I woke up this morning and received another letter from Tfl, who keen readers of this blog will remember are in charge of dealing with the very kind donation that the Mayor's Office offered us for last week's motet. The latest in this sorry story is that they've lost all of my details, which considering how many forms, letters, faxes and emails they asked me to send in the past, is no mean feat! The letter I received this morning, surely takes the biscuit in terms of blatent nuttiness. It reads: “As part of our ongoing customer service commitment within the Financial Service Centre, the Accounts Payable Team is reviewing all open items on our finance system. We therefore request an open item statement for all accounts you have with our Company.” A what? A who? A Why So Many Capital Letters? I actually think it must be a scam. Surely they can't seriously be asking all of their personnel to resubmit their financial details? The letter was addressed "Dear Sir/ Madam." I just 'phoned the number written on the letter, but couldn’t understand a word the guy who answered was saying, so I had to hang up... He was mumbling so much that I couldn’t tell if he was speaking with a thick accent, or had a half-chewed banana in his mouth. I think he said he was the only person answering the phones today. You think they’d have chosen someone with a bit more life about him to represent their company... unless he was the scammer and I've just 'phoned Africa. Gosh, now that would turn out to be an unexpected item in the bagging area!
I’m now on a train heading back to Newcastle; and am very excited about the prospect of finally getting my teeth into the Metro project, particularly now that I know we have a brilliant cast of performers. I love my new little family at BBC Newcastle. It has to be said that the BBC Regional Network is one of the greatest resources in the world. It is filled with people who know and care passionately about their patches and in my opinion, it single-handedly justifies the license fee. I’m beginning to feel hugely protective about it, particularly now that I’ve seen it working so well, and in so many parts of the country.
Unfortunately I'm currently sitting opposite a woman with the largest legs in carnation. They are long, and thick; like four rolled-up sleeping bags positioned at right angles and stuffed into nylon. To cap it all she seems to be wearing the largest boots in the world, as though she’d stepped into two Shetland ponies before getting on the train. When I move my legs, I bump into her, and she over-reacts every single time. We’ve had tuts, and gasps of pain. Short of suggesting she puts herself on a leg diet, I don’t know what else I can do! I’ve never had this problem with anyone sitting opposite me before.
December 7th 1660, and Pepys went to see Sandwich, but discovered that he’d left London to do some business at his Huntingdon estate. He found Lady Sandwich, the delicious Jemima, at home, and they had lunch with the mother of Sandwich’s page, Loud. I SAID LOUD! Later in the day, Pepys called for Loud and “examined him in his Latin and found him a very pretty boy.” I said he “EXAMINED HIM IN HIS LATIN...” (never mind...)
Pepys returned home and discovered his wife reading a book called Cyrus The Great; a novel in ten volumes by Madeleine and George de Scudery, who were siblings. I'm a bit confused to find references in the diary to novels. I always thought the first novel was Robinson Crusoe, which was written at least 50 years later. A bit of research informs me that this French book, is considered by some to be the longest novel ever written; a bewildering 2,100,000 words! You learn something new every day.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Monday, 6 December 2010
Frustration!
Today ranks amongst the most frustrating days of my life. I woke up, horrifically early, in order to get to King’s Cross. The plan was to catch the 9.45 train to Cambridge to meet my parents who were planning to pick me up and drive me to Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire, where my preliminary hearing was due to take place.
I’d just got on the train when I received a phone call from a chirpy lass at the county court, informing me that the defendant was ill and in hospital, and that as a result, the judge had no option but to cancel the hearing. The news hit me like a lightning bolt. “But I’ve already come all the way down from Newcastle” I whimpered, “and I’m already on a train to Cambridge. And this is a preliminary hearing for a small claims court issue, which is very unusual, and if we’re not careful, I’ll have spent as much as I’m owed in the process of claiming it back.” In fairness, there was nothing she could have done or said that would have made the situation any better, but when she told me the next potential date for a replacement hearing was in February, my blood started running cold.
It’s strange, and somehow horrible to admit that in the pit of my stomach, I knew this hearing would be cancelled. I had thought the snow would get in the way, but the choir mistress has been suffering enormously from her health throughout the year, and this has regularly created stumbling blocks, which we’ve needed to try to find ways of working around. I suspect the stress of this whole process is grinding us both into the ground, but I find myself wondering what would happen if she was ill the next time, or the time after that. How long can this process last? How much money will I be forced to spend?
