick and for much of Pepys’ life was a bit of a millstone around his neck, constantly pushing for outrageous favours, using his family connections almost as a threat. Today was no different. He’d decided he wanted join the Nazeby’s crew and Pepys was horrified.
Later in the day, there was still no news from Pepys’ assistant, Burr and the boat crept its way a little further down the Thames. Pepys and William Howe found a quiet corner and played their violins (as you do) the first time, apparently, since they’d come on board, for which I’m sure the crew were very grateful! The evening was spent upon the quarterdeck in fine moonshine with Mr Cuttance who taught Pepys many sea-faring terms; Pepys as ever has an almost unslakable desire to learn!
We met up with Fiona last night and ate at Stingray in Tufnell Park. Lovely cheap food, particularly the potato skins, although it’s now officially over for me and the Spaghetti El Greco which seemed particularly insipid last night.
On our way home, we took a detour via Hampstead Heath and went for a wonderful walk in the cool night air. The sky was that familiar milky orange colour, although there seemed to be a convenient gap in the cloud just big enough for us to see the Big Dipper. We walked through the fair, which was being packed up on the Western fringes of the park. Piles of miserable cuddly toys were face down in the mud, waiting to be thrown mercilessly onto passing trucks and brightly coloured flashing bulbs seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. I was hoping to find a toffee apple, but I’m not sure those things exist anymore.
As we staggered along the dark network of pathways which criss-cross the heath, stealth joggers appeared and disappeared again, reminding Fiona and me of a day one October when we crossed the heath and every little dell in the ground was filled to the brim with mist which swirled around our feet like dry ice. Fiona was really freaked out that night. She kept seeing ghostly white figures drifting around in the corners of her eyes. The Heath is such a magical, haunting place.
Fiona left again today for the next leg of her Placebo World Tour. This time she’s off to South America to catch tantalising glimpses of unknown countries through the windows of various tour busses and aeroplanes. I shall miss her.
350 years ago, Pepys was joined on board the Nazeby by his brother-in-law, the troublesome Balty. Balty was something of a maverick and for much of Pepys’ life was a bit of a millstone around his neck, constantly pushing for outrageous favours, using his family connections almost as a threat. Today was no different. He’d decided he wanted join the Nazeby’s crew and Pepys was horrified.
Later in the day, there was still no news from Pepys’ assistant, Burr and the boat crept its way a little further down the Thames. Pepys and William Howe found a quiet corner and played their violins (as you do) the first time, apparently, since they’d come on board, for which I’m sure the crew were very grateful! The evening was spent upon the quarterdeck in fine moonshine with Mr Cuttance who taught Pepys many sea-faring terms; Pepys as ever has an almost unslakable desire to learn!
Monday, 5 April 2010
A notted caudle
It’s Easter Monday and I’ve sat in front of my computer for so long now that my eyes have lost the ability to focus. We’re going to go out to dinner to celebrate the fact that I’ve sat in the same spot on the same sofa for 8 hours flat. Now I know how Pepys felt cooped up on board the Nazeby!
Today would appear to be the end of the tax year, which means until I can get my act together, I’m going to have an enormous pile of unsorted receipts tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me I ought to be more organised in the future. It’s the time of the year that all freelancers dread. The moment we’re forced to stop playing the “I’m a fluffy, lovely creative person, who shouldn’t be expected to understand evil money things” card. I appreciate that I have a very limited grasp of all things financial, but surely taxes should be greater for bankers, politicians and those who have borrowed large sums of money over the past year? After all, it was them that got us into this mess. Or perhaps, as my (banker) brother jokingly suggested, we should be taxing people on the “profit” they make on their houses, or better still only taxing the people who go on and on about the profit they’ve made on their houses, particularly at dinner parties...
