We’ve just returned from the centre of London where Nathan bought me three shirts for my birthday tomorrow. We went to Jermyn Street and I chose, amongst others a bright orange one. It looks a bit like I’ve thrown up all over it, or painted it with an organic egg yolk, but I think it’s suitably eccentric. I had an email asking me where I bought the purple shirt I wore on Look North last week, so have decided I'm now a style icon with a bohemian image to protect!
It is raining like you would not believe outside. The A1 actually looks like a river at the moment. I sincerely hope it’s not like this tomorrow because I’ve invited some of the people who can’t make my official annual birthday punting trip in Cambridge next week for a picnic on Hampstead Heath. The BBC tells me we’re due for a lovely day, which does seem to be the norm for my birthday, but I find this very hard to believe when I look out of the window.
We found ourselves walking down New Bond Street earlier on, which is a road neither Nathan or myself had ever explored. It’s a hideous place, filled to bursting with footballers wives, Hooray Henrys and the Twin-set and Pearls brigade. Tutting women bash you rudely with designer handbags as they jostle their way down the street. Chinless men dressed in chinos and double breasted blazers stand in shop windows being fitted for more double breasted blazers. I couldn’t believe how expensive things were. Here a scarf for £400. There a bowler hat for £250. It’s a world I’d be happy to never visit again.
Pepys did a full day’s work at the Privy Seal 350 years ago today. He lunched at Montagu’s with Mr Henry Moore, the lawyer and then in the evening went with his good friend Samuel Hartlibb by coach to Holland Park. Hartlibb went off to do some business and left Pepys in the coach for so long that he got bored and walked (a pleasant walk) to a inn in Kensington, where he waited “very long” for Hartlibb to reappear. The two then returned to Westminster and drank til 11 at night. Pepys returned home by foot and found his wife “pretty well” again. One thing I'd say about Pepys’ days is that they seem to last an eternity. A full day’s work, a social lunch, a trip to Holland Park and Kensington, a night of drinking in Westminster and a walk home to the Eastern edge of the City would be a full day by anyone’s standards! He may have existed on a diet of meat and alcohol, but at least he got regular exercise!
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Friday, 6 August 2010
Gospel for the Godless...
Today has been a day of doing very little... In fact, I’m struggling to think if I’ve done anything at all. I’ve watched a bit of telly, sat in something of a coma on the sofa and done some tinkling on the piano, but sadly I’ve run out of manuscript paper, so the creativity bank is now closed. What a waste of a day.
I suppose I’m just winding down whilst my body attempts to recover from the shock of what I’ve put it through over the past 4 months. I’ll crank things up again on Monday.
I’ve been doing the slightly tragic thing that all creative people try their hardest to avoid doing, namely reading reviews. I've now read all the comments about A Symphony for Yorkshire online, including, several times, every single remark written on You Tube! It still seems that people are being rude about the young rapper in the film, which I think is really tough. I suppose putting anything into the public domain opens it up to whatever criticism comes its way, but I wonder what goes through these people’s minds when they write so viciously about a youngster. Aside from this, I do seem to have become unnaturally obsessed with reading what people have to say about the project. I’m not sure I believe the people who say that they never read their reviews, but I'm sure my behaviour is a league of its own. Not only do I read everything, good or bad about six times, but I regularly google myself to boot, which is surely not healthy. I felt very bad when Nathan pointed out that I’ve been somewhat self-obsessed since coming back from Yorkshire; my mind so firmly fixating on the symphony and the way people are responding to it, that I haven’t spared any time for him and what he’s been up to. This must change...
And for the Nathan fans out there, he’s just about to do a two week run at the Soho Theatre singing as part of the London Show Choir with Our Lady J, who is a transsexual singer songwriter, who plays the piano, I’m told, like a Goddess. The show is called Gospel for the Godless and it starts at 10pm and runs for an hour.
Monday August 6th, 1660, and Pepys was forced to have his dinner all alone. Elizabeth was still in bed, and still in a great deal of pain, “which I was troubled at, and not a little impatient.” Pepys, as ever, refreshingly honest. He spent the afternoon at the office of the Privy Seal before heading back to the City with Mr Man, the sword-bearer. The pair drank on Fenchurch Street until 11pm. Mr Man was still after Pepys’ Clerk of the Acts position, and offered a fat 1000l to have it signed over to him. Pepys wrote later that the offer had “made my mouth water”. I'll say!
I suppose I’m just winding down whilst my body attempts to recover from the shock of what I’ve put it through over the past 4 months. I’ll crank things up again on Monday.