So, I reached Cambridge, and after a terrible argument with my parents, when the stress of the entire situation just poured out into a torrent of tears and swear words and stroppy marches through the misty city streets, we headed back to Thaxted for a pub lunch and an afternoon of telly. Thaxted was coated in a hoar frost and looked hugely romantic in the mist. My parents did their best to change the subject, but my mind kept flicking back to the fundamental problem, namely that no-one is denying that I did the work, delivered it in time, and wrote something which the choir mistress described as “one of the best things you’ve done.” So, why on earth am I forced to go through this absolute mayhem, just to be paid? It’s actually becoming rather surreal.
So tomorrow I’m back to Newcastle, having nothing to show for my 300 mile round trip other than a suitcase filled with newly washed clothes, that I’m worried I won’t have the chance to dry before I have to leave.
December 6th, 1660, was a busy day for Pepys, who spent his time doing business in various Whitehall taverns, where he also bumped into countless friends and associates. Much of his evening was spent in the company of an incredibly witty army man who sang songs and told stories in a Scottish accent. There was obviously something a bit wicked in the air, for Pepys returned home by water, “ it being a most pleasant moonshine night, with a waterman who did tell such a company of bawdy stories, how once he carried a lady from Putney in such a night as this, and she bade him lie down by her, which he did, and did give her content, and a great deal more roguery.” He returned home to discover his servant Jane waiting patiently outside the house. Elizabeth had sent her on some “trivial business” and inadvertently locked her out! Genius!
I’d just got on the train when I received a phone call from a chirpy lass at the county court, informing me that the defendant was ill and in hospital, and that as a result, the judge had no option but to cancel the hearing. The news hit me like a lightning bolt. “But I’ve already come all the way down from Newcastle” I whimpered, “and I’m already on a train to Cambridge. And this is a preliminary hearing for a small claims court issue, which is very unusual, and if we’re not careful, I’ll have spent as much as I’m owed in the process of claiming it back.” In fairness, there was nothing she could have done or said that would have made the situation any better, but when she told me the next potential date for a replacement hearing was in February, my blood started running cold.
It’s strange, and somehow horrible to admit that in the pit of my stomach, I knew this hearing would be cancelled. I had thought the snow would get in the way, but the choir mistress has been suffering enormously from her health throughout the year, and this has regularly created stumbling blocks, which we’ve needed to try to find ways of working around. I suspect the stress of this whole process is grinding us both into the ground, but I find myself wondering what would happen if she was ill the next time, or the time after that. How long can this process last? How much money will I be forced to spend?
So, I reached Cambridge, and after a terrible argument with my parents, when the stress of the entire situation just poured out into a torrent of tears and swear words and stroppy marches through the misty city streets, we headed back to Thaxted for a pub lunch and an afternoon of telly. Thaxted was coated in a hoar frost and looked hugely romantic in the mist. My parents did their best to change the subject, but my mind kept flicking back to the fundamental problem, namely that no-one is denying that I did the work, delivered it in time, and wrote something which the choir mistress described as “one of the best things you’ve done.” So, why on earth am I forced to go through this absolute mayhem, just to be paid? It’s actually becoming rather surreal.
So tomorrow I’m back to Newcastle, having nothing to show for my 300 mile round trip other than a suitcase filled with newly washed clothes, that I’m worried I won’t have the chance to dry before I have to leave.
December 6th, 1660, was a busy day for Pepys, who spent his time doing business in various Whitehall taverns, where he also bumped into countless friends and associates. Much of his evening was spent in the company of an incredibly witty army man who sang songs and told stories in a Scottish accent. There was obviously something a bit wicked in the air, for Pepys returned home by water, “ it being a most pleasant moonshine night, with a waterman who did tell such a company of bawdy stories, how once he carried a lady from Putney in such a night as this, and she bade him lie down by her, which he did, and did give her content, and a great deal more roguery.” He returned home to discover his servant Jane waiting patiently outside the house. Elizabeth had sent her on some “trivial business” and inadvertently locked her out! Genius!
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Bladder stones in the ashes
I’m currently sitting on a train which is speeding its way back to London. I’m absolutely shattered. The rail network is in total disarray this evening, and an “emergency” service is being run, so I’m not altogether sure why all the seats seem to have been reserved. I have a horrible feeling that I’m going to get as far as York before being decanted into another carriage by a belligerent old bat.