Speaking of which, my interest in British politics is now officially over. I used to be hugely political. I was the partner of an MP. I spent all my weekends canvassing in North London, or trekking across the country to Labour party fundraising events in the rural Tory heartlands, where the ladies made the teas and vegetarianism caused apoplexy. They often carefully manufactured things so that I’d win the raffle, which was often embarrassing and always a poisoned chalice. On one occasion, I had to travel home carrying a wooden wheelbarrow tied up with an enormous big pink bow. They thought it was something the partner of the gay MP would appreciate. How wrong they were! Anyway, I’m bored to death with the lot of them. I can’t think how my life is going to get any better under a change of political regime. There’s no money for the Arts. There’ll be even less when we start the process of paying off all those debts. We no longer have politicians with consciences. We just have rows and rows of airbrushed Ken and Barbie dolls who do whatever they can to do to keep in power, which generally means doing nothing except looking pretty. Obviously I will vote. We must continue to vote, even if we go into the voting station intent on destroying our ballot papers.
Nathan has bought an i-phone, which troubles me. He’s currently pretending to drink a pint of Carlsberg whilst demonstrating the fart machine application. I think it must be possible to disappear into one’s I-phone; to become lost in that tiny virtual world to the extent that you cease to exist when it runs out of battery. One day we’ll be able to feed ourselves via the I-phone or shrink down to a size where we can run around fighting the virtual snakes, or hopping over the coloured cubes that we spend so many hours stacking pointlessly into neat little rows.
I'm very much enjoying Glee on the television at the moment. It takes me back to the days of the Kids From Fame. They days when I started to play the ‘cello because I wanted to run down a corridor with my case like Julie used to do in the credits. I’m loving the fact that Glee dares to be so politically incorrect. One of the characters genuinely seems to go by the name of “other Asian” and any show that allows a wheelchair-bound character to perform “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat” is very much on my wavelength. I was also thrilled to discover that the smug-addict baddie in the show is called Sue Sylvester, which happens to be the name of one of my parents' oldest friends. I relayed this information to my mother, who seemed very relieved; “Oh that explains it” she said; “I sent Sue some flowers the other day and the florist laughed hysterically when I said who they were going to”
350 years ago, Pepys' troublesome assistant, John Burr, vanished somewhere in coastal Essex without taking leave and wasn’t back on the boat by the time she was ready to set sail. That said, the boat was travelling so ridiculously slowly that he would no doubt be able to join the fleet the next time it dropped anchor. Frankly, they’d have got on better by walking along the cliff tops, pulling the ships with long ropes... or swimming to Holland might have got them there more quickly.
Later in the evening, Captain Clarke brought Pepys a “noted caudle” which has caused much debate amongst Pepys scholars. A caudle seems to be a sort of malty drink, which was often dished out to invalids and women after childbirth. But why would the caudle be noted? There’s a school of thought that suggests a caudle is a type of walking cane and that a noted caudle is actually a knotted cane. So Pepys was either feeling poorly, or he was being offered a lovely gift, which thoroughly established him as an important person on board the ship.
Today would appear to be the end of the tax year, which means until I can get my act together, I’m going to have an enormous pile of unsorted receipts tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me I ought to be more organised in the future. It’s the time of the year that all freelancers dread. The moment we’re forced to stop playing the “I’m a fluffy, lovely creative person, who shouldn’t be expected to understand evil money things” card. I appreciate that I have a very limited grasp of all things financial, but surely taxes should be greater for bankers, politicians and those who have borrowed large sums of money over the past year? After all, it was them that got us into this mess. Or perhaps, as my (banker) brother jokingly suggested, we should be taxing people on the “profit” they make on their houses, or better still only taxing the people who go on and on about the profit they’ve made on their houses, particularly at dinner parties...
Speaking of which, my interest in British politics is now officially over. I used to be hugely political. I was the partner of an MP. I spent all my weekends canvassing in North London, or trekking across the country to Labour party fundraising events in the rural Tory heartlands, where the ladies made the teas and vegetarianism caused apoplexy. They often carefully manufactured things so that I’d win the raffle, which was often embarrassing and always a poisoned chalice. On one occasion, I had to travel home carrying a wooden wheelbarrow tied up with an enormous big pink bow. They thought it was something the partner of the gay MP would appreciate. How wrong they were! Anyway, I’m bored to death with the lot of them. I can’t think how my life is going to get any better under a change of political regime. There’s no money for the Arts. There’ll be even less when we start the process of paying off all those debts. We no longer have politicians with consciences. We just have rows and rows of airbrushed Ken and Barbie dolls who do whatever they can to do to keep in power, which generally means doing nothing except looking pretty. Obviously I will vote. We must continue to vote, even if we go into the voting station intent on destroying our ballot papers.