I’ve been doing the slightly tragic thing that all creative people try their hardest to avoid doing, namely reading reviews. I've now read all the comments about A Symphony for Yorkshire online, including, several times, every single remark written on You Tube! It still seems that people are being rude about the young rapper in the film, which I think is really tough. I suppose putting anything into the public domain opens it up to whatever criticism comes its way, but I wonder what goes through these people’s minds when they write so viciously about a youngster. Aside from this, I do seem to have become unnaturally obsessed with reading what people have to say about the project. I’m not sure I believe the people who say that they never read their reviews, but I'm sure my behaviour is a league of its own. Not only do I read everything, good or bad about six times, but I regularly google myself to boot, which is surely not healthy. I felt very bad when Nathan pointed out that I’ve been somewhat self-obsessed since coming back from Yorkshire; my mind so firmly fixating on the symphony and the way people are responding to it, that I haven’t spared any time for him and what he’s been up to. This must change...
And for the Nathan fans out there, he’s just about to do a two week run at the Soho Theatre singing as part of the London Show Choir with Our Lady J, who is a transsexual singer songwriter, who plays the piano, I’m told, like a Goddess. The show is called Gospel for the Godless and it starts at 10pm and runs for an hour.
Monday August 6th, 1660, and Pepys was forced to have his dinner all alone. Elizabeth was still in bed, and still in a great deal of pain, “which I was troubled at, and not a little impatient.” Pepys, as ever, refreshingly honest. He spent the afternoon at the office of the Privy Seal before heading back to the City with Mr Man, the sword-bearer. The pair drank on Fenchurch Street until 11pm. Mr Man was still after Pepys’ Clerk of the Acts position, and offered a fat 1000l to have it signed over to him. Pepys wrote later that the offer had “made my mouth water”. I'll say!
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Setting fire to the corn fields
I'm on a train from Sheffield to London St Pancras. The journey up was frustrating. Not only was there no catering on the train “through lack of staff” but there was also no internet or phone reception for pretty much the whole way up; a hopeless state of affairs when various people from the BBC are trying to get in touch. I realise I’ve become ridiculously reliant on modern day technology. I'm addicted to email and text messaging. I was never like this about telephones. In fact, and here’s an admission, I have an almost pathological fear of making phonecalls! When I was young, I used to make my brother phone people on my behalf; not because I was grand, but because the process filled me with uncontrollable fear. It’s fine with people I know well. I talk to my mother almost every day, but ask me to call a relative stranger and the panic bells, even nowadays, start ringing. This freaky weirdness is perhaps made even more bizarre by the fact that I’d happily make a phone call to anyone on someone else’s behalf.
I’m better than I ever used to be. Just after graduating from drama school, I missed out on a series of wonderful opportunities because I simply didn’t get back to people who’d asked me to call them. When emails and text messages came along, I suddenly found myself able to say everything I needed to without that crippling fear. It’s absolutely bonkers... but it's very real! A psychiatrist would have a field day.
I’ve been in a tiny village on a hill just outside Sheffield this evening, being interviewed by Look North about the symphony. They’ve been showing one movement each night, so tonight’s was the last, which means the project is officially over. I now have to start facing up to realities like finances, fitness, foot problems and court cases...
The outside broadcast probably didn’t go as well as the Look North team would have wanted. Part way through the interview with me, the sound cut out, and they hastily had to return to the main studio. Everyone was incredibly apologetic, but I’ve seen far far worse and we were right at the top of a hill in a place where a mobile phone has never been able to ring! The only issue I had with the whole broadcast was a slightly peculiar package, which was meant to show how Doreen had reacted to the symphony, but actually just showed shots of her hands, a repeat of part of the film and a very odd shot of an abbey that had neither featured in our film, nor had Doreen in it! It was possibly the most baffling package I’ve ever seen broadcast, and didn’t have any of the wonderful shots that Keith had taken of her mouthing along to the music, which were some of the most moving images I’ve seen. I wondered if there’d been some kind of mistake if I’m honest. Look North’s coverage of the whole process has been so brilliant, so on-the-money and so professional that this very short, but rather hastily cut package really stood out.
Still, it was maybe a good thing that my interview went wrong, because I was able to disappear into the nearby pub and watch the film being broadcast. It was a hugely memorable experience because the whole pub seemed to be watching intently. It was wonderful to see how people were responding to the locations, almost like excited school children. It genuinely seemed to matter to them, “eh, look, Sue, it’s Hillsborough... Oh my God, I used to go to school just behind that pub... Where’s that? That looks like Sheffield as well... Ooh, isn’t this lovely” and so it went on whilst I felt prouder and prouder.
It’s not often you get to watch something with a group of people who aren’t on their best behaviour because they know they’re sitting with the director. At the end of the film, a bloke turned to the whole pub and said; “well, I reckon that were marvellous. Weren’t that marvellous?” Obviously, a massive round of applause would have been a nice touch, but I had to make do with a few subtle nods of agreement, which felt like a suitably Yorkshire response, and one which I shall cherish.
