It’s been a day of admin, so feel free to skip this blog if you’re looking for something interesting to read. The day went something like this; wrote on the kitchen table, went to Finchley to copy music, had a row in post office, had row in the gym, came back home and did more work.
The two rows were triggered by imbeciles. The woman in the post office was particularly stupid and unhelpful. “I need to get this package to Leeds by Friday” I said, very clearly. “Do you want to send it first class?” she asked. "Yes, I think I do" I said, "how much would that cost?" “If you send it first class," she interrupted, "it might get there on Friday, or it might not arrive until Monday.” I did a cartoon double take. “But it’s Wednesday” I said, “and we’re not in the third world.” Of course, I immediately regretted the previous statement, because the woman was plainly of Indian origin. “Surely sending it first class means it will probably reach its destination tomorrow, or by Friday by the latest?" I said, "Surely, that's how the Royal Mail always used to work.” She sighed, a great big elephantine sigh. “If you want to guarantee it gets there on Friday, you’ll need to send it by guaranteed mail, and you’ll have to send it tomorrow, or it will get there before Friday.” “No!" I said "I said, I said it needed to arrive before Friday, not on Friday...” And with that, I gave up, and simply paid an extortionate £7 to make sure the package arrived on time.
I wondered if this was a new jolly on the part of post office staff; pushing up the profits by exploiting the fact that no one trusts the postage system any more. Now that first class only “guarantees” delivery within five days, I'm not sure that sending letters has any purpose at all. The system is broken. They've closed down half the post offices, you have to wait for hours to be served... There'll come a time when it's quicker, and cheaper, to deliver packages by hand, through a network of friends travelling up and down the country. I'm currently wondering if I know someone who might be going up to Leeds within the next couple of days who might stick the package in their bag. Or maybe I should just leave it in the loo of a Virgin Train...
The argument in the gym was triggered by the guy who stands on the reception and looks like Diana Ross. The showers at the gym were all broken. Well, the three cubicles I visited were. One didn’t have a soap dispenser, another didn’t have hot water, and the last had lost its shower head, so water was just pouring out of a hole like a tap.
As I left the gym, I asked Ms Ross when we might expect the showers to be repaired. “They was [sic] repaired yesterday,” he said. “But at least three of them are still broken” I replied. “It’s going to take a while for the heating system to sort itself out" came the response. “But two of my issues are nothing to do with the heating system.” By then, he’d lost interest, and started doodling something on a piece of paper. “I see you’ve finished talking to me.” I said. He slowly looked up from his pad and shrugged. I lost my temper “I was talking to you!” I said. “You haven't answered my question, you’ve completely lost interest and now you're painting a pretty picture on a pad.” “You’re being rude to me” he said “I don’t have to listen to that.” He’d have said the same thing if I’d have sworn.
I realised at that point that I was getting nowhere, so stormed out, gracefully... I regret now that I didn't say what was rolling around in my mind; “Look, Ms Ross, I realise it must be very hard for you to be working in a gym when you used to front The Supremes, but you have a job to do, and you’re not doing it very well.” There would, of course, have been no point in saying anything. He wouldn't have known who Diana Ross was, would have taken the comment as a racist slur and lethargy has very much set in at LA Fitness. None of them care anymore. It’s a classic example of "broken window" syndrome. The staff are bored of customers whinging, because their superiors never address any of the issues that get raised, which makes the customers rattier, and the staff less interested as a form of self-preservation. And unfortunately the same situation is happening in libraries, hospitals and schools across the country. If in doubt, blame the recession.
I read today of a former ballet dancer with crippled legs who was told that the local authority wouldn’t pay
for the night care needed to enable her to go to the loo. They suggested instead that she might like to wear incontinent pads. But the woman is not incontinent. She simply can’t reach the loo in the night unassisted. So, because of government cuts, she has to lie in her own urine. It's difficult enough to maintain one's dignity as one gets older, but this is surely wrong? It’s astonishing what we’re allowing ourselves to become. Under New Labour, we had ten years of making everyone aspire to middle class values; vast sums of money were wasted on putting hundreds of thick people through university. We all knew our rights. We all whinged about the health service, and waiting times, but now we can’t even look after a crippled former ballerina. It’s pathetic. And watch out, people, because this discontent will spread. People will start to blame some minority group or other, and a Hitler figure will be just around the corner waiting to pounce.