My trip to London will be short and potentially not that sweet! I have an awful lot of washing to do before I return to Northern climes. I’m up with the lark tomorrow for a preliminary hearing at Melton Mowbray County Court. Apparently, I can only expect the meeting to be 15 minutes long, which seems a bit tough after an 8 hour journey! A preliminary hearing for a small claims dispute is apparently incredibly rare. We’re there to decide if an expert witness needs to be called to assess whether my writing is too difficult for a choir to perform. From my perspective, one shouldn’t attempt to argue that something’s impossible to perform until one has actually tried to perform it, but I guess I’m just the writer!
Upsettingly, my lawyer from the MU is stranded somewhere in Manchester, so won’t be able to attend the hearing with me. This frightens me, because the world of courtrooms is totally unfamiliar, but as she points out, I’ll be in and out in seconds. I’m to remember that this is not the actual hearing, and my parents will be there for moral support. Deep breaths...
Today’s auditions went extremely well. We were in a shopping centre in Newcastle, and I was particularly thrilled that someone I’d met at the Karaoke on Friday night had been able to come along. We met some wonderful singers and some incredibly inspiring characters. One lady made me cry with a rendition of that song about remembering September. I don’t know what it’s called, but it broke my heart because she sang it like Judith Durham. She was also blind, which had no bearing on her performance, but brought a whole new meaning to the lyric. Earlier in the day, we’d had a real Susan Boyle moment, when a woman in a scruffy woolly hat turned up, opened her mouth and unleashed Shirley Bassey!
It’s amazing to hear people’s stories. I realised today how often sheer good luck, or a face which somehow fits the Zeiitgeist, makes the difference between someone becoming wealthy and someone languishing in a life of bitter disappointment and missed opportunities. Some of the people I heard today have voices which knock the spots off many of the professionals I’ve worked with; and their attitudes are streaks better. One of the things I love most about my career is that I get to work with people who seem to care passionately about what we're doing together; it's not just great fun, but it also improves their outlook on life, and their sense of self esteem.
So life is good, even thought this train carriage smells like a combination of poo, cheese, and eau de Cologne, which is disconcerting to say the least!
Wednesday 5th December 1660, and Pepys was once again at the theatre, this time watching a performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor, which he thought was generally badly acted. On the way home, he called in on his parents and found his mother still ill with her bladder/ kidney stones, one of which she’d newly “voided” and dropped into the fireplace, no doubt horrified at its size and the pain it had caused on its way out. Pepys, being an inquisitive/unsqueamish sort, asked to see it, so his poor, (unwell) mother was forced to get onto her hands and knees to sift through the ashes until she could satisfy her son’s request.
My trip to London will be short and potentially not that sweet! I have an awful lot of washing to do before I return to Northern climes. I’m up with the lark tomorrow for a preliminary hearing at Melton Mowbray County Court. Apparently, I can only expect the meeting to be 15 minutes long, which seems a bit tough after an 8 hour journey! A preliminary hearing for a small claims dispute is apparently incredibly rare. We’re there to decide if an expert witness needs to be called to assess whether my writing is too difficult for a choir to perform. From my perspective, one shouldn’t attempt to argue that something’s impossible to perform until one has actually tried to perform it, but I guess I’m just the writer!
Upsettingly, my lawyer from the MU is stranded somewhere in Manchester, so won’t be able to attend the hearing with me. This frightens me, because the world of courtrooms is totally unfamiliar, but as she points out, I’ll be in and out in seconds. I’m to remember that this is not the actual hearing, and my parents will be there for moral support. Deep breaths...
Today’s auditions went extremely well. We were in a shopping centre in Newcastle, and I was particularly thrilled that someone I’d met at the Karaoke on Friday night had been able to come along. We met some wonderful singers and some incredibly inspiring characters. One lady made me cry with a rendition of that song about remembering September. I don’t know what it’s called, but it broke my heart because she sang it like Judith Durham. She was also blind, which had no bearing on her performance, but brought a whole new meaning to the lyric. Earlier in the day, we’d had a real Susan Boyle moment, when a woman in a scruffy woolly hat turned up, opened her mouth and unleashed Shirley Bassey!
My Judith Durham
It’s amazing to hear people’s stories. I realised today how often sheer good luck, or a face which somehow fits the Zeiitgeist, makes the difference between someone becoming wealthy and someone languishing in a life of bitter disappointment and missed opportunities. Some of the people I heard today have voices which knock the spots off many of the professionals I’ve worked with; and their attitudes are streaks better. One of the things I love most about my career is that I get to work with people who seem to care passionately about what we're doing together; it's not just great fun, but it also improves their outlook on life, and their sense of self esteem.