The route from Sheffield to London will take me through the Midlands fields of my childhood. If the light holds out, I’ll no doubt get to see the mystical Triangular Lodge at Rushton, the Weetabix factory at Barton Seagrove and Sandy Hill in Bedfordshire. The last time I did this journey, I passed these locations at sunset on one of those misty, nostalgic, late summer evenings when they used to set fire to the cornfields. It was almost like watching a film. There was a memory waiting for me everywhere I chose to look; the field where we found the crop circle and sat until midnight hoping the aliens would return, the place where I got chased by a bull, the spot where the gypsies and their daschunds were murdered, the forest where I saw black squirrels, the spire of the church, I’d go to find my brother on Christmas day and hear the most astonishing organ voluntary emerging triumphantly from the last verse of O Come All Ye Faithful. Happy in the main, yet somehow painful memories. Where on earth did those simple times go?
August 5th 1660 was a Sunday and Pepys’ wife was still not well. Pepys went to Holborn to visit one Dr Williams “who had cured her once before of this business”. He gave Pepys an ointment, which was duly sent home with Will Hewer, who was obviously no longer at death's door. In fact, we're told later in the entry, that Hewer's brief illness was as a result of not being very used to riding horses! Lack of fitness, in other words. Pepys was also given a plaster, which for some reason, he decided to take with him to the next part of his day; namely lunch with Mr Sheply.
After dinner came church and after church came a visit to Mr Pierce the surgeon, where a great deal of singing and music-making took place. On his way home, Pepys stopped at Westminster Stairs to watch a fight between a waterman and a Dutchman that Pepys had met at a wedding recently. The fight, according to Pepys, “made good sport”. Rather cheekily, and perhaps because water travel was limited on Sundays, he then hitched a lift with a bread or reed carrying boat (depending on how you interpret the Shelton shorthand system that Pepys used). The boat was bound for Gravesend, but it dropped him off at London Bridge. Poor Elizabeth, we’re told, had a very bad night of it... Poor Elizabeth. Pelizabeth.
I’m better than I ever used to be. Just after graduating from drama school, I missed out on a series of wonderful opportunities because I simply didn’t get back to people who’d asked me to call them. When emails and text messages came along, I suddenly found myself able to say everything I needed to without that crippling fear. It’s absolutely bonkers... but it's very real! A psychiatrist would have a field day.
I’ve been in a tiny village on a hill just outside Sheffield this evening, being interviewed by Look North about the symphony. They’ve been showing one movement each night, so tonight’s was the last, which means the project is officially over. I now have to start facing up to realities like finances, fitness, foot problems and court cases...
The outside broadcast probably didn’t go as well as the Look North team would have wanted. Part way through the interview with me, the sound cut out, and they hastily had to return to the main studio. Everyone was incredibly apologetic, but I’ve seen far far worse and we were right at the top of a hill in a place where a mobile phone has never been able to ring! The only issue I had with the whole broadcast was a slightly peculiar package, which was meant to show how Doreen had reacted to the symphony, but actually just showed shots of her hands, a repeat of part of the film and a very odd shot of an abbey that had neither featured in our film, nor had Doreen in it! It was possibly the most baffling package I’ve ever seen broadcast, and didn’t have any of the wonderful shots that Keith had taken of her mouthing along to the music, which were some of the most moving images I’ve seen. I wondered if there’d been some kind of mistake if I’m honest. Look North’s coverage of the whole process has been so brilliant, so on-the-money and so professional that this very short, but rather hastily cut package really stood out.
Still, it was maybe a good thing that my interview went wrong, because I was able to disappear into the nearby pub and watch the film being broadcast. It was a hugely memorable experience because the whole pub seemed to be watching intently. It was wonderful to see how people were responding to the locations, almost like excited school children. It genuinely seemed to matter to them, “eh, look, Sue, it’s Hillsborough... Oh my God, I used to go to school just behind that pub... Where’s that? That looks like Sheffield as well... Ooh, isn’t this lovely” and so it went on whilst I felt prouder and prouder.
It’s not often you get to watch something with a group of people who aren’t on their best behaviour because they know they’re sitting with the director. At the end of the film, a bloke turned to the whole pub and said; “well, I reckon that were marvellous. Weren’t that marvellous?” Obviously, a massive round of applause would have been a nice touch, but I had to make do with a few subtle nods of agreement, which felt like a suitably Yorkshire response, and one which I shall cherish.
The route from Sheffield to London will take me through the Midlands fields of my childhood. If the light holds out, I’ll no doubt get to see the mystical Triangular Lodge at Rushton, the Weetabix factory at Barton Seagrove and Sandy Hill in Bedfordshire. The last time I did this journey, I passed these locations at sunset on one of those misty, nostalgic, late summer evenings when they used to set fire to the cornfields. It was almost like watching a film. There was a memory waiting for me everywhere I chose to look; the field where we found the crop circle and sat until midnight hoping the aliens would return, the place where I got chased by a bull, the spot where the gypsies and their daschunds were murdered, the forest where I saw black squirrels, the spire of the church, I’d go to find my brother on Christmas day and hear the most astonishing organ voluntary emerging triumphantly from the last verse of O Come All Ye Faithful. Happy in the main, yet somehow painful memories. Where on earth did those simple times go?