Saturday July 6th, 1661, and Pepys was awoken with the news that his Uncle Robert had finally died. His response was predictably frank; “Sorry in some respect, glad in my expectations in another respect.” Our hero was, of course, in line for his uncle’s estate. Pepys journeyed into the City to tell a number of relatives the sad news, and then bought a pair of riding boots, grabbed a couple of horses and a messenger, and rode with haste to Brampton, just up the A1 in Huntingdonshire. He was actually there by 9pm. Not bad, really, for a 70 mile or so journey.
Pepys’ father was well, and his uncle, as predicted, was dead and lying in a coffin “standing upon joynt-stools in the chimney in the hall.” The corpse had obviously started to putrefy in the hot weather, so Pepys demanded that it be taken out and stored in the garden, watched over by two men.
Pepys’ Aunt Anne had taken to bed, and was in a “nasty ugly pickle” which made Pepys “sick” to see. Pepys shared a bed with his father “greedy to see the will” but not so impatient that it wouldn't wait until the morning.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Opera North
So, Opera North has got itself into a nasty little pickle, with a community project in Bridlington. I’ve never really liked Opera North, not since players from its orchestra led an unnecessary walk-out during a session for A Symphony for Yorkshire. And judging by the latest scandal, its players aren’t the only ones with a total disregard for the creative process.
It seems Lee Hall, the writer of Billy Elliot, has refused to remove references to a character’s sexuality from his libretto for a community opera, because a school, who were chosen to perform as part of the piece, felt a homosexual character was not something its pupils were ready to embrace. The language was in no way graphic. The offending line was simply a character saying “I am queer. I prefer a lad to a lass.” Opera North, who organised the project, are trying to blame everyone other than themselves. In fact, a recent statement, attempts to flag the problem up as simply an unfortunate argument between Hall and the Local Education Authority that they were powerless to prevent. But this doesn’t ring true. Here’s why I feel that Opera North needs to fall very squarely on its own sword...
1) Homophobia is an issue. It wrecks lives and it causes huge amounts of unnecessary pain. Every piece of research that has been carried out on the subject suggests that the only way to deal with homophobia is by “normalising” or “usualising” it within schools. By pandering to a school with old-fashioned or inappropriate views on the subject, Opera North is guilty of homophobia. They should have sussed out the school right at the start of the process, told them the kinds of issues that the work would be exploring, and been prepared to walk away in favour of a more enlightened establishment, with a more intelligent head teacher. The bottom line is that the gay community has been offended, and Opera North needs to apologise.
2) Censorship. We do not live in communist East Germany. There is no place for the censorship of art in this country. Very young children are subjected to all sorts of inappropriate images on the television and on the Internet on a daily basis. Just as it’s the parents’ duty to turn the television off if something gets a bit racy, it’s a school’s duty to withdraw from a project if it’s not for them. It cannot expect to change the work of art itself, or hold a creative process to ransom until it gets its way. An organisation like Opera North should be backing its creative team. If you want a well-respected writer like Hall to work for you, then you have to accept what he writes. There was, after all, a gay character who wore frocks in Billy Elliot, so he was hardly exploring new terrain.
3) Mismanagement. However you look at this, Opera North needs to take responsibility for wasting tens of thousands of pounds of public funding. It also needs to take responsibility for the scores of people in Bridlington who no longer have a work to perform that they’ve spent months rehearsing. Part of organising a community project like this is identifying potential problems before they emerge. I cannot understand how a school would be allowed to rehearse for months on end without, one assumes, seeing a full script of the piece they’re performing. One also assumes that the written material was approved by Opera North before being handed to the school. Schools pull out of community projects all the time, generally because their teachers can’t be bothered to go the extra mile required to give their kids an opportunity of a lifetime. I can’t understand, therefore, why an entire community opera ground to a halt because a single school pulled out. Mismanagement.
We live in troubled times. There is so little money out there for community projects at the moment. The overall figure of this Bridlington opera has been put at £100K, which is a bewildering amount to go up in flames. To put things in context, I made A1: The Road Musical for £45K, and I think the Symphony for Yorkshire came in at about the same amount. Someone, somewhere along the line is seriously taking the mickey. Heads need to roll at Opera North, and their right to have public funding needs to be questioned. If a company in the private sector suddenly made a mistake to the tune of £100K, they could well go under, and I am sick and tired of living in a country that continually bails out its inept workers.
