It's official! I'm all over the place! My music software continues not to work, and I can feel the clock ticking down on the Yorkshire commission. The bottom line is that a month ago, I invested a large amount of money in software that simply doesn’t work on my new laptop. The soundcard is not of a high enough calibre and when I play anything back, all I can hear is static. Worse still, no one seems to be able to help me. I feel sick and I feel angry and right now I’m having to force myself not to scream into a pillow. I’m wasting hours and hours that I just don’t have to spare. Today I’ve visited PC Worlds in Moorgate and Tottenham Court Road, and right now, Nathan is in a store in Stevenage! It’s been one long wild goose chase. If I wasn't so stressed, I'd be laughing.
Great Britain woke up to a hung Parliament this morning, which is interesting but not altogether surprising. That inane Scottish woman, Lorraine Kelly tried to tell me all about it on GMTV but I was forced to switch over because her chirpy “och, enough about you, let’s talk about me” was making me want to punch the television. I’ve tried incredibly hard to like that woman. She’s very pro-gay, and, according to my mate, (who admittedly could bull-shit for England) is often viewed staggering around Heaven holding a bottle of poppers whilst yelling about how much she loves queens.
But I digress...
Hornsey and Wood Green has remained Liberal Democrat, but elsewhere the support for the party seems to have flat-lined, largely due to our ridiculous electoral system which forces us all to vote tactically. My little outburst in the Polling Station was categorically trumped by, of all things, an armed siege later in the day. The story hasn’t yet made the headlines so I can’t think it was a particularly successful siege. Quite why they decided to raid a polling station in an Arts Centre in Highgate, I’ve no idea. Perhaps they were carrying comedy water pistols and were actually members of the Monster Raving Loony party. Perhaps it was some kind of protest against the lack of literature available regarding candidates in the council election. Or tragically, maybe some wise guy with a sawn-off shotgun figured that the vegetarian café in the complex would be doing a roaring trade on election day!
It still feels very odd and more than a little upsetting to see Midlands towns like Corby and Nuneaton turning blue. I appreciate that all the parties are the same nowadays, but even the word Tory makes my blood start to run cold. I am, however, extremely proud of the good citizens of Brighton Pavilion, who will shortly deliver the first ever Green MP to the house. Roll on electoral reform. We need more mavericks in Parliament!
It was a rather jolly day on board the Nazeby on May 7th 1660. The ship was full to the rafters with dignitaries, having evidently been selected as the boat that would eventually bring Charles II back to England. But there was much to do in the meantime. Flags bearing the King’s arms would need to be made and everything had to be spruced up and decorated with the monarch’s colours. Pepys was given the task of booking a barge of musicians and perhaps, as a thank you, was presented with 12 bottles of Margate ale, much of which he consumed during the day. Mr Shepley and William Howe joined him in his cabin at the end of the night and the three men drank and giggled like school boys until 1am.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Exposed to lunacy
At around lunchtime today I was experiencing something which I can only describe as a mini-mental breakdown. I have to acknowledge that I’m stressed beyond belief at the moment and need to start taking care of myself. The problem when you’re over-worked is that anything that pops up and throws a spanner in the works can run the risk of suddenly seeming catastrophic. This morning, for example I was faced with a double-whammy. There was a letter from my travel insurance company, demanding an almost impossible amount of official literature to prove that I was in Florida in February when I had my ears syringed for $300 dollars. They want receipts that I just don’t have; primarily because I’ve already sent them them. I have no way of proving this fact as they’re demanding originals and won’t except the copies that I made before sending them off. I had to speak to people in South Africa, none of whom cared one jot about my dilemma. They simply continued to spout company policy and I realised for the first time in my life that there was no point in fighting.
More upsettingly, today I was forced to start legal proceedings against the choir I was writing music for at the start of the year. I won’t go into details until everything's been sorted, but suffice to say, I've been dealing with a level of weirdness for the past six months, which has at times felt like a Jean-Paul Sartre play. Thankfully, the MU are now involved, but I had to spend about three hours dealing with the paperwork which allowed me finally to pass the burden onto them. At one point I thought I’d lost a set of crucial emails and wailed like a banshee for some minutes whilst Nathan cuddled me on the sofa. Strange to think that being exposed to lunacy for such long periods can sometimes make you doubt your own sanity.