August 5th 1660 was a Sunday and Pepys’ wife was still not well. Pepys went to Holborn to visit one Dr Williams “who had cured her once before of this business”. He gave Pepys an ointment, which was duly sent home with Will Hewer, who was obviously no longer at death's door. In fact, we're told later in the entry, that Hewer's brief illness was as a result of not being very used to riding horses! Lack of fitness, in other words. Pepys was also given a plaster, which for some reason, he decided to take with him to the next part of his day; namely lunch with Mr Sheply.
After dinner came church and after church came a visit to Mr Pierce the surgeon, where a great deal of singing and music-making took place. On his way home, Pepys stopped at Westminster Stairs to watch a fight between a waterman and a Dutchman that Pepys had met at a wedding recently. The fight, according to Pepys, “made good sport”. Rather cheekily, and perhaps because water travel was limited on Sundays, he then hitched a lift with a bread or reed carrying boat (depending on how you interpret the Shelton shorthand system that Pepys used). The boat was bound for Gravesend, but it dropped him off at London Bridge. Poor Elizabeth, we’re told, had a very bad night of it... Poor Elizabeth. Pelizabeth.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Kiwi hell
The time has come for me to put some serious effort into losing weight. Having seen some excerpts from the “Making of” film, I see nothing but a man getting fatter and fatter; quite horrendously so, and with frightening speed! With people like me, who balloon up and down in weight, there’s always a moment when you realise you’re about to pass the point of no return, the stage at which you cease to care about the way you look, and two years later find yourself unable to get out of bed without a winch and pulley system. I’ve just reached this stage...
I seem to have brought the Yorkshire rain to London. The weather is extremely disappointing and I keep forgetting to take an umbrella with me. Thankfully, the storms have suppressed my hay fever, but I ate a banana earlier, which has made my eyes itch. This happens rather a lot with fruit. Kiwis are the worst, followed by melons. Both fruits make my mouth feel weird, and when I get the juice on my skin, it can sometimes trigger a weird reaction. Much as I refuse to be allergic to fruit, I find myself avoiding Kiwis, which makes me wonder what would now happen if I ate one by mistake. Sometimes I think if you carry on eating something you’re slightly allergic to, it makes you less prone to violent attacks because your body just deals with it. I worry that more and more people are becoming horribly allergic to things precisely because they cut them out of their diet at the slightest provocation. So many babies now have these long list of allergies, which they never get a chance to remedy.
I am heading to Ladbrook Grove to see my good friend Glyn, but unfortunately this has meant getting on a rail replacement bus, which will, no doubt, take forever. Two men wearing LU tabards were standing by the bus stop at Paddington, but didn’t seem to want to make eye contact with me, or speak any louder than a whisper when I was trying to ascertain how long the bus was going to take. You’d have thought they’d understand that being forced onto a bus mid-journey can be a stressful experience. Again, it’s another example of bad customer service; and something I don’t think you’d get as much up North, where people genuinely seem to be friendlier and more willing to help. Having been up there all that time, I now find it slightly odd that strangers down here don’t exchange friendly banter... or for that matter call each other “love” or “pet”, which is something I’ve enjoyed greatly.
350 years ago, Pepys wrote a rather epic and descriptive diary entry which was far more entertaining than many of his previous efforts. His day started in Whitehall with a visit to his patron, whom he discovered had gone with the King to dine at the Tower. Montagu’s daughter, Mrs Jem, that strange, unfortunate creature with the dodgy neck, was at home, and the two of them dined together alone.
After a great deal of work at the Privy Seal Office, he found himself in Westminster Hall buying some bespoke bed linen from Betty Lane. Ms Lane was, or at least became Pepys’ mistress. It’s difficult to tell whether they were lovers at this point in time. Pepys took Betty for a drink at The Trumpet “where I sat and talked with her, &c” The “&c” possibly implying a little bit of how’s your father...
Pepys returned home by coach in a storm “it thundering and lightning exceedingly” and took Monsieur L’Impertinent (who must have popped up at the pub) as far as The Savoy. Arriving in the Navy Office courtyard, Pepys found a man in the darkness asking which his house was. This was in the days before buildings were numbered, and in a city with 400,000 residents, it’s a wonder that anyone found anyone! The man in the darkness had come to tell Pepys that his beloved clerk, Will Hewer was ill and would be staying with his mother that night. In those days, news of someone being ill could often mean death was just around the corner, so Pepys was justifiably concerned.