I received a text message today which read "due to new legislation, those struggling with debt can now apply to have it written off." Whatever happened to taking responsibility for your own actions?
Friday 5th July 1661, and Pepys had very little to say for himself. He worked at the office and then went to visit Sir William Batten, where there was much merriment... and a venison pasty.
It seems Lee Hall, the writer of Billy Elliot, has refused to remove references to a character’s sexuality from his libretto for a community opera, because a school, who were chosen to perform as part of the piece, felt a homosexual character was not something its pupils were ready to embrace. The language was in no way graphic. The offending line was simply a character saying “I am queer. I prefer a lad to a lass.” Opera North, who organised the project, are trying to blame everyone other than themselves. In fact, a recent statement, attempts to flag the problem up as simply an unfortunate argument between Hall and the Local Education Authority that they were powerless to prevent. But this doesn’t ring true. Here’s why I feel that Opera North needs to fall very squarely on its own sword...
1) Homophobia is an issue. It wrecks lives and it causes huge amounts of unnecessary pain. Every piece of research that has been carried out on the subject suggests that the only way to deal with homophobia is by “normalising” or “usualising” it within schools. By pandering to a school with old-fashioned or inappropriate views on the subject, Opera North is guilty of homophobia. They should have sussed out the school right at the start of the process, told them the kinds of issues that the work would be exploring, and been prepared to walk away in favour of a more enlightened establishment, with a more intelligent head teacher. The bottom line is that the gay community has been offended, and Opera North needs to apologise.
2) Censorship. We do not live in communist East Germany. There is no place for the censorship of art in this country. Very young children are subjected to all sorts of inappropriate images on the television and on the Internet on a daily basis. Just as it’s the parents’ duty to turn the television off if something gets a bit racy, it’s a school’s duty to withdraw from a project if it’s not for them. It cannot expect to change the work of art itself, or hold a creative process to ransom until it gets its way. An organisation like Opera North should be backing its creative team. If you want a well-respected writer like Hall to work for you, then you have to accept what he writes. There was, after all, a gay character who wore frocks in Billy Elliot, so he was hardly exploring new terrain.
3) Mismanagement. However you look at this, Opera North needs to take responsibility for wasting tens of thousands of pounds of public funding. It also needs to take responsibility for the scores of people in Bridlington who no longer have a work to perform that they’ve spent months rehearsing. Part of organising a community project like this is identifying potential problems before they emerge. I cannot understand how a school would be allowed to rehearse for months on end without, one assumes, seeing a full script of the piece they’re performing. One also assumes that the written material was approved by Opera North before being handed to the school. Schools pull out of community projects all the time, generally because their teachers can’t be bothered to go the extra mile required to give their kids an opportunity of a lifetime. I can’t understand, therefore, why an entire community opera ground to a halt because a single school pulled out. Mismanagement.
We live in troubled times. There is so little money out there for community projects at the moment. The overall figure of this Bridlington opera has been put at £100K, which is a bewildering amount to go up in flames. To put things in context, I made A1: The Road Musical for £45K, and I think the Symphony for Yorkshire came in at about the same amount. Someone, somewhere along the line is seriously taking the mickey. Heads need to roll at Opera North, and their right to have public funding needs to be questioned. If a company in the private sector suddenly made a mistake to the tune of £100K, they could well go under, and I am sick and tired of living in a country that continually bails out its inept workers.
I received a text message today which read "due to new legislation, those struggling with debt can now apply to have it written off." Whatever happened to taking responsibility for your own actions?
Friday 5th July 1661, and Pepys had very little to say for himself. He worked at the office and then went to visit Sir William Batten, where there was much merriment... and a venison pasty.
Monday, 4 July 2011
A posh android
I’ve just returned from a run in glorious, glorious early evening sunshine. I ran around the circumference of Hampstead Heath again, and I’ve seldom seen it look so beautiful. I’ve had a nice, hot bubbly bath, and am sitting at the kitchen table with the window open. A cool breeze is making my skin tingle.
Our trip to Brighton yesterday has very much put a spring in my step, as did a nice, long catch-up on the phone with Fiona in Texas, where it’s apparently too hot to leave the house beyond 9am at the moment!