In the middle of all this, I went to vote, and perhaps unsurprisingly had a bit of a tizzy in the voting station. When we arrived at Jackson’s Lane Community Centre we were ushered into a back room and immediately handed two ballot papers; one for our MP, and one to elect a set of local councillors. The latter took me by surprise. We’d not received a flier, or letter through the post from any of the 20-something prospective councillors on the list.
I went up to the lady behind the desk; “do you have any literature about any of these people?” I asked, “this is just a list of names. How can I be expected to vote for a name?” She looked at me like I’d just walked out of the special bus; “I think you'll find the political parties that these people represent are all listed alongside their names.” “That’s not enough” I said; “at a local level we HAVE to be able to vote for a set of values. Not a single one of these people has tried to get in touch with me. There must be someone in this building who can tell me all about what they stand for...”
I looked down to discover that she was already talking to the person in the queue behind me. She hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. It's funny how you can sometimes be made to feel so invisible.
I walked away, somewhat stunned and placed a cross in the box next to our MP, Lynne Featherstone’s name. She, at least, has regularly put notes through our letter boxes. I know what she looks like. I know what she stands for. I’m happy to give her my vote. I put the paper in the box and went back to the woman behind the counter clutching my other ballot paper. “That was a bit rude.” I said; “I was asking for your help just then.” “Oh, I’m sorry” she said, dismissively; “I thought we were done.” And then she smiled a patronising smile that made me see blood. I walked up to her and ripped my ballot paper into ten pieces. I then posted all the pieces into the ballot box. “There” I said, “I’ve spoilt my paper and you, Madam, are partially to blame” and with that I flounced out, operatically.
It felt very spur of the moment, and a bit of a silly gesture, but then I thought for a bit. Why should we feel obliged to vote for faceless names, simply because they belong to a political party? Why on earth would someone set up a polling station without any information on display about the people we’re expected to give our vote to? I could be voting for an anti-Semite or a homophobe or someone with values I abhor. More likely, I could be voting for a lazy git, or frankly, someone who still wears Laura Ashley. I have never spoilt a ballot paper before. I’ve always considered them to be somehow sacrosanct, but in that split moment, when the woman behind the counter wouldn’t even take my constitutional right seriously enough to engage me in conversation, I changed my views forever.
I now believe that spoilt papers are valid and should be counted. A high enough percentage of spoilt papers should make an election null and void and force the powers that be to select a whole new set of politicians for an area; perhaps ones who can be bothered to communicate with their potential voters. It's not much to ask.
The Nazeby was filled with the great and the good on this date 350 years ago; all part of that seemingly endless procession of gentlemen stopping off on their way to pay homage to the King in Breda; that over-fed modern-day baby Jesus perched in his golden manger.
More upsettingly, today I was forced to start legal proceedings against the choir I was writing music for at the start of the year. I won’t go into details until everything's been sorted, but suffice to say, I've been dealing with a level of weirdness for the past six months, which has at times felt like a Jean-Paul Sartre play. Thankfully, the MU are now involved, but I had to spend about three hours dealing with the paperwork which allowed me finally to pass the burden onto them. At one point I thought I’d lost a set of crucial emails and wailed like a banshee for some minutes whilst Nathan cuddled me on the sofa. Strange to think that being exposed to lunacy for such long periods can sometimes make you doubt your own sanity.
In the middle of all this, I went to vote, and perhaps unsurprisingly had a bit of a tizzy in the voting station. When we arrived at Jackson’s Lane Community Centre we were ushered into a back room and immediately handed two ballot papers; one for our MP, and one to elect a set of local councillors. The latter took me by surprise. We’d not received a flier, or letter through the post from any of the 20-something prospective councillors on the list.