I seem to have brought the Yorkshire rain to London. The weather is extremely disappointing and I keep forgetting to take an umbrella with me. Thankfully, the storms have suppressed my hay fever, but I ate a banana earlier, which has made my eyes itch. This happens rather a lot with fruit. Kiwis are the worst, followed by melons. Both fruits make my mouth feel weird, and when I get the juice on my skin, it can sometimes trigger a weird reaction. Much as I refuse to be allergic to fruit, I find myself avoiding Kiwis, which makes me wonder what would now happen if I ate one by mistake. Sometimes I think if you carry on eating something you’re slightly allergic to, it makes you less prone to violent attacks because your body just deals with it. I worry that more and more people are becoming horribly allergic to things precisely because they cut them out of their diet at the slightest provocation. So many babies now have these long list of allergies, which they never get a chance to remedy.
I am heading to Ladbrook Grove to see my good friend Glyn, but unfortunately this has meant getting on a rail replacement bus, which will, no doubt, take forever. Two men wearing LU tabards were standing by the bus stop at Paddington, but didn’t seem to want to make eye contact with me, or speak any louder than a whisper when I was trying to ascertain how long the bus was going to take. You’d have thought they’d understand that being forced onto a bus mid-journey can be a stressful experience. Again, it’s another example of bad customer service; and something I don’t think you’d get as much up North, where people genuinely seem to be friendlier and more willing to help. Having been up there all that time, I now find it slightly odd that strangers down here don’t exchange friendly banter... or for that matter call each other “love” or “pet”, which is something I’ve enjoyed greatly.
350 years ago, Pepys wrote a rather epic and descriptive diary entry which was far more entertaining than many of his previous efforts. His day started in Whitehall with a visit to his patron, whom he discovered had gone with the King to dine at the Tower. Montagu’s daughter, Mrs Jem, that strange, unfortunate creature with the dodgy neck, was at home, and the two of them dined together alone.
After a great deal of work at the Privy Seal Office, he found himself in Westminster Hall buying some bespoke bed linen from Betty Lane. Ms Lane was, or at least became Pepys’ mistress. It’s difficult to tell whether they were lovers at this point in time. Pepys took Betty for a drink at The Trumpet “where I sat and talked with her, &c” The “&c” possibly implying a little bit of how’s your father...
Pepys returned home by coach in a storm “it thundering and lightning exceedingly” and took Monsieur L’Impertinent (who must have popped up at the pub) as far as The Savoy. Arriving in the Navy Office courtyard, Pepys found a man in the darkness asking which his house was. This was in the days before buildings were numbered, and in a city with 400,000 residents, it’s a wonder that anyone found anyone! The man in the darkness had come to tell Pepys that his beloved clerk, Will Hewer was ill and would be staying with his mother that night. In those days, news of someone being ill could often mean death was just around the corner, so Pepys was justifiably concerned.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
My Little Pony
I’m feeling a bit low today. London is muggy and overcast and I have an almost bewildering amount of silly little bits of admin to deal with. Add to this the fact that our tumble drier has broken and you have a very unhappy little ex-camper. My annual hay fever is also in full swing. Joy! Heaven knows why my body waits until the first two weeks of August to provide me with a nose which simply refuses to stop running, but I could well do without it!
I'm still reeling somewhat from an unpleasant encounter in Snappy Snaps, Muswell Hill. I'd taken a set of black and white photos in there to be developed. The woman handed them over, I opened them up, and discovered every single one of them was a shade of lurid pink! “These pictures are all bright pink” I said “Yes” she replied “that’s the colour you took them in.” “No” I said “I took a set of black and white photos, not a set a pink and pinker ones. Did it not occur to you that I wouldn’t want pink photos? Do I look like My Little Pony?” She looked blankly. It was only when I threatened to keep the photos and bring them back to show her boss that the surly cow took them back and re-printed them. "Less of the attitude" I shouted over to her as she huffed and puffed in the corner...
I then went through the lengthy process of selecting and ordering some digital prints. I could sense the other Snappy Snaps staff members looking at one another and within minutes they were hovering behind me, telling me they were about to shut up shop. “Oh well” I said “I better just print off the ones I’ve already chosen” “You can’t do that” one of them said, belligerantly; “we’ve closed.” Obviously she didn’t get away with such ridiculous behaviour and I made her switch the machines back on and serve me like a proper shop keeper, but I can safely say I’ve never met anyone with more of an attitude and less of an interest in her job.
The 3rd August 1660 was a Friday and Pepys started the day at the barber’s. A morning of work at the office was followed by lunch at Dr Timothy Clerk’s, who was one of the founding members of the Royal Society. Despite the presence of Elizabeth, Pepys found himself most taken with Clerk’s wife, Frances, whom he described as “a comely, proper woman, though not handsome, but a woman of the best language I ever heard”. Pepys spent the afternoon at the Privy Seal office in Westminster “signing things and taking money”. But he obviously found there was more work than anticipated, because his plans to meet up with the others at the Red Bull Playhouse were thwarted. By the time he’d finished, the play was over. Poor Pepys.