Philippa has been at the dentists today having surgery on her gums, and tells me she can’t eat solids for two weeks as a result. I pity her, and can’t think of anything more miserable than eating baby food, jelly, soup and porridge for a fortnight. Good way to lose weight though, thinking on...
I did a full day’s work today on my brass band reduction of the last movement of the Symphony for Yorkshire. I’m very much enjoying the process, and forcing myself to write in extraordinary detail, which is very good for me. Less good for me was the mother and baby group who met on the sofas at Costa this morning. The babies were all a little hot and tired and one of the Mum’s kept talking to her child in a voice which sounded like Michael Jackson, and was was going through me ever more than the constant wails and shrieks that her little monster was making. “What’s the matter, Bubba?” she said repeatedly, as though her one year-old was going to answer, “well actually, Mummy, I’m bored out of my tiny mind by the excessively dull conversations you’re having with your friends. You’re not giving me enough attention, I don't like the top you're wearing, which is why I keep throwing up on it - and please don’t call me Bubba!” Instead the mother said laughingly, “you really hate it here don’t you, Bubba?” And I wondered at that point why she continued to drag the poor little fella to the cafe...
Personally, I think he was freaked out by one of the other mummies who sounded like a posh android sucking a lemon sherbet whilst singing into a vocoder. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a woman with such a peculiar voice. Her child will grow up ashamed.
Thursday 4th July, 1661, and Pepys went to the King’s Theatre to see Killigrew’s Claracilla being performed. He described it as “well acted” but wrote how sad it was that the theatre was no longer “thronged.” The opening of the all-singing, all-dancing “Opera” in Lincoln’s Inn, had done for it. In fact, it would close within two years. "That's entertainment!" (As Simon Cowell has taken to saying in the most irritating voice every time someone accuses him of being a power-crazy tw*t.)
Pepys heard more news from his father in Huntingdonshire; his Uncle Robert was still ill and still having fits of “stupefaction” which is a word I adore and may well start to use.
In the evening, Pepys went to the Exchange, and then out drinking with his Uncle Wright to the Mitre pub. They were very merry, but Wight was annoyed that Pepys’ father had gone to Huntingdon without telling him..
Pepys also met Mr Batersby, the apothecary at the pub, and the two men got into a chat about “emerods” – or haemorrhoids – Batersby claiming that the best cure for the condition was allowing leeches to suck blood where the sun tends not to shine. Gross.
Our trip to Brighton yesterday has very much put a spring in my step, as did a nice, long catch-up on the phone with Fiona in Texas, where it’s apparently too hot to leave the house beyond 9am at the moment!
Philippa has been at the dentists today having surgery on her gums, and tells me she can’t eat solids for two weeks as a result. I pity her, and can’t think of anything more miserable than eating baby food, jelly, soup and porridge for a fortnight. Good way to lose weight though, thinking on...
I did a full day’s work today on my brass band reduction of the last movement of the Symphony for Yorkshire. I’m very much enjoying the process, and forcing myself to write in extraordinary detail, which is very good for me. Less good for me was the mother and baby group who met on the sofas at Costa this morning. The babies were all a little hot and tired and one of the Mum’s kept talking to her child in a voice which sounded like Michael Jackson, and was was going through me ever more than the constant wails and shrieks that her little monster was making. “What’s the matter, Bubba?” she said repeatedly, as though her one year-old was going to answer, “well actually, Mummy, I’m bored out of my tiny mind by the excessively dull conversations you’re having with your friends. You’re not giving me enough attention, I don't like the top you're wearing, which is why I keep throwing up on it - and please don’t call me Bubba!” Instead the mother said laughingly, “you really hate it here don’t you, Bubba?” And I wondered at that point why she continued to drag the poor little fella to the cafe...
Personally, I think he was freaked out by one of the other mummies who sounded like a posh android sucking a lemon sherbet whilst singing into a vocoder. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a woman with such a peculiar voice. Her child will grow up ashamed.
Thursday 4th July, 1661, and Pepys went to the King’s Theatre to see Killigrew’s Claracilla being performed. He described it as “well acted” but wrote how sad it was that the theatre was no longer “thronged.” The opening of the all-singing, all-dancing “Opera” in Lincoln’s Inn, had done for it. In fact, it would close within two years. "That's entertainment!" (As Simon Cowell has taken to saying in the most irritating voice every time someone accuses him of being a power-crazy tw*t.)