I went up to the lady behind the desk; “do you have any literature about any of these people?” I asked, “this is just a list of names. How can I be expected to vote for a name?” She looked at me like I’d just walked out of the special bus; “I think you'll find the political parties that these people represent are all listed alongside their names.” “That’s not enough” I said; “at a local level we HAVE to be able to vote for a set of values. Not a single one of these people has tried to get in touch with me. There must be someone in this building who can tell me all about what they stand for...”
I looked down to discover that she was already talking to the person in the queue behind me. She hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. It's funny how you can sometimes be made to feel so invisible.
I walked away, somewhat stunned and placed a cross in the box next to our MP, Lynne Featherstone’s name. She, at least, has regularly put notes through our letter boxes. I know what she looks like. I know what she stands for. I’m happy to give her my vote. I put the paper in the box and went back to the woman behind the counter clutching my other ballot paper. “That was a bit rude.” I said; “I was asking for your help just then.” “Oh, I’m sorry” she said, dismissively; “I thought we were done.” And then she smiled a patronising smile that made me see blood. I walked up to her and ripped my ballot paper into ten pieces. I then posted all the pieces into the ballot box. “There” I said, “I’ve spoilt my paper and you, Madam, are partially to blame” and with that I flounced out, operatically.
It felt very spur of the moment, and a bit of a silly gesture, but then I thought for a bit. Why should we feel obliged to vote for faceless names, simply because they belong to a political party? Why on earth would someone set up a polling station without any information on display about the people we’re expected to give our vote to? I could be voting for an anti-Semite or a homophobe or someone with values I abhor. More likely, I could be voting for a lazy git, or frankly, someone who still wears Laura Ashley. I have never spoilt a ballot paper before. I’ve always considered them to be somehow sacrosanct, but in that split moment, when the woman behind the counter wouldn’t even take my constitutional right seriously enough to engage me in conversation, I changed my views forever.
I now believe that spoilt papers are valid and should be counted. A high enough percentage of spoilt papers should make an election null and void and force the powers that be to select a whole new set of politicians for an area; perhaps ones who can be bothered to communicate with their potential voters. It's not much to ask.
The Nazeby was filled with the great and the good on this date 350 years ago; all part of that seemingly endless procession of gentlemen stopping off on their way to pay homage to the King in Breda; that over-fed modern-day baby Jesus perched in his golden manger.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Yodelling in circles
Dull dull dull. More problems with my music writing software today meant more phone calls to robots in America. “Thank you for calling Finale, the Premier family of music notation software. How can I help you today? The sinister calm voice I’ve adopted is designed to make you want to kill me... or failing that, yourself. You will not know if you are talking to a person or a recording. Remember, we are a US-based company, so will not understand the meaning of the word minim or bar or stave or Jesus Christ when used as an expletive. Jesus Christ cannot help you today, but I can.”
On the bright-side, I wrote a lovely fanfare to start the fourth movement of the symphony. It's just a shame that when I came to play it back, it sounded like I’d written it for spoons, which is, perhaps the one instrument that I haven’t had to score for!
The cafe was a soothing environment today, and I over-heard lots of snippets of rather fascinating conversations. It seems that most people are talking about the election tomorrow and I have a horrible feeling we’re going to be engulfed by a sea of blue and will have to watch David Cameron’s smug, rosey-red face waving from the window of some important buiding. Worst still, I worry there’ll be enough of a majority for him to withdraw any interest in electoral reform, and the dull cycle of British politics will begin again.
What I can guarantee is that there won’t be crowds of people standing outside Number Ten waving flags and cheering, well apart from little clusters of the party faithful, that is. We all learnt our lesson in that respect back in 1997. We learnt not to hope, and that whatever happens and whoever drives triumphantly into Downing Street, nothing will change in any meaningful sense. Unless there’s a terrorist attack. Blimey, that rant’s got my eye twitching.
Saturday 5th May 1660, and Pepys spent the morning writing letters to London, and sending a parcel to Mr Downing, who still seemed to be his boss. It was Montagu’s suggestion and Montagu knew how to keep everyone sweet.
