The Visistors

Today’s been a particularly surreal day. We had to wake up at 1.45am this morning British time to make it to the airport on time, and I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep ever since. Revellers were still singing in the hotel reception when we got in the taxi. I vaguely remember sitting and listening to a group of people singing A Day In the Life whilst wondering what my name was!

I don’t remember a great deal about the plane journey. Unfortunately, as my dear friend Fiona has experienced several times, whenever I fall asleep on an aeroplane, I tend to wake up again almost immediately in a slight panic; a process which often involves an involuntary hand movement. Today, poor Alison got smacked across the chest at least three times, which must have been just hell for her, because she was also trying to sleep.

I travelled back to London from Luton airport in a haze, and arrived back in Highgate at about 9am. Nathan was still asleep, and it was lovely to get into bed with him for a cuddle. We subsequently slept until 1pm. Nathan is still jet-lagged from his trip to the US, so we’ve done very little all day. The hot weather has sort of broken. It’s muggy, and slightly rainy, so I feel like a wet dog.

I’m watching telly and suffering slightly from a jippy tummy, which I think has been caused by a combination of awful food and brown hotel water. I now long to get back into a regime of early starts and plenty of exercise. It is tempting to immediately start writing the Requiem for London, but I think there’s still a great deal of research to be done before I can get on with that.

I forget to mention yesterday that one of the women on the conference yesterday suddenly announced that her father had photographed ABBA back in the early 1980s! She threw it in rather casually; almost as though she were slightly embarrassed by the fact. I obviously immediately swamped her with questions and discovered that, not only had her father photographed ABBA, but he’d actually taken the album covers for Super Trouper and The Vistors; that dark, brooding, epic and haunting photograph that I’d lost myself in so many times as a child. I know every corner of that photograph. I have studied every picture on the wall behind the band. I still remember the slightly gluey smell of the inside sleeve, the sofas that I used to sit on whilst listening to it, and the sense of sadness I felt when I peered into the faces. ABBA knew the album was the end of the road, and it showed.

She revealed that the lamps in the photograph had actually come from her house, and that her brother currently owned the one which lights Agnetha on the left-hand side of the picture.

They’d apparently done another photo shoot for the album cover, which featured the band coming out of a car onto a darkened street. This was rejected. To my knowledge I’ve never seen any of these alternative photos, and wonder how much they’d be worth now. Unfortunately, after her father had died, she sold and threw away many of the photos that he’d taken. ABBA, to her, were just a slightly embarrassing pop group, of whom most Swedes felt greatly ashamed. She seemed genuinely surprised that I was so interested in her stories.

350 years ago, and Pepys went to visit Lord Sandwich. He was stopped on many occasions during his journey across London by trainebands from the City of London; groups of Militia, who wanted to make sure that people were seen to be mourning for the Duke of York’s son’s death. Many of the shops were shut. Pepys went to an ordinary; a tavern where they could eat and drink as much as they liked for a fixed fee, which in this instance was 18d. Pepys said they had “very good cheer.” The place, in his view, was very good value for money. He got very drunk with Mr Creed and his wife, who we’re told sung absolutely beautifully.

Prix de Circom

I am now the proud recipient of a Prix de Circom, following what has to be one of the most surreal award ceremonies ever staged. The whole thing was being broadcast live on Romanian TV, and an entire symphony orchestra had been crammed into a white marquee, which was also lined with rather chi-chi-looking tables. The place looked lovely, but the organisation of the evening left a great deal to be desired. Everything was wonderfully good-natured and a huge amount of fun, but the event was somewhat shambolic.


I don’t really know where to start. Perhaps with the presenter, who was attempting to do simultaneous translations from Romanian into English, which at one point made such little sense that everyone was forced to look at their shoes with a placid smile carved onto their faces, lest they should catch someone else’s eye and burst into uncontrollable laughter!