Pepys heard more news from his father in Huntingdonshire; his Uncle Robert was still ill and still having fits of “stupefaction” which is a word I adore and may well start to use.
In the evening, Pepys went to the Exchange, and then out drinking with his Uncle Wright to the Mitre pub. They were very merry, but Wight was annoyed that Pepys’ father had gone to Huntingdon without telling him..
Pepys also met Mr Batersby, the apothecary at the pub, and the two men got into a chat about “emerods” – or haemorrhoids – Batersby claiming that the best cure for the condition was allowing leeches to suck blood where the sun tends not to shine. Gross.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Brighton Rocks
Today has been a beautiful summer's day and I feel sun-kissed, salty-skinned and utterly carefree! I woke up this morning feeling a little blue, so Nathan immediately packed me into the car and asked where we were heading. We called Meriel and she was up for an adventure, so we decided to go to Brighton for the day. And what a glorious day...
We kicked things off on the North Lanes, with veggie breakfasts in a cafe called Breakfast At Tiffany's. Great food, but the waitress, a surly Pole, did her best to leave an unpleasant taste in our mouths!
I particularly wanted to visit Brighton, because I'd bought my favourite tie on a trip to the city earlier in the year, and wanted to see if the shop sold the same thing in different colours. It did, so I proudly walked away with a bag filled with a variety of ties in an assortment of colours. I also bought myself a fern green bowler hat, which felt like a fairly decadent purchase, but I'd always wanted one and it was cheap!
We went to the beach and stood on a concrete platform which jutted out into the sea. We posed for photographs as the waves threw bucket loads of foam all over our backs. Meriel swam - and weed - in the sea, which we found very amusing. In fact, she was the perfect companion for the entire day; a brilliant blend of wittiness and spontaneity.
We went to the pier and ate deformed doughnuts, one of which was plucked from my hand by an outrageous seagull! One moment, I was bringing it up to my mouth, the next, I was aware of a fluttering sound above my head and the doughnut was sailing into the sky attached to the beak of a very naughty bird!
We went on the waltzers and were disappointed not to have a greasy, burly traveller in 80s denim, standing behind us, spinning the cars extra fast to induce a fit of vomiting. Meriel said that the ride was making her feel rather strange in the vagazzel department, which made us laugh for hours. It has to rank with her all time best quote, which was uttered in Cambridge in the summer of 1996; "I'm so happy, I'm jealous of myself!"
We drove to Lewes through country lanes lined with green tunnels of trees. The sun was shining through the branches and shafts of brilliant light were cascading in all directions. It resembled the sort of laser display you might see at the O2.
We called in on Rupert and Uncle Bill, who is due to give birth tomorrow. She is enormous, but carrying all her extra weight in the bump itself, which is the healthiest looking pregnant belly I've ever seen!
She made us scones, which we had with blackberry jam and lashings of cream, whilst looking at photos from the days when we all looked like children. I've known Hils and Mez for almost 20 years; a fact which I find almost bewildering. I almost can't remember not knowing them!
350 years ago, Pepys went to visit Lady Sandwich, and found her in mourning for her brother, who had died that day of the "spotted fever," which could have been anything from measles to typhus, I guess. It was a day of death. Elizabeth was also at a funeral and arrived home later in the day with a remembrance ring, which was the custom back then. I guess no one was far from death in the 17th century - and the plague still hadn't happened!
We kicked things off on the North Lanes, with veggie breakfasts in a cafe called Breakfast At Tiffany's. Great food, but the waitress, a surly Pole, did her best to leave an unpleasant taste in our mouths!
I particularly wanted to visit Brighton, because I'd bought my favourite tie on a trip to the city earlier in the year, and wanted to see if the shop sold the same thing in different colours. It did, so I proudly walked away with a bag filled with a variety of ties in an assortment of colours. I also bought myself a fern green bowler hat, which felt like a fairly decadent purchase, but I'd always wanted one and it was cheap!
We went to the beach and stood on a concrete platform which jutted out into the sea. We posed for photographs as the waves threw bucket loads of foam all over our backs. Meriel swam - and weed - in the sea, which we found very amusing. In fact, she was the perfect companion for the entire day; a brilliant blend of wittiness and spontaneity.