I'm still reeling somewhat from an unpleasant encounter in Snappy Snaps, Muswell Hill. I'd taken a set of black and white photos in there to be developed. The woman handed them over, I opened them up, and discovered every single one of them was a shade of lurid pink! “These pictures are all bright pink” I said “Yes” she replied “that’s the colour you took them in.” “No” I said “I took a set of black and white photos, not a set a pink and pinker ones. Did it not occur to you that I wouldn’t want pink photos? Do I look like My Little Pony?” She looked blankly. It was only when I threatened to keep the photos and bring them back to show her boss that the surly cow took them back and re-printed them. "Less of the attitude" I shouted over to her as she huffed and puffed in the corner...
I then went through the lengthy process of selecting and ordering some digital prints. I could sense the other Snappy Snaps staff members looking at one another and within minutes they were hovering behind me, telling me they were about to shut up shop. “Oh well” I said “I better just print off the ones I’ve already chosen” “You can’t do that” one of them said, belligerantly; “we’ve closed.” Obviously she didn’t get away with such ridiculous behaviour and I made her switch the machines back on and serve me like a proper shop keeper, but I can safely say I’ve never met anyone with more of an attitude and less of an interest in her job.
The 3rd August 1660 was a Friday and Pepys started the day at the barber’s. A morning of work at the office was followed by lunch at Dr Timothy Clerk’s, who was one of the founding members of the Royal Society. Despite the presence of Elizabeth, Pepys found himself most taken with Clerk’s wife, Frances, whom he described as “a comely, proper woman, though not handsome, but a woman of the best language I ever heard”. Pepys spent the afternoon at the Privy Seal office in Westminster “signing things and taking money”. But he obviously found there was more work than anticipated, because his plans to meet up with the others at the Red Bull Playhouse were thwarted. By the time he’d finished, the play was over. Poor Pepys.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Spasmodic Dysmenorrhoea
It’s my last day in Yorkshire and I’m wandering about rather aimlessly. It feels like the last day of a holiday when you’re waiting for an evening flight. My mind is already back in London thinking about the Pepys Motet and quite how much I’ll need to do on that to move it forward to the next stage!
All my clothes and belongings have been thrown, willy-nilly into my car. I don’t have enough suitcase space and so things have been stuffed into little orange Sainsburys bags, which are splitting down the sides. Dirty laundry is mingling with toothbrushes and bits of food that I didn’t want to throw away when I left the flat. Shameful!
I’m being interviewed on Look North tonight and don’t have anything to wear that hasn’t been screwed into a little tiny ball, or coated with a layer of tenty-grime. I'm wearing a pair of socks for the third day running and a jumper that I slept in every night when I was camping.
I'm horrified at the prospect of someone witnessing the way I’ve thrown things into my car. I remember as a child, my family returning from Devon with a car rammed full of post-holiday clutter. Unfortunately the boot burst open as we were driving through Stroud and all our belongings, from dirty laundry to children’s toys, were deposited on the High Street. My mother rushed out to stop the traffic and salvage as much dignity as she could, whilst my brother burst into tears because he felt the holiday had been ruined. I think I was probably simply trying to pretend I wasn’t there.
Heaven knows how humiliating it would be if the boot of my car flew open today on the M1. I think I’d just have to keep driving!
I just spoke to my Mother who brings news from the province of Essex. All the flowers in her garden are now officially dead; murdered by the sun, including the Buddleia, which is apparently one of the hardiest plants know to man (and butterfly).
She also tells me the very sad news that one of her close friends, who’s been suffering with cancer, has now had her treatment stopped and we’re told it’s just a matter of days. She's apparently hoping to live long enough to see her son getting his exam results in a few weeks’ time. The news made me feel extremely sad. The idea of having your ambitions and dreams cut down to things you might be well enough to achieve in the space of a few weeks fills me with a mixture of panic and incredible pain. It’s also at these moments that I feel a great deal of anger towards people who waste their lives in a permanent haze of drugs and alcohol or in pools of depression or self-obsession. Perhaps these people should be forced to watch someone who is desperate to stay alive, thankful for every extra moment they’re given to breathe the air of this beautiful planet.
The responses to A Symphony for Yorkshire continue to come in. Most people have commented on the film’s optimism and joy, which I consider to be a huge compliment. One chap from Sheffield has even offered to take me out for a drink to fill me with “over-introspection and gloom” in an attempt to corrupt by relentless positivity! Negativity is easy. We can all find the bad in people but life's not worth living unless we focus on the good.
The nicest thing that I’ve ever read about myself was written yesterday by a lady on Facebook, who first got to know my work through the Oranges and Lemons project. She wrote:
“The only thing I can say after listening to and seeing the video of the complete symphony is that everything surrounding you is magic and you make it real by giving a light of hope and happiness to everyone’s heart.”
If I hadn't already decided to have "Benjamin Till: The Musical" written on my headstone, I'd go for that!