Nathan has bought an i-phone, which troubles me. He’s currently pretending to drink a pint of Carlsberg whilst demonstrating the fart machine application. I think it must be possible to disappear into one’s I-phone; to become lost in that tiny virtual world to the extent that you cease to exist when it runs out of battery. One day we’ll be able to feed ourselves via the I-phone or shrink down to a size where we can run around fighting the virtual snakes, or hopping over the coloured cubes that we spend so many hours stacking pointlessly into neat little rows.
I'm very much enjoying Glee on the television at the moment. It takes me back to the days of the Kids From Fame. They days when I started to play the ‘cello because I wanted to run down a corridor with my case like Julie used to do in the credits. I’m loving the fact that Glee dares to be so politically incorrect. One of the characters genuinely seems to go by the name of “other Asian” and any show that allows a wheelchair-bound character to perform “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat” is very much on my wavelength. I was also thrilled to discover that the smug-addict baddie in the show is called Sue Sylvester, which happens to be the name of one of my parents' oldest friends. I relayed this information to my mother, who seemed very relieved; “Oh that explains it” she said; “I sent Sue some flowers the other day and the florist laughed hysterically when I said who they were going to”
350 years ago, Pepys' troublesome assistant, John Burr, vanished somewhere in coastal Essex without taking leave and wasn’t back on the boat by the time she was ready to set sail. That said, the boat was travelling so ridiculously slowly that he would no doubt be able to join the fleet the next time it dropped anchor. Frankly, they’d have got on better by walking along the cliff tops, pulling the ships with long ropes... or swimming to Holland might have got them there more quickly.
Later in the evening, Captain Clarke brought Pepys a “noted caudle” which has caused much debate amongst Pepys scholars. A caudle seems to be a sort of malty drink, which was often dished out to invalids and women after childbirth. But why would the caudle be noted? There’s a school of thought that suggests a caudle is a type of walking cane and that a noted caudle is actually a knotted cane. So Pepys was either feeling poorly, or he was being offered a lovely gift, which thoroughly established him as an important person on board the ship.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Those pesky Regicides
Easter Day, and we’re sitting in my brother’s new flat looking out across the Thames towards the O2. It’s an amazing place, with an astonishing view and they’ve made it look just wonderful. Unfortunately the Thames seems to be the colour of silage this afternoon which makes me wonder why people are quite so desperate to live on it. That said, it’s hugely relaxing to sit here in a gentle breeze, watching the river traffic (and sanitary towels) slowly drifting by. If everything you saw on a daily basis was simply drifting, why on earth would you need to rush around? Living on the A1 isn't quite this idyllic...
We’ve just been to the Mudchute City Farm where we spent a great deal of time with the pigs, who seemed well up for being scratched and patted. I’m a big fan of pigs. I always have been. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to eat such a plainly intelligent creature, although one of them did seem to be troughing on huge quantities of mud. It was wonderful to be out and about today. Spring seems to have arrived, the trees are budding and very slowly things are becoming that fresh lime green colour that will soon fill the world with optimism...
On Wednesday 4th April 1660, Pepys had lunch with Admiral William Penn (who was the father of the man who founded Pennsylvania) and Colonel Thomson (who had a wooden leg.) They brought important news from London. It was now not just a certainty that the King would return, but a “necessity” . Negotiations were taking place as they spoke and the declaration of Breda, where Charles accepted the invitation to return, had already been signed. Thomson and Penn spoke of the King as a sober man, one who would be happy to live quietly whilst, more importantly, Parliament pulled his strings. How wrong this prediction turned out to be! Charles the II lived his life anything but soberly. He had countless mistresses and his illegitimate children were bursting into the double figures. As an extra piece of information, I’ve just been informed by my historian father that Charles II was a phenomenally ugly baby with an enormous head and a top lip which looked like a rock garden! People used to faint in the street when they saw him. Perhaps the Regicides were on to something when they tried to stamp out that particular blood line!!