We went on the waltzers and were disappointed not to have a greasy, burly traveller in 80s denim, standing behind us, spinning the cars extra fast to induce a fit of vomiting. Meriel said that the ride was making her feel rather strange in the vagazzel department, which made us laugh for hours. It has to rank with her all time best quote, which was uttered in Cambridge in the summer of 1996; "I'm so happy, I'm jealous of myself!"
We drove to Lewes through country lanes lined with green tunnels of trees. The sun was shining through the branches and shafts of brilliant light were cascading in all directions. It resembled the sort of laser display you might see at the O2.
We called in on Rupert and Uncle Bill, who is due to give birth tomorrow. She is enormous, but carrying all her extra weight in the bump itself, which is the healthiest looking pregnant belly I've ever seen!
She made us scones, which we had with blackberry jam and lashings of cream, whilst looking at photos from the days when we all looked like children. I've known Hils and Mez for almost 20 years; a fact which I find almost bewildering. I almost can't remember not knowing them!
350 years ago, Pepys went to visit Lady Sandwich, and found her in mourning for her brother, who had died that day of the "spotted fever," which could have been anything from measles to typhus, I guess. It was a day of death. Elizabeth was also at a funeral and arrived home later in the day with a remembrance ring, which was the custom back then. I guess no one was far from death in the 17th century - and the plague still hadn't happened!
Saturday, 2 July 2011
Boo!
It’s official... I’m lonely. It’s a Saturday, and once again I’ve been in Costa all day working. I left it rather too late to organise something sociable to do and called Nathan just now to see if he fancied a bite to eat in town between his box office shift and performing in his show. He warned me off. It’s Gay Pride, and apparently the whole of central London is chock-a-block with homos. I’m sure they all smell lovely, but they’re rammed into Soho like sardines, which is, in fairness, my idea of hell.
It’s a lovely evening and I can smell barbecues. I might just go and introduce myself to one of the neighbours, or maybe I'll just sit and watch telly instead.
I wish there was something more interesting to write, but there’s not.
Tuesday July 2nd 1661, and Pepys went to Westminster Hall. It was term time, which meant the place was rammed with MPs and various hangers on. He met his cousin Roger, who enquired about their mutual Uncle Robert, who was unwell. Pepys had received a letter from his father, the previous day, which said the poor man was “by fits stupid, and like a man that is drunk, and sometimes speechless.” It doesn’t sound like he was long for the world.
Pepys had yet another singing lesson with his teacher, Theodore Goodgroome, and then went off to the theatre, but not just any theatre; Sir William Davenant’s “Opera” house in Lincoln’s Inn. It had only been open four days, and was built in a converted real tennis court. It featured the first movable scenery and the first proscenium arch in the world, and Pepys was thrilled. It was a royal command performance and as the audience waited patiently for the King’s arrival, one of the boards in the roof broke, and sent a huge amount of dust cascading onto the audience below, which fortunately was taken with a good dose of humour. The play was acted well, but for one character, who sadly got hissed off stage.
I was once bood off stage... at secondary school. I was asked to introduce the acts in an end of term show, and couldn’t have been very popular at the time. I was only about twelve or so, and the whole school was there. I think the older kids kicked things off, and every time I came on to introduce someone else, the booing got louder and louder until no one could hear a word that I was saying. I remember trying to laugh it off, like I was somehow in on the joke, and finding it all hysterically funny, but it was mortified. I was looking across the audience, and even seeing my close friends shouting, hissing and laughing with the best of them. I was eventually hauled off by my form tutor. The next year I wanted to perform in a little skit, but was so worried the same thing would happen again, that I said I’d only appear behind a staging block, pretending to be George from Rainbow, using a pink rubber glove because we didn’t have a fury hippo. Speaking of Rainbow, didn't the bloke who did the voices for George and Zippy recently die? Yes, he did. I've just googled it. His name was Roy Skelton, and he was a genius.
![]()
![]()
Which is which?
It’s a lovely evening and I can smell barbecues. I might just go and introduce myself to one of the neighbours, or maybe I'll just sit and watch telly instead.
I wish there was something more interesting to write, but there’s not.
Tuesday July 2nd 1661, and Pepys went to Westminster Hall. It was term time, which meant the place was rammed with MPs and various hangers on. He met his cousin Roger, who enquired about their mutual Uncle Robert, who was unwell. Pepys had received a letter from his father, the previous day, which said the poor man was “by fits stupid, and like a man that is drunk, and sometimes speechless.” It doesn’t sound like he was long for the world.