The first award went to a Bulgarian film-maker, a wonderful bloke, who interviews people in the back of a taxi. They played part of his show on a giant screen, but there was no sound, other than the whistling winds of shame. He went up onto the stage to collect his award, accompanied by the symphony orchestra playing the utterly portentous, Also Sprach Zarathustra, which didn’t exactly feel like the sort of celebratory music you’d expect to accompany such a joyous occasion. His award, for best newcomer, was named after one of the leading supporters of Circom, a wonderful journalist who’d very tragically died on her way to the conference a few years ago. As he collected his award, the presenter called for hush and said how marvellously poignant it was that his films were shot in a taxi. And why was this poignant? That's right, because the woman who’d given her name to the award had DIED in a taxi!

As he left the stage, the orchestra played Also Sprach Zarathustra again, as they would a further ten times that night, in fact every time someone got up to collect an award. Sadly, the section they were playing took at least 3 minutes to complete, by which point the winner of the award had triumphantly returned to his or her seat and the rest of us had been forced to sit and twiddle our thumbs.

On the table next to us, an interloper in the shape of a rather rotund Romanian lady with hair the colour of her bright red cardigan, had come in off the street and sat down to watch the awards. She kept turning to the people on her table and asking with incredulity if they’d all won awards. As the food arrived, security people carried her away. As it turned out, I’m sure everyone would have gladly donated what they were about to eat to her.

The food was hysterically awful. There were plates and plates of meat coupled with little soggy piles of indecipherable vegetables which had been boiled into mulch. Someone described the carrots as “little cubes of colourful water.” Rather hysterically, I was sitting on a table with a group of Parisian snobs, who were simply looking at the food and shaking their heads. I overheard one of them whispering; “c’est un haricot vert, non?” Or words to that effect.

Unfortunately there was a lack of a vegetarian alternative. A woman waitress tried to put a plate of meat in front of me and I said; “oh, sorry, no, I’m a vegetarian.” She responded by shrugging her shoulders, throwing the food down in front of me and walking away. According to some accounts around the table, she also let out a little grunt, as though I’d said out loud what I was thinking, which was that she looked like a fat, ugly version of 1980s singer Hazell Dean. A moment later I took the offending plate, handed it to her, and said; “now take this away... without attitude!” A few minutes later, the plate arrived again, simply with everything but the soggy vegetables taken away. I wouldn’t have minded other than that I’d been given exactly the same thing for lunch!

By this point the orchestra had gone home and been replaced by a panpipe and saxophone version of Take My Breath Away, which was going round in circles. But imagine our combined surprise when they started to de-rig the venue as we ate. First all the lights came down, and then they started to dismantle the marquee. A truck got driven into the side of the space and filled everything with the stench of exhaust smoke. By the time we’d been given our desserts, they’d removed all the flowers from the tables and left us sitting in nothing but the house lights.

With each new problem, I became increasingly hysterical. I had a very very lovely evening! Thank you Circom, but more importantly, thank you, Romania. But please don’t ever win the Eurovision Song Contest! I don't think my nerves would cope.

Benjamin and his award

... By the way, why do you suppose all the water in the hotel is brown?

Today we did a workshop, where we played the making of the Symphony for Yorkshire to a group of conference attendees. It went down very well. I think sometimes that people don’t realise quite how much time, energy and love goes into these projects, and think this particular documentary shows this aspect very well.

After lunch we went for a stroll around Timisoara, which remains a deeply bizarre place. The weather was stunning, however, and after visiting a department store which had obviously not changed since the days of Ceausescu, we found a stunning spot by the river, and simply basked in the sun’s glow all day. It was wonderfully relaxing. Alison and Keith got utterly rat-arsed, which was fairly infectious and made me feel a little giddy and naughty.

We ended the day on Keith’s balcony, pouring water onto the street below in an attempt to confuse and surprise passers by.

Look at the light!

May 6th 1661, and Pepys was up and out of his lodgings in Guildford by 4am, which is the time I have to be up tomorrow. One assumes the trip back to London was uneventful, for Pepys only talks about eating cake.