We’ve just been to the Mudchute City Farm where we spent a great deal of time with the pigs, who seemed well up for being scratched and patted. I’m a big fan of pigs. I always have been. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to eat such a plainly intelligent creature, although one of them did seem to be troughing on huge quantities of mud. It was wonderful to be out and about today. Spring seems to have arrived, the trees are budding and very slowly things are becoming that fresh lime green colour that will soon fill the world with optimism...
On Wednesday 4th April 1660, Pepys had lunch with Admiral William Penn (who was the father of the man who founded Pennsylvania) and Colonel Thomson (who had a wooden leg.) They brought important news from London. It was now not just a certainty that the King would return, but a “necessity” . Negotiations were taking place as they spoke and the declaration of Breda, where Charles accepted the invitation to return, had already been signed. Thomson and Penn spoke of the King as a sober man, one who would be happy to live quietly whilst, more importantly, Parliament pulled his strings. How wrong this prediction turned out to be! Charles the II lived his life anything but soberly. He had countless mistresses and his illegitimate children were bursting into the double figures. As an extra piece of information, I’ve just been informed by my historian father that Charles II was a phenomenally ugly baby with an enormous head and a top lip which looked like a rock garden! People used to faint in the street when they saw him. Perhaps the Regicides were on to something when they tried to stamp out that particular blood line!!
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Cadbury's Cream What?
Easter Saturday, and could I find a decent Cadbury’s Easter egg in the centre of town? Could I heck! You can get a fancy schmantsy one pretty much anywhere, but the next most well-stocked variety seem to be the hideous ones made by Nestle. Rolo. Smarties. You know, the disappointing ones that taste like gritty pastic. Since the death of Woolworths, where on earth are we all meant to go for a nice big Cadbury’s Cream Egg? Woolworths didn't get much right, but they had pick 'n mix, the Greatest Hits of Dolly Parton and a brilliant selection of cheap Easter Eggs.
I therefore spent the afternoon with Fiona in town trudging around in enormous, smelly crowds of people until our feet nearly fell off. In a rather tragic moment, probably because I was knackered and was trying to escape someone who smelled like biscuits and wee-wee, I brought almost everything I was looking for in Marks and Spencers. One pair of linen trousers, check. Some pyjama bottoms I’m going to wear outdoors in the summer, check. A little brown scarf to match my bruised soul, check. And 20 pairs of socks. This will be music to the ears of anyone who knows me. I’ve always put-up with, and in fact been hugely grateful to my brother’s socky hand-me-downs, but I no longer own a pair without a massive hole in either the heel or the toe. I also tend to only wear odd socks, often because they arrived from my brother as lone rangers but also because I tend to just grab the first two socks that come out of the drawer. Most of the ones I bought today are either brown or black, so maybe no one will notice from now on... unless I wear the orange and green ones I slipped into the basket at the last moment, except I didn't have a basket, so was holding everything in the style of someone in Crackerjack. Cabbage!
On the way home, we walked past PC World on Tottenham Court Road. Rather randomly it now carries a massive advert for the Apple Store all the way along one window. Christ! If PC World customers are even being diverted to the futuristic joys of the Mac, it might be time to acknowledge the death of the PC...
Pepys was sleeping like the dead when a messenger arrived at his cabin door at 3am and rather over-excitedly tried to wake him up. He rose to discover the messenger was simply there to deliver a package for Montagu, which Pepys decided could wait until morning and went back to bed, probably feeling incredibly grumpy. This was the second time mail had arrived on the boat in the middle of the night and Pepys had been woken up to receive it on both occasions. Perhaps the Royal Mail could learn a thing or two about the importance of going out of one’s way to deliver letters on time.
Later in the day, Pepys attempted to go to shore but after getting into some kind of rowboat, had to turn round for fear of being stranded in the Thames at low tide. Not a laughing matter in those days. Probably not much of a laughing matter today...