A morning’s hard work, obviously meant an afternoon of R and R and Pepys, true to form, played nine-pins obsessively, before retiring to his cabin to make sweet music long into the night.
The general feeling of celebration continued in the streets. Heaven knows what they were expecting from the King. Heaven knows what we’re expecting from Nick Clegg. People were laying down herbs on the roads of Deal to greet the dignitaries passing through on their way to see the King in Holland. Pepys claimed rather boldly; “never was there so general a content as there is now” and then reported that the nightly prayer from the ship’s chaplain called for the long life and happiness of the King, “that may last as long as the sun and moon endureth.” So, either the sun and moon would cease to endure, or the world would learn the hard way that King Charles II was nothing but skin and bones.
On the bright-side, I wrote a lovely fanfare to start the fourth movement of the symphony. It's just a shame that when I came to play it back, it sounded like I’d written it for spoons, which is, perhaps the one instrument that I haven’t had to score for!
The cafe was a soothing environment today, and I over-heard lots of snippets of rather fascinating conversations. It seems that most people are talking about the election tomorrow and I have a horrible feeling we’re going to be engulfed by a sea of blue and will have to watch David Cameron’s smug, rosey-red face waving from the window of some important buiding. Worst still, I worry there’ll be enough of a majority for him to withdraw any interest in electoral reform, and the dull cycle of British politics will begin again.
What I can guarantee is that there won’t be crowds of people standing outside Number Ten waving flags and cheering, well apart from little clusters of the party faithful, that is. We all learnt our lesson in that respect back in 1997. We learnt not to hope, and that whatever happens and whoever drives triumphantly into Downing Street, nothing will change in any meaningful sense. Unless there’s a terrorist attack. Blimey, that rant’s got my eye twitching.
Saturday 5th May 1660, and Pepys spent the morning writing letters to London, and sending a parcel to Mr Downing, who still seemed to be his boss. It was Montagu’s suggestion and Montagu knew how to keep everyone sweet.
A morning’s hard work, obviously meant an afternoon of R and R and Pepys, true to form, played nine-pins obsessively, before retiring to his cabin to make sweet music long into the night.
The general feeling of celebration continued in the streets. Heaven knows what they were expecting from the King. Heaven knows what we’re expecting from Nick Clegg. People were laying down herbs on the roads of Deal to greet the dignitaries passing through on their way to see the King in Holland. Pepys claimed rather boldly; “never was there so general a content as there is now” and then reported that the nightly prayer from the ship’s chaplain called for the long life and happiness of the King, “that may last as long as the sun and moon endureth.” So, either the sun and moon would cease to endure, or the world would learn the hard way that King Charles II was nothing but skin and bones.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Shitney Houston
It’s been a shockingly unproductive day. I’ve got the mother of all writer’s blocks which has surely been brought on by the enormity of what I’m trying to achieve with this Yorkshire Symphony, in such a short period of time. The line-up of musicians alone, means that I’m not just out of my comfort zone, but am writing for several instruments my computer software has never even heard of! And yet the piece needs to have form and structure. It needs to be catchy and it needs to be friendly to the ear. I’m climbing the walls! There’s been much gnashing of teeth, and digging of nails into hard objects today. I pity Nathan. I've stamped my little feet and punched the piano like a recalcitrant ten-year old. I suppose the answer is to just keep pushing on through, writing absolute rubbish, until the good stuff starts to appear again.
Looking on the bright side, at least I'm not Witney Houston! Brother Edward went to see her live at the O2 last week and summed up her performance in a single word; "disgusting". She was so bad, he tells me, that she couldn't bring herself to look at the audience, probably because she knew from bitter previous experience that most of them were going to leave before she'd finished. What a terrible shame. That woman had pipes of gold. How on earth did she lose them so spectacularly? Well apart from becoming addicted to crack, which I'm sure can't be particularly good for one's God-given talent! This isn't a come back, it's a throw back!