On arriving home, he was very disappointed to discover that his workmen hadn’t done a great deal more on the house. Elizabeth was dispatched to Pepys’ father’s, and Pepys went and sat with Lady Batten. Both Sir Williams were in Deptford. Pepys heard that the Duke of York’s son had died and was less than charitable. “I believe [the news] will please every body; and I hear that the Duke and his Lady themselves are not much troubled at it.” Quite why he was so unpleasant is unclear. It's maybe because it was known that The Duke, who would go on to become the next King, was a practising Catholic. His son, therefore, would very much be in line for the throne, particularly if Charles himself didn't get his act together. There was also some question as to the child’s legitimacy. I’m sure, however, the parents were not “untroubled” by the news. That would be just weird.



Hello London. This is Timisoara.

Hello London, this is Timisoara calling. Are you receiving me?


I am in Romania, in a very strange city near the country’s western border with Hungary. The flight here seemed to take no time at all. We went up and down so quickly that I barely had time to work myself up into a tizzy. Furthermore, I don't think I have ever been ushered through a passport control and a baggage handling system so speedily. One gets the impression that not many planes land here.

The taxi from the airport took us through dusty fields, delineated by tall pampas grasses, which reminded me of parts of the deep south of America. There were peculiar adverts on strange billboards, unfamiliar road signs, boarded-over cafes, strange shops selling weed killer and grand houses which seemed to be very slowly turning into dust. The grass by the side of the roads was already turning slightly yellow.

The outskirts of Timisoara looked very run down. This isn’t a wealthy European city. Perhaps it wants to be, but I suspect its people will always look slightly down-trodden and careworn. Men sit on benches on street corners smoking cigars, young girls walk around in the fashion of twenty years ago, huge chunks of plaster are missing from old buildings. It’s very other-worldly; almost as though the town were living in some kind of cine-film.

Keith and Alison in the city centre

The hotel we’re staying in is situated right in the middle of the town. It's very swanky and posh. We’re sandwiched in an area between two incredibly impressive squares where the architecture is like nothing I’ve seen before; very definitely European, but laced with something else; something indefinable. Slightly gothic; very dark. Transylvanian, perhaps. 

We’ve already been exploring, and we sat for some time in a cafe in the larger of the two squares. I mistakenly asked for a hot chocolate, which arrived in the form of an almost solid brown piping hot custard, which I didn’t enjoy in the slightest. What I DID enjoy, however, was that the square was filled with hundreds of little towels and sheets hanging out like someone had just done the mother of all wash-days. I assume it was some kind of art installation, but it was very beautiful to watch them flapping around in the breeze. I have also enjoyed finding little book sellers on the streets. I was amused to see the story of Oliver Cromwell translated into Romanian.

The Prix de Circom is awarded as part of the Circom Conference. It's wonderful to go to an award ceremony knowing that you’ve won. I don’t have to polish up my fake smile or mouth the words “thank God” when the worthy film about people with mental disability wins instead of mine! I suppose it’s also a good opportunity to network. It’s one of the only positives about being a freelancer. I genuinely could up sticks and go and do a project for a European broadcaster if there was some interest. That said, my recent issues with the England project and the Lincolnshire Poachers has meant that I've become incredibly wary of those who promise too much.

May 5th, 1661, and Pepys remained in Guildford. There was a visit to a church, followed by a lengthy discussion about religion, which lasted so long that they forgot to go to church again in the afternoon. Pepys spent some time larking about in the garden of his lodgings with Mr Creed, seeing which of the two men could jump the furthest from an old fountain. Pepys won; his prize, a quart of sack.

Pepys and Elizabeth had a terrible row over supper, bizarrely about the relative beauty of one of their acquaintances, Mrs Pierce. I can just imagine the conversation. Pepys goes overboard talking about her beauty (which in fairness, was legendary; we’re told that by her 19th child in 1678, she still only looked about 20 years old!) Elizabeth feels offended and jealous and tells Pepys that Mrs Pierce really isn’t all that. Instead of backing down, Pepys labours the point, which makes Elizabeth angry, which causes a row, which means they have to go for a walk across the fields just to calm down. I wonder if he ever learnt!