Later on, Mr Pearse the surgeon came on board to start his job as the official doctor on the Nazeby. Being an old friend of Pepys, they snuck off and shared a bottle of wine late into the night. Pepys went to bed with a heavy heart, having heard nothing from his wife since he left for sea; "indeed I do not remember that ever my heart was so apprehensive of her absence as at this very time."
Personally, I don’t like it when I can’t get in touch with Nathan for just a few hours. Heaven knows what it must feel like to be weeks without hearing from your loved one. I can’t imagine receiving a letter and not knowing what had happened since it was sent; hearing that someone was very sick for example, and not knowing if they’d died by the time you received it.
I therefore spent the afternoon with Fiona in town trudging around in enormous, smelly crowds of people until our feet nearly fell off. In a rather tragic moment, probably because I was knackered and was trying to escape someone who smelled like biscuits and wee-wee, I brought almost everything I was looking for in Marks and Spencers. One pair of linen trousers, check. Some pyjama bottoms I’m going to wear outdoors in the summer, check. A little brown scarf to match my bruised soul, check. And 20 pairs of socks. This will be music to the ears of anyone who knows me. I’ve always put-up with, and in fact been hugely grateful to my brother’s socky hand-me-downs, but I no longer own a pair without a massive hole in either the heel or the toe. I also tend to only wear odd socks, often because they arrived from my brother as lone rangers but also because I tend to just grab the first two socks that come out of the drawer. Most of the ones I bought today are either brown or black, so maybe no one will notice from now on... unless I wear the orange and green ones I slipped into the basket at the last moment, except I didn't have a basket, so was holding everything in the style of someone in Crackerjack. Cabbage!
On the way home, we walked past PC World on Tottenham Court Road. Rather randomly it now carries a massive advert for the Apple Store all the way along one window. Christ! If PC World customers are even being diverted to the futuristic joys of the Mac, it might be time to acknowledge the death of the PC...
Pepys was sleeping like the dead when a messenger arrived at his cabin door at 3am and rather over-excitedly tried to wake him up. He rose to discover the messenger was simply there to deliver a package for Montagu, which Pepys decided could wait until morning and went back to bed, probably feeling incredibly grumpy. This was the second time mail had arrived on the boat in the middle of the night and Pepys had been woken up to receive it on both occasions. Perhaps the Royal Mail could learn a thing or two about the importance of going out of one’s way to deliver letters on time.
Later in the day, Pepys attempted to go to shore but after getting into some kind of rowboat, had to turn round for fear of being stranded in the Thames at low tide. Not a laughing matter in those days. Probably not much of a laughing matter today...
Later on, Mr Pearse the surgeon came on board to start his job as the official doctor on the Nazeby. Being an old friend of Pepys, they snuck off and shared a bottle of wine late into the night. Pepys went to bed with a heavy heart, having heard nothing from his wife since he left for sea; "indeed I do not remember that ever my heart was so apprehensive of her absence as at this very time."
Personally, I don’t like it when I can’t get in touch with Nathan for just a few hours. Heaven knows what it must feel like to be weeks without hearing from your loved one. I can’t imagine receiving a letter and not knowing what had happened since it was sent; hearing that someone was very sick for example, and not knowing if they’d died by the time you received it.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Good evening from Osaka
We’re in a car heading to Thaxted. It’s Good Friday, the rain has cleared, a watery sun is casting long shadows down the Holloway Road and we’re going to pay a visit to my parents. We’re taking Fiona and an apple pie. Nathan has bronchitis, which means the poor guy can barely talk and certainly can’t do his show tonight.
Today hasn’t really felt like a bank holiday. I went to the gym and found it closed. Similarly the bakery in Highgate Village. Just as well, really, as loaves of bread there now cost £2.50. £2.50? In my day you could buy a loaf of bread, a cinema ticket and a small village and still have change for a fiver. I did a bit of work at Cafe Nero and then had lunch at Cafe Rouge. Yes, I seem to spend a lot of my time in cafes at the moment, trying to make single mugs of peppermint tea last for hours! Despite all the work I’ve lined up for the year ahead, I’ve still not earned a penny in 2010. The perilous existence of a freelance creative...