350 years ago, Pepys was having a far more productive day, writing and proof-reading countless official letters that would spread the news of yesterday’s events far and wide. More often than not he would add his initials to official papers hoping that they'd appear in print one day. A modern-day Pepys would no doubt waste many hours googling himself and be thrilled to discover 383,000 references to his name, which I'm sure he would have categorised painstakingly! On that day, however, and for nothing but his own amusement, he proudly copied out the cover note from one of his letters and slipped it into his journal. How astonished would he be to discover that 350 years later it was still being enjoyed?
“He that can fancy a fleet (like ours) in her pride, with pendants loose, guns roaring, caps flying, and the loud ‘Vive le Roys,’ echoed from one ship’s company to another, he, and he only, can apprehend the joy this inclosed vote was received with"
Pepys also quotes a letter from Montagu to the King. A miserable, boring document. One of his sentences is 107 words long and the whole thing is peppered with a level of sycophancy that ought to have had the man sent to the tower. He signs it; "your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient subject and servant." Ghastly.
After a game of nine-pins, Pepys received a letter informing him that his wife had not been well, which troubled him so much, he immediately sent a piece of gold to her, and some money for the family she was lodging with in Buckinghamshire. Perhaps he did this out of guilt. I’m quite sure he’d almost forgotten she existed. He'd not mentioned her for days!
Looking on the bright side, at least I'm not Witney Houston! Brother Edward went to see her live at the O2 last week and summed up her performance in a single word; "disgusting". She was so bad, he tells me, that she couldn't bring herself to look at the audience, probably because she knew from bitter previous experience that most of them were going to leave before she'd finished. What a terrible shame. That woman had pipes of gold. How on earth did she lose them so spectacularly? Well apart from becoming addicted to crack, which I'm sure can't be particularly good for one's God-given talent! This isn't a come back, it's a throw back!
350 years ago, Pepys was having a far more productive day, writing and proof-reading countless official letters that would spread the news of yesterday’s events far and wide. More often than not he would add his initials to official papers hoping that they'd appear in print one day. A modern-day Pepys would no doubt waste many hours googling himself and be thrilled to discover 383,000 references to his name, which I'm sure he would have categorised painstakingly! On that day, however, and for nothing but his own amusement, he proudly copied out the cover note from one of his letters and slipped it into his journal. How astonished would he be to discover that 350 years later it was still being enjoyed?
“He that can fancy a fleet (like ours) in her pride, with pendants loose, guns roaring, caps flying, and the loud ‘Vive le Roys,’ echoed from one ship’s company to another, he, and he only, can apprehend the joy this inclosed vote was received with"
Pepys also quotes a letter from Montagu to the King. A miserable, boring document. One of his sentences is 107 words long and the whole thing is peppered with a level of sycophancy that ought to have had the man sent to the tower. He signs it; "your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient subject and servant." Ghastly.
After a game of nine-pins, Pepys received a letter informing him that his wife had not been well, which troubled him so much, he immediately sent a piece of gold to her, and some money for the family she was lodging with in Buckinghamshire. Perhaps he did this out of guilt. I’m quite sure he’d almost forgotten she existed. He'd not mentioned her for days!
Monday, 3 May 2010
The declaration of Breda
There’s a beautiful light outside the window which is making the trees opposite look a colour which Wikipedia describes as “electric green”. It’s been a slightly odd bank holiday Monday. I decided to work, but ended up having a lie-in, and only managed to do a few hours in the afternoon. I definitely needed a lot of sleep, however. The sound of rain smashing against our bedroom window the night before led to a very disturbed night, peppered with surreal and highly vivid dreams. Besides, when everyone else is off work, it’s almost impossible to find the motivation to be motivated! Tomorrow, my work on the symphony begins in earnest.
Nathan spent the afternoon with Philippa’s Mum, Kate, doing some gardening at her house in Holloway. I pottered down to meet them afterwards and found them drinking champagne and eating coffee cake, which I thought incredibly civilised. We had a very interesting conversation about the future of the world. Kate feels that a seismic shift is occurring or about to occur and predicts big and difficult changes in financial, political and environmental arenas. She believes that we're moving towards a place where communmity and self-sufficiency are going to become a great deal more important and I hope in a way that she's right. I certainly believe that this recession is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Big changes are surely afoot; certainly within my industry. Countless producers, directors and practitioners simply can’t afford to do their thing anymore, primarily because they’ve greedily priced themselves out of the market and got used to doing things a certain way whilst living an opulent lifestyle. There has to be an upside to having been consistently too poor to get on the property ladder, and too gay to have children or one of those expensive wives that most cameramen get lumbered with! It means I can continue to be competitive and exist on next to nothing; which is a salary all creative people are going to have to get used to if they want to continue.