So life is good, even thought this train carriage smells like a combination of poo, cheese, and eau de Cologne, which is disconcerting to say the least!
Wednesday 5th December 1660, and Pepys was once again at the theatre, this time watching a performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor, which he thought was generally badly acted. On the way home, he called in on his parents and found his mother still ill with her bladder/ kidney stones, one of which she’d newly “voided” and dropped into the fireplace, no doubt horrified at its size and the pain it had caused on its way out. Pepys, being an inquisitive/unsqueamish sort, asked to see it, so his poor, (unwell) mother was forced to get onto her hands and knees to sift through the ashes until she could satisfy her son’s request.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Al-reet
I went out on the town last night, lured into the icy, almost empty streets by the promise of karaoke. I thought it would be good if I whipped up a little bit more interest in this weekend's auditions. Karaoke was happening at a pub called The Dog, and a rather motley crüe of individuals had braved the snow to gather there.
As I arrived, a cheeky chap with a ridiculously charming smile tapped me on the top of my flat cap and said "al-reeeeet". He then dropped to his knees and started to take photographs of my wellington boots, claiming never to have seen anything as cool as someone hanging out in a karaoke bar in wellies! I wasn't sure if he was taking the micky, but I'm not sure I care...
I think this was the turning point for me and Geordie folk. From then on I spoke to almost everyone I passed. It seems to be the thing to do. No wonder they think the Londoners are all rude bastards!
As I walked home I was astonished to see how many women were out and about wearing mini-dresses and 4-inch heels, despite the treacherous conditions. Similarly, almost every man I passed was dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.
One guy was standing behind me in the queue for the cash point, and I immediately forced him to go in front of me. "You're half naked!" I told him. He complimented me on my hat, no doubt because it looked warm, and I asked him why he didn't have a coat. Apparently his mates had ragged him so much for trying to wear one, he'd left it at home! These Geordies genuinely seem to be made of sterner stuff!!
Today's auditions took place south of the Tyne and the Wear in Sunderland, and the turn out was exceptional. I was so pleased. There were some brilliant stories and some wonderful faces and in some cases these were also accompanied by beautiful voices. We auditioned close to 50 people and only found one nutter, who told me he didn't need to be in the film because he was already a celebrity, and, he added, a Christian!
My hotel is rammed full of stag parties. One suspects I won't be allowed to sleep tonight.
On this date in 1660, Parliament passed a bill stating that the bodies of Cromwell and other traitors should be exhumed from their graves at Westminster Abbey and drawn to the gallows where they should be hanged, which made Pepys feel uncomfortable that, "a man of so great courage as he was, should have that dishonour, though otherwise he might deserve it enough."
As I arrived, a cheeky chap with a ridiculously charming smile tapped me on the top of my flat cap and said "al-reeeeet". He then dropped to his knees and started to take photographs of my wellington boots, claiming never to have seen anything as cool as someone hanging out in a karaoke bar in wellies! I wasn't sure if he was taking the micky, but I'm not sure I care...
I think this was the turning point for me and Geordie folk. From then on I spoke to almost everyone I passed. It seems to be the thing to do. No wonder they think the Londoners are all rude bastards!
As I walked home I was astonished to see how many women were out and about wearing mini-dresses and 4-inch heels, despite the treacherous conditions. Similarly, almost every man I passed was dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans.
One guy was standing behind me in the queue for the cash point, and I immediately forced him to go in front of me. "You're half naked!" I told him. He complimented me on my hat, no doubt because it looked warm, and I asked him why he didn't have a coat. Apparently his mates had ragged him so much for trying to wear one, he'd left it at home! These Geordies genuinely seem to be made of sterner stuff!!
Today's auditions took place south of the Tyne and the Wear in Sunderland, and the turn out was exceptional. I was so pleased. There were some brilliant stories and some wonderful faces and in some cases these were also accompanied by beautiful voices. We auditioned close to 50 people and only found one nutter, who told me he didn't need to be in the film because he was already a celebrity, and, he added, a Christian!
Is this the most beautiful bridge in the world?
My hotel is rammed full of stag parties. One suspects I won't be allowed to sleep tonight.