Last night I went to watch Matt in conversation with Scott Capuro at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, which is a pub for hairy men who wear leather and like to dance to Kylie Minogue. It was a funny sort of format; a sort of live chat show with no cameras. They sat on comfy chairs perched on that famous little cabaret stage, surrounded by the ghosts of all the greats who have performed there; Lily Savage, Bette Rince, Lola Lasagne, Wilma Fingadoo and that strange woman who sits in a giant bath singing show tunes. (I don’t mean Lady Gaga.) Matt was very candid and amusing and I was extremely proud of him.
On the way back, Philip Sallon (that wonderful doyenne of British fashion) and I walked from Buckingham Palace to Leicester Square, whilst talking about 16th and 17th Century monarchs. Philip knows an astonishing amount about history and about everything. I’m not sure why that should surprise me, but it does. I must remember to invite him to the next quiz.
And if you've never seen Philip Sallon... he looks like this:
Today was the day that Pepys, Motagu and various hangers-on boarded the Nazeby and bedded down for the next stage of their journey. Pepys was pleased with his new cabin. It was small, but it had two windows; one looking out to sea and one over-looking the deck. It also had “a good bed”, which must have been a great relief. Pepys was also thrilled to discover that his main rival, the Puritan, Mr. Creed, had been barred from joining the motley crew, despite having brought all his belongings onto the boat. Hugely embarrassing and to make matters worse, he was ejected by someone whom he considered to be an inferior. His grip on Montagu was definitely loosening and Pepys was moving in!
I leave you with the contents of a letter that Fiona has just pulled out of her violin case. She is currently touring the world with the band Placebo, playing violin and keyboards and has suddenly gained a set of rather special fans. One of them left her a note at a venue in Japan. Fiona's surname is Brice. This is what the letter says:
"Dear Brice. Good evening. Live of you was seen in Osaka. It was the highest. Moreover, it was possible to see terribly in the vicinity. It was instinctively surprised the visit to Japan by a full member surely. I was able to listen to your performance and was happy. Thank you for your wonderful live and the night!!"
Today hasn’t really felt like a bank holiday. I went to the gym and found it closed. Similarly the bakery in Highgate Village. Just as well, really, as loaves of bread there now cost £2.50. £2.50? In my day you could buy a loaf of bread, a cinema ticket and a small village and still have change for a fiver. I did a bit of work at Cafe Nero and then had lunch at Cafe Rouge. Yes, I seem to spend a lot of my time in cafes at the moment, trying to make single mugs of peppermint tea last for hours! Despite all the work I’ve lined up for the year ahead, I’ve still not earned a penny in 2010. The perilous existence of a freelance creative...
Last night I went to watch Matt in conversation with Scott Capuro at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, which is a pub for hairy men who wear leather and like to dance to Kylie Minogue. It was a funny sort of format; a sort of live chat show with no cameras. They sat on comfy chairs perched on that famous little cabaret stage, surrounded by the ghosts of all the greats who have performed there; Lily Savage, Bette Rince, Lola Lasagne, Wilma Fingadoo and that strange woman who sits in a giant bath singing show tunes. (I don’t mean Lady Gaga.) Matt was very candid and amusing and I was extremely proud of him.
On the way back, Philip Sallon (that wonderful doyenne of British fashion) and I walked from Buckingham Palace to Leicester Square, whilst talking about 16th and 17th Century monarchs. Philip knows an astonishing amount about history and about everything. I’m not sure why that should surprise me, but it does. I must remember to invite him to the next quiz.
And if you've never seen Philip Sallon... he looks like this:
Today was the day that Pepys, Motagu and various hangers-on boarded the Nazeby and bedded down for the next stage of their journey. Pepys was pleased with his new cabin. It was small, but it had two windows; one looking out to sea and one over-looking the deck. It also had “a good bed”, which must have been a great relief. Pepys was also thrilled to discover that his main rival, the Puritan, Mr. Creed, had been barred from joining the motley crew, despite having brought all his belongings onto the boat. Hugely embarrassing and to make matters worse, he was ejected by someone whom he considered to be an inferior. His grip on Montagu was definitely loosening and Pepys was moving in!