350 years ago, Montagu showed Pepys a copy of Charles II’s letter to Parliament; a document which would become known as the Declaration of Breda and would lay out the terms of the English Restoration and bring a definitive end to the era of the Commonwealth.
Parliament had voted to support the King, but the Navy needed to work out if it was going to do the same thing. Councils of war and various votes took place on the Nazeby before Pepys was asked to make a tour of all the other boats in the fleet to read the declaration and inform all the sailors that the Navy would henceforth be supporting the King. The news was greeted with great cheers whilst guns and canons were fired. Pepys writes that it was hugely exciting to feel the bullets hissing and whizzing just above his head. It’s a wonder no one was killed.
Nathan spent the afternoon with Philippa’s Mum, Kate, doing some gardening at her house in Holloway. I pottered down to meet them afterwards and found them drinking champagne and eating coffee cake, which I thought incredibly civilised. We had a very interesting conversation about the future of the world. Kate feels that a seismic shift is occurring or about to occur and predicts big and difficult changes in financial, political and environmental arenas. She believes that we're moving towards a place where communmity and self-sufficiency are going to become a great deal more important and I hope in a way that she's right. I certainly believe that this recession is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Big changes are surely afoot; certainly within my industry. Countless producers, directors and practitioners simply can’t afford to do their thing anymore, primarily because they’ve greedily priced themselves out of the market and got used to doing things a certain way whilst living an opulent lifestyle. There has to be an upside to having been consistently too poor to get on the property ladder, and too gay to have children or one of those expensive wives that most cameramen get lumbered with! It means I can continue to be competitive and exist on next to nothing; which is a salary all creative people are going to have to get used to if they want to continue.
350 years ago, Montagu showed Pepys a copy of Charles II’s letter to Parliament; a document which would become known as the Declaration of Breda and would lay out the terms of the English Restoration and bring a definitive end to the era of the Commonwealth.
Parliament had voted to support the King, but the Navy needed to work out if it was going to do the same thing. Councils of war and various votes took place on the Nazeby before Pepys was asked to make a tour of all the other boats in the fleet to read the declaration and inform all the sailors that the Navy would henceforth be supporting the King. The news was greeted with great cheers whilst guns and canons were fired. Pepys writes that it was hugely exciting to feel the bullets hissing and whizzing just above his head. It’s a wonder no one was killed.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Radishes for breakfast
We’ve spent much of the day dodging rain showers in Northern Essex with Nathan’s friend, Carey. He’s from the States and he's incredibly charming. We kicked things off in Saffron Walden with a lovely stroll around the town which culminated in a visit to a public garden that my mother always refers to as God’s Place. It’s an incredibly peaceful spot, filled with ornately topiered hedges and secret metal staircases which take you to the tops of various trees. There’s also a rather fine maze which we staggered around for a good while, trying to avoid the puddles.
We then visited the ridiculous village of Finchingfield, with its duck pond and chocolate box views. It’s always full of bikers, which I find amusing. Those lads and lasses in leather always find their way to the most beautiful corners of the country!
In a wood on the outskirts of the town sits a peculiar church with a very dark atmosphere, which is made even stranger by the creepy ancient pentagrams carved into its walls. A church covered in symbols used exclusively in witchcraft is a somewhat unnerving sight.
We went home via my parent’s house, where we were provided with a quintessentially English afternoon tea of scones, cakes and macaroons in front of a glorious open fire. Informing my parents that an American is coming to visit is something of a red rag to a bull and they pull out all the stops. One of my great joys in life is introducing my friends to my parents. Their vibrancy and lust for life is utterly infectious and they make me feel incredibly proud.