Pepys had yet another singing lesson with his teacher, Theodore Goodgroome, and then went off to the theatre, but not just any theatre; Sir William Davenant’s “Opera” house in Lincoln’s Inn. It had only been open four days, and was built in a converted real tennis court. It featured the first movable scenery and the first proscenium arch in the world, and Pepys was thrilled. It was a royal command performance and as the audience waited patiently for the King’s arrival, one of the boards in the roof broke, and sent a huge amount of dust cascading onto the audience below, which fortunately was taken with a good dose of humour. The play was acted well, but for one character, who sadly got hissed off stage.
I was once bood off stage... at secondary school. I was asked to introduce the acts in an end of term show, and couldn’t have been very popular at the time. I was only about twelve or so, and the whole school was there. I think the older kids kicked things off, and every time I came on to introduce someone else, the booing got louder and louder until no one could hear a word that I was saying. I remember trying to laugh it off, like I was somehow in on the joke, and finding it all hysterically funny, but it was mortified. I was looking across the audience, and even seeing my close friends shouting, hissing and laughing with the best of them. I was eventually hauled off by my form tutor. The next year I wanted to perform in a little skit, but was so worried the same thing would happen again, that I said I’d only appear behind a staging block, pretending to be George from Rainbow, using a pink rubber glove because we didn’t have a fury hippo. Speaking of Rainbow, didn't the bloke who did the voices for George and Zippy recently die? Yes, he did. I've just googled it. His name was Roy Skelton, and he was a genius.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Out damned polyp, I knew him, Horatio
I'm on a crowded, stinking tube, returning to Highgate from my second hospital appointment of the week. The subject of today's meeting was my vocal chords and whether or not they've recovered from the operation. It looks like they haven't, which doesn't mean they won't...
I didn't see Mr Rubin. I saw another member of his team, who shoved a tiny torch on a long flexible tube up one of my nostrils, and down my throat, which was both surreal and curiously unpleasant, particularly when I swallowed. As he studied the image he was seeing, I wondered how often patients vomit uncontrollably in his presence, and decided it must be a regular peril of the job.
Unfortunately, as I've suspected for the last few days, I have some kind of virus, which means everything's swollen and inflamed down there. It was therefore impossible for him to get a sense of how well I've recovered, so I was sent away with another course of proton pump inhibitors in case the inflammation was the result of acid reflux. It's deeply tedious and way too reminiscent of the court case for my liking. Is it too much to ask for a clear result for something that's on the cards this year? More treading water... My friend Matt talks about alternating between years of surging forward and years of consolidation. I suppose all the awards I've been winning could theoretically be part of a consolidation process...
The one piece of good news is that the biopsy result has come back negative. The polyp, or what I think he suddenly started referring to as a nodule, is not cancerous, and apparently formed as a result of over-use. That's something of a weight off my mind.
There's not much else to report. I spent most of the day in Costa scoring the fourth movement of the Symphony for Yorkshire for brass band; a long overdue promise I made to myself months ago. I think it's going well, but am mindful of the fact that I tend to write overly "trilly" music for brass bands, which is actually not much fun to play. Strip it back... Thin it out. Cut half of the notes...
350 years ago, and Pepys had a day that any bored Highgate housewife would envy. He went shopping in the City for a chest of drawers and an Indian gown, and then spent the afternoon having a singing lesson. Not much else is reported other than that the chest of drawers was a "fine" one. I'm relieved, obviously!
I didn't see Mr Rubin. I saw another member of his team, who shoved a tiny torch on a long flexible tube up one of my nostrils, and down my throat, which was both surreal and curiously unpleasant, particularly when I swallowed. As he studied the image he was seeing, I wondered how often patients vomit uncontrollably in his presence, and decided it must be a regular peril of the job.
Unfortunately, as I've suspected for the last few days, I have some kind of virus, which means everything's swollen and inflamed down there. It was therefore impossible for him to get a sense of how well I've recovered, so I was sent away with another course of proton pump inhibitors in case the inflammation was the result of acid reflux. It's deeply tedious and way too reminiscent of the court case for my liking. Is it too much to ask for a clear result for something that's on the cards this year? More treading water... My friend Matt talks about alternating between years of surging forward and years of consolidation. I suppose all the awards I've been winning could theoretically be part of a consolidation process...