I leave you with the contents of a letter that Fiona has just pulled out of her violin case. She is currently touring the world with the band Placebo, playing violin and keyboards and has suddenly gained a set of rather special fans. One of them left her a note at a venue in Japan. Fiona's surname is Brice. This is what the letter says:
"Dear Brice. Good evening. Live of you was seen in Osaka. It was the highest. Moreover, it was possible to see terribly in the vicinity. It was instinctively surprised the visit to Japan by a full member surely. I was able to listen to your performance and was happy. Thank you for your wonderful live and the night!!"
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Tirade
Oh my god, the noise!
I have sat in Cafe Nero for 5 hours straight and with the exception of a short break when Fiona popped in for a coffee and a chat, I have been writing all that time. The great news is that I have now cracked the fifth movement of the motet. The dreadful news is that I seem to have spent the entire day surrounded by children from Highgate School. I don’t like privileged children at the best of times but the volume levels have been rising and rising for what seems like the last two hours... When one shouts, they all shout and before you know it, you want to throttle the living adenoids out of one of them; “oh my god, oh my god, totes mcgotes, oh my god, daddy, daddy, horse, daddy, oh my god, Easter, ya, ya, daddy, horse...” Pinch, punch the first of the month!
A creepy regionalist has launched a tirade against me on You Tube and all over the Internet. He seems to think that a symphony for Yorkshire shouldn’t be written by a card carrying Midlander. I sympathise with him. I didn’t think that someone from Surrey should be running the Northampton Derngate but I have to acknowledge that he’s doing a good job; probably a lot better than the one I would have done. He’s not from Northampton but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the Northamptonshire folk. I love Yorkshire. I spent three magical and incredibly formative years living there and fell in love with everything to do with the place. One of the regionalist’s arguments against the BBC project seems to be that we don’t need a new Yorkshire anthem. We have Scarborough Fair and Ilkley Moor Baht ‘At. Both, of course are untouchable, beautiful, stirring songs, but Ilkley Moor was written by a shoemaker from Canterbury and Scarborough Fair is a bastardised Scottish Folk tune. Oh the irony...
Sunday 1st April, 1660, and the boats continued to be anchored off Gravesend. Pepys made another 30 shillings for putting in a good word for someone, heard a pretty decent sermon on board ship, supped in the Captain’s cabin and then went to bed!
I have sat in Cafe Nero for 5 hours straight and with the exception of a short break when Fiona popped in for a coffee and a chat, I have been writing all that time. The great news is that I have now cracked the fifth movement of the motet. The dreadful news is that I seem to have spent the entire day surrounded by children from Highgate School. I don’t like privileged children at the best of times but the volume levels have been rising and rising for what seems like the last two hours... When one shouts, they all shout and before you know it, you want to throttle the living adenoids out of one of them; “oh my god, oh my god, totes mcgotes, oh my god, daddy, daddy, horse, daddy, oh my god, Easter, ya, ya, daddy, horse...” Pinch, punch the first of the month!
A creepy regionalist has launched a tirade against me on You Tube and all over the Internet. He seems to think that a symphony for Yorkshire shouldn’t be written by a card carrying Midlander. I sympathise with him. I didn’t think that someone from Surrey should be running the Northampton Derngate but I have to acknowledge that he’s doing a good job; probably a lot better than the one I would have done. He’s not from Northampton but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the Northamptonshire folk. I love Yorkshire. I spent three magical and incredibly formative years living there and fell in love with everything to do with the place. One of the regionalist’s arguments against the BBC project seems to be that we don’t need a new Yorkshire anthem. We have Scarborough Fair and Ilkley Moor Baht ‘At. Both, of course are untouchable, beautiful, stirring songs, but Ilkley Moor was written by a shoemaker from Canterbury and Scarborough Fair is a bastardised Scottish Folk tune. Oh the irony...
Sunday 1st April, 1660, and the boats continued to be anchored off Gravesend. Pepys made another 30 shillings for putting in a good word for someone, heard a pretty decent sermon on board ship, supped in the Captain’s cabin and then went to bed!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