Pepys ate radishes for breakfast 350 years ago, which I wouldn’t have mentioned other than it seems random in the extreme. After lunch, great news arrived from London. The King’s letter had been read out to Parliament and suddenly everything was sorted. He was coming home. Books which dissed him were ordered to be burnt. Money was set aside for his safe passage. The City of London declared their loyalty to him. Bonfires were lit across the town. Church bells sounded. People danced in the streets and dropped to their knees in prayer, which even Pepys felt was a “little too much” although he acknowledged the day would probably be summed up as the greatest May Day in history.
The evening was spent on board the ship drinking. Anyone who had money, or credit of any sort, spent vast quantities on booze. The 2nd May 1660 also marked the first appearance in the diary of one of my favourite characters; Captain Robert Ferrers, who surely belonged to the family who gave their name to my childhood town of Higham Ferrers. He was a rather dashing fellow, who flirted outrageously on several occasions with Elizabeth and seemed a bit of a lunatic; once jumping out of a window and badly injuring himself... just for a bet. Life was never dull in his presence and it seems fitting that he arrived for the first time on a boat full of drunk revellers!
We then visited the ridiculous village of Finchingfield, with its duck pond and chocolate box views. It’s always full of bikers, which I find amusing. Those lads and lasses in leather always find their way to the most beautiful corners of the country!
In a wood on the outskirts of the town sits a peculiar church with a very dark atmosphere, which is made even stranger by the creepy ancient pentagrams carved into its walls. A church covered in symbols used exclusively in witchcraft is a somewhat unnerving sight.
We went home via my parent’s house, where we were provided with a quintessentially English afternoon tea of scones, cakes and macaroons in front of a glorious open fire. Informing my parents that an American is coming to visit is something of a red rag to a bull and they pull out all the stops. One of my great joys in life is introducing my friends to my parents. Their vibrancy and lust for life is utterly infectious and they make me feel incredibly proud.
Pepys ate radishes for breakfast 350 years ago, which I wouldn’t have mentioned other than it seems random in the extreme. After lunch, great news arrived from London. The King’s letter had been read out to Parliament and suddenly everything was sorted. He was coming home. Books which dissed him were ordered to be burnt. Money was set aside for his safe passage. The City of London declared their loyalty to him. Bonfires were lit across the town. Church bells sounded. People danced in the streets and dropped to their knees in prayer, which even Pepys felt was a “little too much” although he acknowledged the day would probably be summed up as the greatest May Day in history.
The evening was spent on board the ship drinking. Anyone who had money, or credit of any sort, spent vast quantities on booze. The 2nd May 1660 also marked the first appearance in the diary of one of my favourite characters; Captain Robert Ferrers, who surely belonged to the family who gave their name to my childhood town of Higham Ferrers. He was a rather dashing fellow, who flirted outrageously on several occasions with Elizabeth and seemed a bit of a lunatic; once jumping out of a window and badly injuring himself... just for a bet. Life was never dull in his presence and it seems fitting that he arrived for the first time on a boat full of drunk revellers!
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Boris Becker
It’s been absolutely hideous weather today. It’s raining like nothing I've ever seen and water is now pouring through the roof and into our kitchen. I have a bucket, a towel and two saucepans collecting the drips and yet it the floor still resembles a paddling pool. I dread to think what it will look like when we wake up in the morning. Perhaps the entire kitchen will have been washed into Muswell Hill.
Aside from the rain and a slight toothache, I’ve little of any interest to write about today. I’ve been up in the loft processing some of the folk songs I gathered yesterday pausing only occasionally to marvel at the sound of the rain chucking itself against the skylights. It’s difficult to know if I’ve written anything of any importance. I did, however, forgot to have lunch, which means the tea I ate on a shrunken tummy is now sitting rather uncomfortably inside.
It’s the first of May, and more than a little bit weird to realise a third of the year is now officially over. It’s a rather depressing thought. Maybe it would be less depressing if I could see anything out of my window other than halogen enhanced rainwater.