The one piece of good news is that the biopsy result has come back negative. The polyp, or what I think he suddenly started referring to as a nodule, is not cancerous, and apparently formed as a result of over-use. That's something of a weight off my mind.
There's not much else to report. I spent most of the day in Costa scoring the fourth movement of the Symphony for Yorkshire for brass band; a long overdue promise I made to myself months ago. I think it's going well, but am mindful of the fact that I tend to write overly "trilly" music for brass bands, which is actually not much fun to play. Strip it back... Thin it out. Cut half of the notes...
350 years ago, and Pepys had a day that any bored Highgate housewife would envy. He went shopping in the City for a chest of drawers and an Indian gown, and then spent the afternoon having a singing lesson. Not much else is reported other than that the chest of drawers was a "fine" one. I'm relieved, obviously!
Polyps and nodules
I'm on a crowded, stinking tube, returning to Highgate from my second hospital appointment of the week. The subject of today's meeting was my vocal chords and whether or not they've recovered from the operation. It looks like they haven't, which doesn't mean they won't...
I didn't see Mr Rubin. I saw another member of his team, who shoved a tiny torch on a long flexible tube up one of my nostrils, and down my throat, which was both surreal and curiously unpleasant, particularly when I swallowed. As he studied the image he was seeing, I wondered how often patients vomit uncontrollably in his presence, and decided it must be a regular peril of the job.
Unfortunately, as I've suspected for the last few days, I have some kind of virus, which means everything's swollen and inflamed down there. It was therefore impossible for him to get a sense of how well I've recovered, so I was sent away with another course of proton pump inhibitors in case the inflammation was the result of acid reflux. It's deeply tedious and way too reminiscent of the court case for my liking. Is it too much to ask for a clear result for something that's on the cards this year? More treading water... My friend Matt talks about alternating between years of surging forward and years of consolidation. I suppose all the awards I've been winning could theoretically be part of a consolidation process...
The one piece of good news is that the biopsy result has come back negative. The polyp, or what I think he suddenly started referring to as a nodule, is not cancerous, and apparently formed as a result of over-use. That's something of a weight off my mind.
There's not much else to report. I spent most of the day in Costa scoring the fourth movement of the Symphony for Yorkshire for brass band; a long overdue promise I made to myself months ago. I think it's going well, but am mindful of the fact that I tend to write overly "trilly" music for brass bands, which is actually not much fun to play. Strip it back... Thin it out. Cut half of the notes...
350 years ago, and Pepys had a day that any bored Highgate housewife would envy. He went shopping in the City for a chest of drawers and an Indian gown, and then spent the afternoon having a singing lesson. Not much else is reported other than that the chest of drawers was a "fine" one. I'm relieved, obviously!
I didn't see Mr Rubin. I saw another member of his team, who shoved a tiny torch on a long flexible tube up one of my nostrils, and down my throat, which was both surreal and curiously unpleasant, particularly when I swallowed. As he studied the image he was seeing, I wondered how often patients vomit uncontrollably in his presence, and decided it must be a regular peril of the job.
Unfortunately, as I've suspected for the last few days, I have some kind of virus, which means everything's swollen and inflamed down there. It was therefore impossible for him to get a sense of how well I've recovered, so I was sent away with another course of proton pump inhibitors in case the inflammation was the result of acid reflux. It's deeply tedious and way too reminiscent of the court case for my liking. Is it too much to ask for a clear result for something that's on the cards this year? More treading water... My friend Matt talks about alternating between years of surging forward and years of consolidation. I suppose all the awards I've been winning could theoretically be part of a consolidation process...
The one piece of good news is that the biopsy result has come back negative. The polyp, or what I think he suddenly started referring to as a nodule, is not cancerous, and apparently formed as a result of over-use. That's something of a weight off my mind.
There's not much else to report. I spent most of the day in Costa scoring the fourth movement of the Symphony for Yorkshire for brass band; a long overdue promise I made to myself months ago. I think it's going well, but am mindful of the fact that I tend to write overly "trilly" music for brass bands, which is actually not much fun to play. Strip it back... Thin it out. Cut half of the notes...
350 years ago, and Pepys had a day that any bored Highgate housewife would envy. He went shopping in the City for a chest of drawers and an Indian gown, and then spent the afternoon having a singing lesson. Not much else is reported other than that the chest of drawers was a "fine" one. I'm relieved, obviously!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
