Hurtling down the hill

On the way back from Euston station last night, Nathan and I went tobogganing on Parliament Hill. It’s become something of a tradition for the two of us ever since we were introduced to the joys of midnight sledging by Philip Sallon about two years ago.  I’m always intrigued by quite how much light from the night sky the snow reflects. It’s as though the whole heath is lit by a massive halogen light. I guess it's a fairly worrying indication of how much pollution there is in the sky around us. Nathan’s sister gave us a pair of sledges for Christmas and it was a delight to christen them. They are so much more aerodynamic than tea trays or the lids from council recycling boxes! A fair amount of the snow had already gone, so we had to choose routes very carefully to avoid running aground on patches of exposed grass and mud.  It’s such an adrenaline rush, however; hurtling down a hillside at an impossible speed, the wind rushing through your hair, the fear of death by tree or grassy knoll... I only wished we’d been able to go when the snow was fresh.

When we returned home at about midnight, I found a letter waiting for me on our stairs. The back of the envelope simply read “make it happen” and there was a cheque inside from lovely Roy.  Obviously I was hugely touched, and terribly excited, but I also thought; “Roy knows a shrewd investment when he sees one.” I need to programme my mind to think a great deal more like this in the future. Why wouldn’t someone want to invest in the requiem? It’s the best thing I’ve ever written.

So - and this is the really exciting bit - I now get to unveil the new Requiometer. We’re slowly creeping up the ivy!

The temperatures continue to stay at really low levels in London. It's much colder here than it was in Manchester. It was bitter as I ran around Highgate this afternoon, and more than a little challenging. I was trying to avoid the snow and ice, but some roads obviously took a proper pounding, because they’re still entirely covered. There were piles of snow by the side of the road on The Bishop’s Avenue about 5 feet tall.

I spent the day in Colindale Newspaper Library; my final day of research for the Fleet Singers project. I was just looking for a few choice headlines to contextualise one or two of the memories. I’m excited. There’s now a seed of something which could be really wonderful. Quite when I’m going to be able to take a day off between now and never, I’ve no idea. Tomorrow has been earmarked for Requiem funding. I have to be able to think of some wealthy people. The trouble with being a creative person is that one’s friends tend to be similarly struggling!

February 7^th, 1662, and Pepys went for dinner with Lady Sandwich, where they met Captain Hill, fresh from Portugal, who brought news of Lord Sandwich and the most astonishing number of gifts from him including a civitt cat, a parrot, various apes and “many other things.” I dread to think.

Slugs and vegetarians

Being on the road for days at a time can start to play havoc with a person’s food regime. I’m actually in something of a panic today because it’s becoming almost impossible to find decent vegetarian food in Manchester. I’m presently at the train station where I’ve just queued for some time at the Balcony Bar to be told the vegetarian lasagnes had sold out. I asked what other vegetarian food was on the menu and was informed that the only thing I could eat was a cheese and tomato pizza. There were scores of meat and fish dishes available. As I walked out I urged the bar woman to get her bosses to either serve more veggie options, or to keep tabs on the one veggie dish available to make sure it didn’t sell out. She smiled at me like I'd just farted, and thanked me for the feedback.

For some reason, BBC policy seems no longer to include the price of breakfast for a work-related stay in an hotel, so the first thing I have to do each morning is wander around in search of something to eat. This morning I ended up in a little cafe somewhere near the hideous Arndale Centre where there was precisely nothing available for veggies. It surely doesn’t take much to offer a couple of poached eggs or a plate of beans on toast? I asked the man behind the counter if he could suggest somewhere that might sell me a breakfast without meat. He thought for a while before saying, “it’s a bit early, but perhaps you could try the Buddhist Centre...” Surely vegetarianism in Manchester is not so unusual that it needs to be lumped in with an Eastern Religion?

The Co-op on Hattersley is, of course, totally nuts when it comes to meat-free options. I had two rolls and a pot of hummus for lunch yesterday before chowing down on half a tonne of chocolate. The only vegetarian option in the hotel was a thai curry (coriander city) so I ended up with a bowl of soup and Jaffa cakes for my evening meal. Today I had a cheese ploughman’s roll for lunch and a cheese ploughman’s sandwich for tea! My stomach hurts...