Chavtastic

May the Fourth be with each and every one of you! I’ve always wanted to crack that joke legitimately.

I’m on my way to Romania. Or rather, I’m on my way to Luton, where I’ll be staying tonight on my way to Romania. I have that very strong suspicion that I've left something vitally important at home. Passport? Check. Wallet? Check. £7 worth of Romanian currency that my brother dug out of a drawer? Check. All present and correct, Sir, but I guarantee that there'll be something missing.

I feel all sun-kissed and warm. I've been in Kensal Green Cemetery, and, for the umpteenth day on the trot, it's been beautifully sunny. Farmers are now panicking. Their fields are dying. There's a real threat of drought, which I refuse to believe. Do they have hosepipe bans in Texas? Of course they don’t! We just don’t know how to manage rain water in this country... or snow... or sunshine for that matter...

My companion today was the lovely Rebecca, an actress who performed in the Pepys Motet. When she's not acting, she does historical research, so she was the perfect person to have at my side. She's also great fun to be around, and looked like something from Elvira Madigan with all her ABBA-blonde locks glowing like white straw in the sunlight.

We realised today that there is a great deal of humour to be found in Graveyards. It is utterly astounding what people think it’s appropriate to write on graves. There was a lengthy "apology" from one dead person, which rambled on for about ten rhyming couplets-worth of nonsense, which went something along the lines of... “I’m sorry I left so suddenly. You see, I'd been called by God, and he said there wasn't time for me to say goodbye..." As if you'd assume that this was going through your loved-one's head!

But I think it was the naff four-line poems that got me most of all. So many dreadful rhymes, with the verbs contorted and twisted at the end of lines. "For to do" poems, with terrible scantion; the sorts of things you find on Countdown, or on the inside of Clinton Cards. The same poem was often written on countless graves. In one instance, the very same thing was on two graves next to each other. Imagine the horror of choosing a verse in a funeral parlour and finding it on the grave next door. An eternity of the sort of shame I'm told women feel when they turn up to a party in the same dress as someone else!

One corner of the cemetery was Chav-tastic. Now, obviously Barry and Garry were their mother's pride and joy until both were ripped from her in an untimely chavvy accident... But why chose the shot of Gary in a Puma track suit and Barry in a Burberry baseball cap and a gold chain to have etched into their gravestone?

We were also astonished to see one particular gravestone, marking the spot where the father of a well-known character from a well-known English pop group is buried. For the sake of this blog I’ll refer to said “pop star” to as Naffy from M-subz. Now, surely it’s not necessary to sign your father's grave "your son, Dappy... Sorry... Naffy from M-subz?” Like your father would think it was from someone else! How about using your actual name? Or is this just an attempt to show your fans what a caring man you are?

On the tube home from the cemetery, I finally solved a mystery which has been bugging me for some time. A few months ago, I was in Soho, when a man walked past me and into a Sushi cafe. He was startlingly handsome, he had a proud gait, and he was wearing a chalk striped suit, but instead of hair, had a sort of swimmer’s cap made of sparkly sequins. I was incredibly impressed. He’d managed to get away with the look without seeming camp or strange. He reminded me of a modern-day Leigh Bowery. I think about him every time I walk past the Sushi place and often wonder who he was and why he was dressed so arrestingly. Today, I saw a poster which featured a cartoon image of the same man. I discover that his name is Philip Levine, and that’s he’s the self-proclaimed world's first "head artist". He displays art on his head. It's nothing that Philip, George or Leigh Bowery weren't doing in the 1980s, but it IS impressive!

Look, here he is now...

Saturday May 4th, 1661, and Pepys and co. took a coach from Petersfield to Guildford, where they stayed at the Red Lyon, the best Inn in the town, and the place where the King had stayed recently. They did a bit of sightseeing; a hospital and a free school, where they were treated very well by the headmaster, John Graile. Pepys chatted into the night with the waiters and bar staff at his lodgings who were mercilessly taking the mickey out of a local dignitary, which Pepys thought was great fun.