On this date in 1660, Parliament passed a bill stating that the bodies of Cromwell and other traitors should be exhumed from their graves at Westminster Abbey and drawn to the gallows where they should be hanged, which made Pepys feel uncomfortable that, "a man of so great courage as he was, should have that dishonour, though otherwise he might deserve it enough."
Friday, 3 December 2010
Newcastle or New York
Last night's snow...
Ten observations about Newcastle:
1. It’s very cold
2. The people here are very proud to be Geordies
3. The quayside area is stunningly beautiful and reminds me of Brooklyn
4. It's very cold
5. There can’t be many vegetarians in the city because the vegetarian food is rubbish
6. The BBC Staff up here are incredibly friendly and passionate about their patch
7. Young ladies here don’t wrap up warm enough when they’re out on the town.
8. Everyone sounds like Sarah Millican or Matt Baker.
9. When walking through the streets, it's difficult to stop oneself from singing the theme tune to Byker Grove
10. It's very cold.
The temperatures here dropped to minus 14 last night, which was just ridiculous. Today is officially my day off. It wasn’t meant to be, but the shocking weather has meant that countless meetings have been cancelled. It’s no longer snowing – but the lack of cloud-cover has led to the temperatures dropping even further. I went for a walk today but ended up having to turn around. My feet, through two pairs of socks and a pair of wellies, felt like blocks of ice and my hands had frozen solid. I can safely say I've never felt such arctic temperatures, not even in Leningrad. I’m told it’s colder here than it is in Iceland. There seems to have been a spate of pensioners freezing to death in their gardens up here, which is incredibly sad. I wonder what’s happened to the man in the wheelchair by the canal in Oxford.
There’s not really much else to say. I'm marooned in my hotel room, really. I should try and take myself out for supper, but I’m not sure I have the guts! At least there’s a bath and a television. I've already had two baths today – mostly just to thaw myself. The heating is on full blast and yet I'm still needing to wear a jumper. Madness. Utter madness.
Newcastle or New York?
350 years ago, Pepys had set himself a resolution to get up as early as he could. He rose by candlelight, noting that it was the first time he’d done that this winter. He subsequently spent an hour playing his violin before going to work. He tells us that the House of Commons spent the afternoon debating the concept of tickets, finally arriving at the compromise that half the sailor’s pay would be given in cash up front, and the rest paid with said tickets. Pepys thought this was a great deal more sensible.
He went home, and two of his friends arrived whilst he was he was being shaved by a barber, so he gave them a good bottle of sack and told them to make themselves at home.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Sage stuffing
It was still dark when I got up this morning. I thought that opening the wipe-clean curtains in my Travelodge room would help matters, but it didn’t. I stumbled around a great deal and fell headfirst into the bath. A car arrived to take me to BBC Newcastle, where I was being interviewed on the breakfast show. I’ve no idea what I said. These things tend to fly past and I was holding my eyes open with matchsticks.
Later in the day we went back into Newcastle centre to do some more filming. People seemed a bit chirpier. The sun was shining and glinting on the snow, and everything looked absolutely glorious under the cornflower blue sky. We roamed about the Metro system looking for people who might be interested in singing a few lines of music for us. The experience was, once again, catastrophically embarrassing, but because people seemed happier to be on the trains, we got a great deal more in the can. I’ve still not seen much of that famous Geordie wit and hospitality, however, but in these temperatures, I suppose it's hardly surprising. I've been quite grumpy, too.
We ended up emerging into a charming market near the Monument. Every stall sold the most incredible looking food; each one originating from a different country. I chatted to Spanish, French, Dutch and Jamaican stallholders before the skies opened again and we were forced to run back into the Metro looking like snowmen.
We went to The Sage in Gateshead to talk to them about their involvement in the project. They are the BBC's official partners for this musical, but the meeting was distinctly underwhelming. When we first chatted to them, they seemed genuinely excited about the project, giving us lists and lists of their ensembles that they felt sure would love to get involved. Today's meeting was with a bloke who told us repeatedly how busy he was and that he couldn't promise a single one of their ensembles would want to get involved because their rehearsals might clash with ours! I do hope that our meeting at least semi-rekindled his interest in the project. The Sage is such an extraordinary building and it looked particularly wonderful today...
Back at the Radio Station, I took a call from a lady who wanted to know if she could use a photograph I’d taken of Derren Brown for a TV documentary about him, which was hugely flattering, particularly when she pointed out that Derren himself had requested the photo be used. They've also offered to pay for it, which is, of course, totally unnecessary, but a lovely bonus.