That said, I’m also buzzing like a rat in a garden, following an incredibly successful day in the recording studio. I’ve felt like a proud mother hen pretty consistently from about ten o’clock this morning. One by one, our wonderful Hattersley residents came into the studio, brilliantly upbeat, and fully prepared. They sang my songs with vigour and, in some cases, deep emotion. I was so chuffed with them all – and hugely grateful. Yet another major milestone in our project has now been passed. Even Bill, both blind and deaf, did his bit.

Proud as punch with some of the Hattersley folk

I’m now on the train, heading back to London. A lump of a woman with a fat arse and a deeply irritating Nigerian accent is droning away on the phone. She seems to be alternating the words "God" and "Jesus" with frightening alacrity – and certainly isn’t using the words in vain! She has already come out with a veritable stream of homophobic abuse regarding the “sins” of gay marriage, and prostitution. How wonderful it must be to be so profoundly smug - and so fucking fat. I feel very sorry for the man sitting next to her, who's been squashed into the window by her enormous intolerant folds of lard. She’s a slug in a red blouse. I’m sure Jesus will be thrilled to have her back in the fold. I wonder if she’ll move with more speed in heaven, 'cus following her down the train carriage was like waiting for bleedin’ Godot!

February 6^th, 1662, and Pepys spent the morning practising music before heading down into his cellar to see how the alterations were going. Amongst other things, he was having a new door fitted, and was very pleased with its progress. He worked all afternoon at the Navy Office (after being trimmed by a barber) and went home to examine his testicles, which he was relieved to see were less swollen than the day before.

Werneth Low

I returned to my hotel room about 10 minutes ago to find it being cleaned. 5pm on a Sunday night feels like a funny time to be cleaning a room, and when you’ve been working all day, it’s more than a little irritating to get back, desperate for a bath, and have to sit like a lemon in the foyer. I also find the whole thing quite embarrassing. It's bad enough to think the cleaners might judge me based on the clothes I’ve left on my bed and strewn across the top of my suitcase, but it's even worse to think that they now have a mental image of me. I’d much rather those things happened entirely anonymously!

We’ve been on the Hattersley Estate all day working with Jean, Jean and Bill who all have solos which they're going to be recording in the studio tomorrow. They all did really well, although we struggled a little with Bill. The poor bloke is 80 years-old and both blind and almost deaf. I’m not quite sure why I thought he’d find learning a brand new song so easy, but I’m having to hastily organise a few plan Bs if various sections of the piece prove too much for him. We’ll get there.

The snow had largely melted in Manchester this morning, so we decided to brave going up onto Werneth Low, a hill which is said to have extraordinary views of the Hattersley Estate. Hysterically, when we started to climb the hillside, we found ourselves disappearing into a cloud, and from the top all we could see was mist, plus the odd child with a toboggan! It reminded me of a similar experience whilst working on A Symphony for Yorkshire when Alison and I left Leeds on a beautiful sunny day to explore a location on the Yorkshire Moors, and found ourselves in such thick fog that all we could see of its world famous view was the bench which looked out over it!  Producer Paul has been driving the BBC van like a trooper all weekend. He's a hardy Derbyshire lad, who's been on snow-driving courses, so I've felt very safe.

beautiful views over the estate...

Yet again, I have tea pouring out of my ears. Whenever you enter a house in Hattersley, it’s the first thing you’re offered, followed by whatever food they have to spare in the house. My love affair with the place continues. Today we went to visit a gentleman with an amazing collection of cine films from the estate when it was being built, including images of a pair of children running towards one of the mobile shops that used to serve the place, and coming back with handfuls of sweets. The images were grainy, a little fuzzy and a sort of browny-orange colour. He kept apologising, but the quality of the pictures simply added to their inherent wistfulness. they could have been shot specifically for the song I’ve written, which I hope has a similar sort of romantic and nostalgic quality. I was thrilled.