Belligerence

There's a sort of arsey belligerence filtering through the air today. I was awoken at about 9am by the home phone ringing. For some reason I decided to answer, a decision I immediately regretted. It's always the same. You say hello, and then there's that little 2 second pause; just enough to make you realise that the person you're about to speak to is 'phoning from a call centre in New Delhi. "Hello, may I speak to Mr David Teel?" The script never changes. This is always the moment I realise for certain I'm talking to a cold-caller. No one calls me by my real name, David, unless I'm at the doctors, the dentist, the job centre or pass port control. "Brace yourself for questions about broadband", I thought


I usually ask if I can put them on hold. I then sit down at the piano and play something weird until they get bored and hang up. Sometimes they're still there 3 minutes later, so I'm forced to put them back on "hold" again. I enjoy playing these little games, it's so much more entertaining than saying no politely.

Today's caller caught me in bed, however, so I decided simply to repeat everything she said to me. It's the perfect outlet for my echolalia!

"Hello, may I speak to Mr. David Teel?"
"Hello, may I speak to Mr. David Teel?" I responded.

There was a stunned pause

"Is that Mr. David Teel?" she asked
"Is that Mr. David Teel?" I replied

Now, I've done this before, and I tell you it can go on for some time. Today's caller, however, was obviously already having a bit of a bad day, and wasn't interested in my hysterical goading. "Maybe that's Mr F*#k You!" she said, before hanging up. Belligerence, I tell you...

I then went to Highgate Tube. No one was at the ticket office and two out of the three ticket machines were broken. A huge queue of people was standing behind a poor woman who couldn't get her ten pound note to go into the machine properly. A gaggle of LU staff stood watching. No sense of urgency. No one rushed over to help her. It was obviously not their job's worth.

After buying my ticket, I went up to the gaggle, and asked why the ticket office was closed, why two out of three machines were broken, and why a cluster of LU staff were merely watching the mayhem. "It's the cuts" the woman said, belligerently, "the ticket office at Highgate now closes at 11am. We don't have the staff." "I'm sorry to hear that," I said "I used to like the staff." She smiled like a mother whose child has just loudly shat its pants, so I continued, "surely this places the emphasis on your trying to keep the machines in good nick?" "I'm sure someone will come and fix them at some point" came the belligerent response. I smiled like a mother whose child had just loudly shat its pants.

As I walked down the escalators, I wondered if this really is the way we want the cuts to affect us? Instead of taking it out on the government, we're punishing each other. Not a single person in that queue today wants Highgate station to be understaffed. No one wants LU staff to go without work, but if our discomfort is met by arsey belligerence, then a vicious cycle begins. We start to notice the little clusters of LU staff deliberately refusing to help. We get frustrated with the people who we feel are being jobsworths. We lash out. We shout. We get people sacked. I see it everywhere. I'm guilty of it myself. In the gym, phoning councils, in the queue for the job centre, even with my dealings with the London Pride charity. The first absolute casualty of this recession is politeness.

Having given up with people for today, I turned my attention to our little bee. Tash sent me a text last night, which correctly identified the creature as a Mason Bee. These fairly rare, solitary creatures apparently make perfect "garden pets" for children because they only sting when actually squeezed. A little more research, plus a 'phone call to a lovely beekeeper indicated that I had something of a problem, which put me in something of a quandary. It seems my little friend is actually a young queen, who has, by all accounts, already laid about 15 eggs in my television set.

The bee keeper was laughing hysterically when I started to explain what had happened. He'd never heard of a bee nesting in a telly before. I'd shut the window and the poor creature was getting rather frantic on the other side of the glass. It was breaking my heart.

He said he was pleased that I cared about the creature's well-being and reminded that bees are a protected species, and that my only option was to try and get the nest out of the telly and onto my window ledge. The bee's ferociously accurate sense of smell would guide her to the new location, where her family-rearing would hopefully continue.