350 years ago, Pepys started the day in a boat to Westminster, which he shared with the two Sir Williams. Their servants followed in another vessel. Quite right! After doing a bit of work at the Admiralty, Pepys went for lunch at Mr Blackburne’s; “where we were very well treated and merry.” He then headed for the office of the Privy Seal, where he was paid handsomely for a couple of days’ work. He returned home early; “it being the first time I could get home before our gates were shut since I came to the Navy Office.”
Unfortunately he discovered Elizabeth was not very well, suffering from her "old pain", which has subsequently been diagnosed as spasmodic dysmenorrhoea or horribly painful periods. The condition seems also to have also led to periodic yet incredibly unpleasant boils and cysts forming around her private parts. The illness was untreatable in those days and made intercourse almost impossible. Pepys was obviously not responsible, but she may well have thought he was, fuelling rows and suspicions. Pepys mentions that she was suffering rather badly from the condition when they got married, which must have been just awful for them both. What a way to embark on a sexual journey!
All my clothes and belongings have been thrown, willy-nilly into my car. I don’t have enough suitcase space and so things have been stuffed into little orange Sainsburys bags, which are splitting down the sides. Dirty laundry is mingling with toothbrushes and bits of food that I didn’t want to throw away when I left the flat. Shameful!
I’m being interviewed on Look North tonight and don’t have anything to wear that hasn’t been screwed into a little tiny ball, or coated with a layer of tenty-grime. I'm wearing a pair of socks for the third day running and a jumper that I slept in every night when I was camping.
I'm horrified at the prospect of someone witnessing the way I’ve thrown things into my car. I remember as a child, my family returning from Devon with a car rammed full of post-holiday clutter. Unfortunately the boot burst open as we were driving through Stroud and all our belongings, from dirty laundry to children’s toys, were deposited on the High Street. My mother rushed out to stop the traffic and salvage as much dignity as she could, whilst my brother burst into tears because he felt the holiday had been ruined. I think I was probably simply trying to pretend I wasn’t there.
Heaven knows how humiliating it would be if the boot of my car flew open today on the M1. I think I’d just have to keep driving!
I just spoke to my Mother who brings news from the province of Essex. All the flowers in her garden are now officially dead; murdered by the sun, including the Buddleia, which is apparently one of the hardiest plants know to man (and butterfly).
She also tells me the very sad news that one of her close friends, who’s been suffering with cancer, has now had her treatment stopped and we’re told it’s just a matter of days. She's apparently hoping to live long enough to see her son getting his exam results in a few weeks’ time. The news made me feel extremely sad. The idea of having your ambitions and dreams cut down to things you might be well enough to achieve in the space of a few weeks fills me with a mixture of panic and incredible pain. It’s also at these moments that I feel a great deal of anger towards people who waste their lives in a permanent haze of drugs and alcohol or in pools of depression or self-obsession. Perhaps these people should be forced to watch someone who is desperate to stay alive, thankful for every extra moment they’re given to breathe the air of this beautiful planet.
The responses to A Symphony for Yorkshire continue to come in. Most people have commented on the film’s optimism and joy, which I consider to be a huge compliment. One chap from Sheffield has even offered to take me out for a drink to fill me with “over-introspection and gloom” in an attempt to corrupt by relentless positivity! Negativity is easy. We can all find the bad in people but life's not worth living unless we focus on the good.
The nicest thing that I’ve ever read about myself was written yesterday by a lady on Facebook, who first got to know my work through the Oranges and Lemons project. She wrote:
“The only thing I can say after listening to and seeing the video of the complete symphony is that everything surrounding you is magic and you make it real by giving a light of hope and happiness to everyone’s heart.”
If I hadn't already decided to have "Benjamin Till: The Musical" written on my headstone, I'd go for that!
350 years ago, Pepys started the day in a boat to Westminster, which he shared with the two Sir Williams. Their servants followed in another vessel. Quite right! After doing a bit of work at the Admiralty, Pepys went for lunch at Mr Blackburne’s; “where we were very well treated and merry.” He then headed for the office of the Privy Seal, where he was paid handsomely for a couple of days’ work. He returned home early; “it being the first time I could get home before our gates were shut since I came to the Navy Office.”
Unfortunately he discovered Elizabeth was not very well, suffering from her "old pain", which has subsequently been diagnosed as spasmodic dysmenorrhoea or horribly painful periods. The condition seems also to have also led to periodic yet incredibly unpleasant boils and cysts forming around her private parts. The illness was untreatable in those days and made intercourse almost impossible. Pepys was obviously not responsible, but she may well have thought he was, fuelling rows and suspicions. Pepys mentions that she was suffering rather badly from the condition when they got married, which must have been just awful for them both. What a way to embark on a sexual journey!
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Fudge packing
We spent this morning in Whitby, which is a town I’ve loved from a very early age. We came here on a school trip when I was about 10 and I still remember being almost washed away by an enormous wave on the beach, staring in awe at the whale-bone arch and climbing the 199 steps to the abbey, which fired my imagination for years to come.