So, England will not be hosting the 2012 World Cup. It’s probably a controversial thing to say, but it would, no doubt, mean another huge chunk being taken out of Arts budgets, so I can't bring myself to feel too sad. It also means that there’s now the glimmer of hope that people might actually start producing art for other purposes than in association with sport. I’ve never understood why sport and the arts are lumped into the same governmental bracket. It strikes me they are more diametrically opposed than home and foreign affairs! Perhaps we finally have to acknowledge a) that England can’t play football, b) that the world doesn't care and c) that the England brand is at an all-time low. I long for the day when we can celebrate our beautiful country without feeling shame - or talking about football.
Sunday 2nd December 2010 was a Sunday and Pepys woke up with a crashing hangover; “My head not very well, and my body out of order by last night’s drinking, which is my great folly.” He ate a leg of mutton with his wife, but the sauce was too sweet, so he threw all of his dollies out of the pram and refused to eat anything but the bone marrow. I have no idea what bone marrow is in relation to a pig or a deer, or whatever mutton is, but it sounds absolutely disgusting.
Later in the day we went back into Newcastle centre to do some more filming. People seemed a bit chirpier. The sun was shining and glinting on the snow, and everything looked absolutely glorious under the cornflower blue sky. We roamed about the Metro system looking for people who might be interested in singing a few lines of music for us. The experience was, once again, catastrophically embarrassing, but because people seemed happier to be on the trains, we got a great deal more in the can. I’ve still not seen much of that famous Geordie wit and hospitality, however, but in these temperatures, I suppose it's hardly surprising. I've been quite grumpy, too.
We ended up emerging into a charming market near the Monument. Every stall sold the most incredible looking food; each one originating from a different country. I chatted to Spanish, French, Dutch and Jamaican stallholders before the skies opened again and we were forced to run back into the Metro looking like snowmen.
We went to The Sage in Gateshead to talk to them about their involvement in the project. They are the BBC's official partners for this musical, but the meeting was distinctly underwhelming. When we first chatted to them, they seemed genuinely excited about the project, giving us lists and lists of their ensembles that they felt sure would love to get involved. Today's meeting was with a bloke who told us repeatedly how busy he was and that he couldn't promise a single one of their ensembles would want to get involved because their rehearsals might clash with ours! I do hope that our meeting at least semi-rekindled his interest in the project. The Sage is such an extraordinary building and it looked particularly wonderful today...
Back at the Radio Station, I took a call from a lady who wanted to know if she could use a photograph I’d taken of Derren Brown for a TV documentary about him, which was hugely flattering, particularly when she pointed out that Derren himself had requested the photo be used. They've also offered to pay for it, which is, of course, totally unnecessary, but a lovely bonus.
So, England will not be hosting the 2012 World Cup. It’s probably a controversial thing to say, but it would, no doubt, mean another huge chunk being taken out of Arts budgets, so I can't bring myself to feel too sad. It also means that there’s now the glimmer of hope that people might actually start producing art for other purposes than in association with sport. I’ve never understood why sport and the arts are lumped into the same governmental bracket. It strikes me they are more diametrically opposed than home and foreign affairs! Perhaps we finally have to acknowledge a) that England can’t play football, b) that the world doesn't care and c) that the England brand is at an all-time low. I long for the day when we can celebrate our beautiful country without feeling shame - or talking about football.
Sunday 2nd December 2010 was a Sunday and Pepys woke up with a crashing hangover; “My head not very well, and my body out of order by last night’s drinking, which is my great folly.” He ate a leg of mutton with his wife, but the sauce was too sweet, so he threw all of his dollies out of the pram and refused to eat anything but the bone marrow. I have no idea what bone marrow is in relation to a pig or a deer, or whatever mutton is, but it sounds absolutely disgusting.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Fluffy balls of polystyrene
I'm in Newcastle and it’s f****ng freezing! The streets are covered in thick ice and recently it started hailing little soft balls which could easily have been those polystyrene things you shove inside bean bags.
My train journey up lasted two hours longer than it should have done. We charged through the home counties, where the fields were merely dusted with a pleasing sprinkle of icing sugar, but as soon we'd got into the North Midlands all hell started to break loose. Yorkshire was a mess. The train station in York itself was under feet of snow and it was falling from the sky like fluffy yoghurt pots. As we got further north, the snow was so thick I started to wonder if anything could ever shift it.