I tried to ease the muddy, mulchy mess out of the two holes in the telly, but it immediately started to crumble. First dusty mud, then wax, then piles of perfect Easter yellow honeycomb. I felt like a murderer and 'phoned my Mum, who suggested I pour all the detritus into the clean canister of a large felt tip pen, which I did. I then put the pen onto the window ledge under a brick, and I hope to God the bee will return, tidy up the proper mess I've made, and get on with raising her children on the other side of the kitchen window!

How much mess can come from one bee?!

The rest of my day was spent in the City of London. I went to Postman's Park to read and photograph the peculiar inscriptions there. Pure Victorian sentimentality; ceramic odes to people who'd died during acts of bravery, which make hysterical reading for 21st Century cynics.

"Sarah Smith, Pantomime artiste at Prince's Theatre, died of terrible injuries received when attempting, in her inflammable dress, to extinguish the flames which had engulfed her companion, January 24th, 1863."

Someone had scrawled something in felt tip pen on the bench below, which felt rather more heartfelt;

"Eddie was here. Gone but not forgotten. Died trying to save a woman trapped in the Thames. Couldn't swim himself."

Or was it a joke? Remember that I don't tend to understand jokes!

I went from Postman's Park to St Olave's, Pepys' Church, to see if there were any plaques or gravestones worth setting to music there, before heading, via Bunhill Burial Ground in Old Street, to my friend, Nicky's house, where I met her delightful son, Oscar for the first time. We had tea and biscuits, and she seemed embarrassed that he was crying a little bit, but babies cry! I suppose it's the mother's prerogative to want their's to be the well-behaved angel.

On the way home, I found out that the Pride London people no longer think I have the time to make a film for them. Interesting that my own opinion on this matter seems so irrelevant! Slightly angry, I went for a run, and didn't stop until I'd run around the circumference of the entire Heath. A first for me... about 6 miles.

Friday 3rd March, 1661, and Pepys was still in Portsmouth. He started the day with an early morning walk around the town. The toads that he took with him decided it would be a great idea to attempt to get him the freedom of the town, but the Mayor, Richard Lardner, was unsurprisingly, having none of it.

Pepys then oversaw the payment of various sailors, before taking a coach to Petersfield. The day, from Pepys’ perspective was rather spoilt by the arsey belligerence of Mr Creed, who’d accompanied him on the journey. Pepys’ insult is worthy of Shakespeare referring to; “the exceeding unmannerly and most epicure-like palate of Mr Creed.” Ouch!

Fallen Tree

This morning I discovered that my resident bee has completely filled the hole in the side of the telly with a weird mulch and moved on to a corresponding hole at the back. I am bemused.


I decided to visit Kensal Rise Cemetery this afternoon. It took me 45 minutes to get there, but it was shut. Apparently, they close at 1pm on bank holidays, which must be incredibly frustrating for those with loved ones buried there. It is still a functioning graveyard, so surely a bank holiday afternoon is exactly the sort of time that someone might want to pay a visit. The parking regulations around the cemetery are also extremely unsatisfactory. Despite it being a bank holiday, quite a number of cars parked in residents only bays had been given tickets.

Still, en route to the graveyard, two astonishing things happened. Firstly, Radio 4 informed me that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by a swift and highly effective American military operation. The world seems to be celebrating, but I'm not sure it's exactly good news. Capture the bastard, sure. Subject him to the humiliation of a Western prison, but I find myself feeling slightly suspicious when I hear that the man was conveniently "buried at sea." We've all seen the pictures of a dead Saddam Hussein. Perhaps the shots of Bin Laden are just too gruesome. I don't exactly doubt that the man is dead. I'm just not convinced he's only just been killed. Obviously, I also fear retaliation. I worry about Nathan getting home from New York but I also envy his being there. Thousands of people were apparently on the streets of the city celebrating last night, which must have been a very interesting sight. The English, of course, despite 7/7, remain decorous and understated to the last.