Rupert and Isabel went to church whilst Hilary and I strolled around the town; a fine place to amble on a Sunday morning. We climbed up to the abbey and stared at Caedman’s cross whilst I regurgitated all sorts of tit-bits from my muddled, aging mind! I remembered that the church’s graveyard is famous for periodically ejecting its ancient coffins off the side of a cliff after particularly heavy storms.
I wanted to buy some fudge until I remembered I don’t like fudge!
Later on, we met the others and went wandering along the harbour, following the walls right out into the beautiful blue sea. It’s a very special place.
It is Gay Pride in Leeds, which means half the streets have been blocked off. Leeds is a city which is almost impossible to navigate at the best of times, but today I was forced to spend an hour cursing and swearing, whilst stuck in traffic jams filled with similarly bewildered and irritated people.
So what is Gay Pride in Leeds? I took a pen and paper with me and jotted down words and phrases that came to mind as I walked through the middle of the festivities:
Bronzed, trinkety, shiny yet tawdry, emo gays, a plethora of men with their elbows surgically attached to the sides of their stomachs, silly moustaches, mullets, every shade of hair dye, bondage trousers, balloons, rainbows, old men looking sad, old men looking hopeful, terrible arguments, deaf gays, the smell of poppers, dancing gays, the smell of poppers, singing gays, shrieking gays... Gay shrieking louder and louder... Must escape... Must escape... Help me!
Hmm...
Homosexuality en masse obviously freaks me out somewhat. As I walked along, I looked from face to face trying to identify someone I could identify with. I failed miserably. I suppose I’ll always be a bit of a one off and am not a fan of any large gatherings of people based on type. Though I would support the gay community until my very last breath, large displays of campery like this make me feel uncomfortable. Not only do they feel somewhat forced, but they intimidate people...
It’s Yorkshire day, and church bells are ringing across Leeds. The Yorkshire Symphony was broadcast on various BBC Radio stations for the first time today and I had several lovely texts and messages from strangers who enjoyed what they heard. I am so pleased that people take the time to do things like this. It really does make the whole experience seem that little bit more worthwhile.
It was a day of business for Pepys 350 years ago. There were various meetings and various formal matters to be addressed, although nothing of any great interest in my humble opinion.
Pepys met up with his clerk friends and drank at a “bottle beer” house on the Strand before taking a boat with the intention of heading back home. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, he found himself buying a lobster and instead of taking it home, he took it to the Sun Tavern where he had it cooked and ate it.
Rupert and Isabel went to church whilst Hilary and I strolled around the town; a fine place to amble on a Sunday morning. We climbed up to the abbey and stared at Caedman’s cross whilst I regurgitated all sorts of tit-bits from my muddled, aging mind! I remembered that the church’s graveyard is famous for periodically ejecting its ancient coffins off the side of a cliff after particularly heavy storms.
I wanted to buy some fudge until I remembered I don’t like fudge!
Later on, we met the others and went wandering along the harbour, following the walls right out into the beautiful blue sea. It’s a very special place.
It is Gay Pride in Leeds, which means half the streets have been blocked off. Leeds is a city which is almost impossible to navigate at the best of times, but today I was forced to spend an hour cursing and swearing, whilst stuck in traffic jams filled with similarly bewildered and irritated people.
So what is Gay Pride in Leeds? I took a pen and paper with me and jotted down words and phrases that came to mind as I walked through the middle of the festivities:
Bronzed, trinkety, shiny yet tawdry, emo gays, a plethora of men with their elbows surgically attached to the sides of their stomachs, silly moustaches, mullets, every shade of hair dye, bondage trousers, balloons, rainbows, old men looking sad, old men looking hopeful, terrible arguments, deaf gays, the smell of poppers, dancing gays, the smell of poppers, singing gays, shrieking gays... Gay shrieking louder and louder... Must escape... Must escape... Help me!
Hmm...
Homosexuality en masse obviously freaks me out somewhat. As I walked along, I looked from face to face trying to identify someone I could identify with. I failed miserably. I suppose I’ll always be a bit of a one off and am not a fan of any large gatherings of people based on type. Though I would support the gay community until my very last breath, large displays of campery like this make me feel uncomfortable. Not only do they feel somewhat forced, but they intimidate people...
It’s Yorkshire day, and church bells are ringing across Leeds. The Yorkshire Symphony was broadcast on various BBC Radio stations for the first time today and I had several lovely texts and messages from strangers who enjoyed what they heard. I am so pleased that people take the time to do things like this. It really does make the whole experience seem that little bit more worthwhile.
It was a day of business for Pepys 350 years ago. There were various meetings and various formal matters to be addressed, although nothing of any great interest in my humble opinion.
Pepys met up with his clerk friends and drank at a “bottle beer” house on the Strand before taking a boat with the intention of heading back home. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, he found himself buying a lobster and instead of taking it home, he took it to the Sun Tavern where he had it cooked and ate it.
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