All the way up, the train driver had to keep testing his breaks, which meant people were careering up and down the carriages with their little-something-extras from the buffet car.
I arrived in Newcastle and immediately had to film a piece for Look North, which I found myself presenting. My first encounter with the Metro was not under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately, I was asked to interview some of the passengers, which is my absolute idea of hell. People seem to find it very difficult to believe that I'm shy, but I find the experience of entering someone’s private "public" space cripplingly embarrassing. Everyone was freezing cold and apart from a group of extremely cheerful young ladies, nobody wanted to talk. The camera came out and I could feel the hostility coming towards me in waves. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting in Newcastle, but I had to keep telling myself that if I’d tried to pull the same stunt on the tube in London, someone would have throttled me before I’d got a decent interview. I’m told on a pleasant day, the Metro is a very chatty kind of place - as are, apparently, the Geordies. I just wanted the earth to swallow me up!
We walked back to my Travelodge through the gloriously icy darkened streets. I slid down one hill like someone on skis, and know it won’t be long before I fall flat on my arse, probably very publically, more than likely on film!
Life in Newcastle staggers on, however. They’re certainly more resilient up here. People drive much more carefully than they do in London and there seem to be fewer accidents on the streets. Quite a number of trains into the main station had been cancelled, and some of the bars within had closed early. There were very few people on the streets, but all the shops and cafes I passed were business as usual.
I've now returned to the hotel and shall spend the evening in my room, which is actually bordering on being slightly cold, but it’s so much warmer than I’ve been for the past 10 hours that life feels good.
December 1st 1660, and Pepys woke up to discover his maid, Jane had put some of his belongings in the wrong place. In a passage that demonstrates one of the more unpleasant aspects of his character Pepys writes; “I took a broom and basted her till she cried extremely, which made me vexed, but before I went out I left her appeased.” No doubt by giving her one of your special little kisses, eh Samuel?
My train journey up lasted two hours longer than it should have done. We charged through the home counties, where the fields were merely dusted with a pleasing sprinkle of icing sugar, but as soon we'd got into the North Midlands all hell started to break loose. Yorkshire was a mess. The train station in York itself was under feet of snow and it was falling from the sky like fluffy yoghurt pots. As we got further north, the snow was so thick I started to wonder if anything could ever shift it.
All the way up, the train driver had to keep testing his breaks, which meant people were careering up and down the carriages with their little-something-extras from the buffet car.
I arrived in Newcastle and immediately had to film a piece for Look North, which I found myself presenting. My first encounter with the Metro was not under the best of circumstances. Unfortunately, I was asked to interview some of the passengers, which is my absolute idea of hell. People seem to find it very difficult to believe that I'm shy, but I find the experience of entering someone’s private "public" space cripplingly embarrassing. Everyone was freezing cold and apart from a group of extremely cheerful young ladies, nobody wanted to talk. The camera came out and I could feel the hostility coming towards me in waves. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting in Newcastle, but I had to keep telling myself that if I’d tried to pull the same stunt on the tube in London, someone would have throttled me before I’d got a decent interview. I’m told on a pleasant day, the Metro is a very chatty kind of place - as are, apparently, the Geordies. I just wanted the earth to swallow me up!
We walked back to my Travelodge through the gloriously icy darkened streets. I slid down one hill like someone on skis, and know it won’t be long before I fall flat on my arse, probably very publically, more than likely on film!
Life in Newcastle staggers on, however. They’re certainly more resilient up here. People drive much more carefully than they do in London and there seem to be fewer accidents on the streets. Quite a number of trains into the main station had been cancelled, and some of the bars within had closed early. There were very few people on the streets, but all the shops and cafes I passed were business as usual.
I've now returned to the hotel and shall spend the evening in my room, which is actually bordering on being slightly cold, but it’s so much warmer than I’ve been for the past 10 hours that life feels good.
December 1st 1660, and Pepys woke up to discover his maid, Jane had put some of his belongings in the wrong place. In a passage that demonstrates one of the more unpleasant aspects of his character Pepys writes; “I took a broom and basted her till she cried extremely, which made me vexed, but before I went out I left her appeased.” No doubt by giving her one of your special little kisses, eh Samuel?
There followed a day of drinking, gossiping, drinking, eating venison pasties and then more drinking; “after a pint of wine I went home, my brains somewhat troubled with so much wine, and after a letter or two by the post I went to bed.”
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