The other strange occurrence came in the form of a massive lime tree which had come down, smashed into a parked car, and entirely blocked Southwood Lane. Heaven knows what ripped it from its roots. It's blustery in London at the moment, but not gale-like. A group of bemused Highgate Residents was standing around the fallen tree, some filming it on their mobile phones, all saying they didn't know who they should be telling about this on a bank holiday. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it fell to me to call the police. There is a frightening tendency for people nowadays to simply film events without thinking to tell the relevant authorities. I was horrified to learn, for example, that someone filmed Ian Baynham's murder on Trafalgar Square, but didn't go to the police because he "just thought it was someone getting beaten up."

I've just been on a tour of the Western side of Highgate Cemetery, the bit the public aren’t allowed to visit unsupervised. It’s also the place where Alexander Litvineko is buried. They haven’t yet selected his headstone, so a rather eerie photograph of him stares out from behind a pile of earth and flowers.

The tour was incredible. That part of the cemetery clings to a hillside which is filled with tall trees and all sorts of bizarre monuments, mausoleums and megaliths. The most exciting part is the Egyptian Avenue, which looks like some kind of bazaar in Tangiers. It was magical. We shuffeld into cool catacombs and peered into ornate tombs with gold-leaf ceilings. At one point we were paid a visit by a beautiful baby fox, which darted out of a burrow and stared at us quite happily for some time. The tour guide was even gracious enough to point out some of her favourite inscriptions to help me with my research.

350 years ago, Pepys spent the day exploring Portsmouth. He walked along the city walls, met with Navy officers and visited a ship called The Mantagu, which he described as “fine”. In the evening, he paid a rather macabre visit to the room where George Villiers, 1st Duke of Buckingham, was murdered by John Felton in 1628. Villiers was the favourite and possible lover of King James I of England, who rather weirdly described him as his “sweet child and wife.” He was one of the most rewarded courtiers in British history. John Felton was hanged in London later in the year and his body was returned to Portsmouth, where it became somewhat revered. Obviously Villiers wasn't as popular with the populace as he was with the monarch.

The West Cemetery

Jacqueline du Pre

The bee in our television continues to busy himself nesting, or making honey, or whatever he thinks he's doing. There's now a sort of brown waxy lattice work forming inside the hole. It looks a bit like ear wax. Heaven knows where this is going to end. A swarm of some sort? A scene from a Hitchcock film?


I'm currently in Muswell Hill having lunch in a "British" restaurant. Quite what is British about a chick pea burger, I'm not sure. Quite what is nice about said burger is also a question I struggle to answer! They're playing the greatest hits of Paul McCartney, which is making me feel a bit queezy. Ebony and Ivory. The only song ever to rhyme "keyboard" with "oh Lord." Ghastly!

I spent the morning in yet another cemetery in Hampstead Garden Suburb. This one is across the road from the crematorium I visited at the end of last week. It seems to be a primarily Jewish resting place and it was incredibly calming to wander through the graves in the sunshine - and at times very moving. Jewish culture seems to place a greater emphasis on the people left behind, rather than platitudes about being safe in the arms of Jesus etc. It feels much more personal to read "sadly missed father of x, brother of y and wife of z." Sometimes there are great long lists of names.

The shock today, however, was stumbling upon the grave of Jaqueline du Pre. I had no idea she was buried up there and found the experience of finding her purely by chance incredibly unsettling. Du Pre, in my opinion, remains by far the greatest 'cellist, if not one of the greatest musicians, of all time. She inspired me as a child and continues to inspire me. I cried as a teenager when she died and still have the press cuttings that I carefully stuck into a book. "Beloved wife of Daniel Barenboim" the grave said, and I'm sure at one time she was. The top of the grave was a bit mucky, and I'm not ashamed to say that I went to a tap, got some tissue paper, and washed and wiped it clean. I felt a little pathetic doing it, but it felt like the least I could do to thank her for her interpretation of the Elgar 'Cello Concerto.

May 1st, 1661, and Pepys and co continued their journey to Portsmouth, stopping off at Petersfield, by all accounts to play bowls. He doesn't say what time they reached Portsmouth, but described it as a "pleasant and strong" place. He was considerably less impressed by his lodgings at the Red Lion, ending the day's entry, "merry we were, but troubled to have no better lodgings." I know how that feels!