Fortunately, life for Pepys was far more entertaining 350 years ago. The weather was pleasant and he wished he was in Hyde Park, the place where London’s glitterati gathered in their fancy coaches the moment the sun started shining. The people of Deal were feeling rebellious and had set up maypoles around the town. Maypoles, of course, had been banned by the Puritans, and as the ultimate finger-up to the previous regime, Deal was also covered from top to toe with the King’s flags. Townspeople everywhere were drinking his health “upon their knees in the streets” and firing guns, which unsurprisingly didn’t go down too well with the soldiers in the Castle.
I don’t know when I last saw a maypole. I can’t have been much older than about 7. We used to head off to somewhere in Bedfordshire and I vaguely remember standing in the middle of a claustrophobic crowd, unable to see anything but ribboned shoes jigging up and down. I also remember being thrilled to hear ABBA’s Chiquitita on the radio for the first time that day, which must mean this particular memory comes from 1979. No doubt we’d have been scooped up and moved on pretty sharpish, as maypole dancing is rather too close to Morris Dancing and therefore something my father is highly allergic to. Heaven knows why he ended up in Thaxted, which is a Morris Mecca. Not to be confused with a Morris Minor or a Boris Becker.
After lunch, Pepys played ninepins and then retired to his room to write and play his flageolet. He was disturbed by a great noise on the Quarter Deck and rushing to see what had happened, discovered the coxswain of another ship had fallen overboard and drowned. Pepys’ rather matter-of-fact account of the tragedy implies that these kind of accidents happened all too regularly.
I am watching The Prisoner on television and wondering just how often the protagonist is going to end up staggering out in the desert and collapsing in a dehydrated heap only to find himself being woken up by an attractive woman in an open-top car. Any thoughts?
Aside from the rain and a slight toothache, I’ve little of any interest to write about today. I’ve been up in the loft processing some of the folk songs I gathered yesterday pausing only occasionally to marvel at the sound of the rain chucking itself against the skylights. It’s difficult to know if I’ve written anything of any importance. I did, however, forgot to have lunch, which means the tea I ate on a shrunken tummy is now sitting rather uncomfortably inside.
It’s the first of May, and more than a little bit weird to realise a third of the year is now officially over. It’s a rather depressing thought. Maybe it would be less depressing if I could see anything out of my window other than halogen enhanced rainwater.
Fortunately, life for Pepys was far more entertaining 350 years ago. The weather was pleasant and he wished he was in Hyde Park, the place where London’s glitterati gathered in their fancy coaches the moment the sun started shining. The people of Deal were feeling rebellious and had set up maypoles around the town. Maypoles, of course, had been banned by the Puritans, and as the ultimate finger-up to the previous regime, Deal was also covered from top to toe with the King’s flags. Townspeople everywhere were drinking his health “upon their knees in the streets” and firing guns, which unsurprisingly didn’t go down too well with the soldiers in the Castle.
I don’t know when I last saw a maypole. I can’t have been much older than about 7. We used to head off to somewhere in Bedfordshire and I vaguely remember standing in the middle of a claustrophobic crowd, unable to see anything but ribboned shoes jigging up and down. I also remember being thrilled to hear ABBA’s Chiquitita on the radio for the first time that day, which must mean this particular memory comes from 1979. No doubt we’d have been scooped up and moved on pretty sharpish, as maypole dancing is rather too close to Morris Dancing and therefore something my father is highly allergic to. Heaven knows why he ended up in Thaxted, which is a Morris Mecca. Not to be confused with a Morris Minor or a Boris Becker.
After lunch, Pepys played ninepins and then retired to his room to write and play his flageolet. He was disturbed by a great noise on the Quarter Deck and rushing to see what had happened, discovered the coxswain of another ship had fallen overboard and drowned. Pepys’ rather matter-of-fact account of the tragedy implies that these kind of accidents happened all too regularly.
I am watching The Prisoner on television and wondering just how often the protagonist is going to end up staggering out in the desert and collapsing in a dehydrated heap only to find himself being woken up by an attractive woman in an open-top car. Any thoughts?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