I was less thrilled to see, in the centre of Manchester this morning, a Japanese lad with a surgical mask strapped over his face. Am I the only person who finds this behaviour slightly rude? I’m sure he’s simply trying to protect himself from pollution, and would, no doubt, do the same thing in Tokyo, but sadly it comes across as though he’s trying to avoid British germs and this makes me feel uncomfortable. It looks sinister. Perhaps it’s just another symptom of my latent xenophobia, but I wouldn't go to Dubai and take my top off, because I know, by doing so, I'd offend the locals.

February 5^th, 1662, and Pepys went with Sir William Penn and his wife to the theatre to see a misogynistic play called Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, which was apparently acted very well. They arrived at the theatre early, so went to a nearby pub for some Rhenish wine and sugar. Pepys seemed more interested in ogling women than watching the actual play. He was particularly enthralled by Lady Castlemaine, lover of the King, and renowned beauty, who'd recently got over some kind of sickness (one assumes small pox, because she became a great fan of black patches.) In Pepys' words; “notwithstanding her late sickness, [she] continues a great beauty.”

One assumes that Pepys' private parts caused him a little bother before bed. The diary translation I’ve been forced to read today is based on a Victorian translation which tends to edit out any mention of anything remotely sexual; “so home and to bed, putting some cataplasm to my . . . . which begins to swell again.” A few months before this date, Pepys was suffering from a swollen testicle. There. I’ve said it.

Glorious Mud

Greetings from Manchester, which is presently sitting underneath about an inch of snow.
 

Today started a little too early for my liking. It was still dark and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was due to catch the 8.20am train from Euston, but some kind of derailment near Bletchley yesterday meant it had been cancelled. I went to speak to the bloke at the information desk, who helpfully told me that I’d need to catch the 8.40 instead. “If you’d arrived with enough time, you could have caught the 8am.” “But I was booked onto the 8.20 train, why would I have turned up to the station with enough time to catch the 8 o’clock?” “I’m just saying for the next time.” “But I didn’t know the train was cancelled. I hope there won’t be a next time.” “But if you'd turned up early you'd have had a choice!” “Perhaps you might refrain from saying that to the next person" I said "It’s really not helpful, and it's actually quite irritating.” His lips went to lemon and his eyes went to half. A homosexual will usually out himself if crossed...

The train steamed north through frost-bitten countryside. Lonely horses in fields seemed to be wondering why the grass had suddenly gone all cold and crispy. Somewhere in the Midlands the train ran parallel with a canal for some time. For mile after mile it was frozen solid. It was such a romantic English view; barges with smoking chimneys, ducks and moorhens skating on the ice. I was instantly taken back to my childhood.

The bloke opposite me smelt of aftershave and stale beer. He told his mate he’d been out on a bender the night before, and was terribly hung-over. I think the motion of the train was making matters worse, because at about 9.30am, he cracked open three cans of beer and polished them off in half an hour. As he opened the third, he said “last one... until six tonight” rather proudly. And I wondered what his life expectancy was...

The woman opposite was screaming at her embarrassed children, who eventually had to tell her to be quiet. Her response was somewhat draconian; “don’t tell me to shut up, Caitlin unless you want pepper in your mouth.” I don't know why I found the threat quite so shocking - probably because it's a punishment that actually happens. Whatever next? Vinegar in the eyes?

We spent the late morning and early afternoon on the Hattersley estate with June and her son Charlie. I was very proud of June who’d obviously worked really hard on her song. Charlie took us on a tour of Hattersley as the snow began to swirl. We visited underpasses covered in graffiti, strange demolished buildings nestling under enormous pylons and Baptist churches in prefabricated buildings. Hattersley never ceases to amaze me, not least because for much of our journey we were accompanied by the sound of a ice cream van! Only the Mancunians would buy ice cream in a blizzard! Charlie also brought our attention to a weird box in the eaves of the local Co-op which emits a crazy irritating sound at a frequency that apparently only younger ears can hear. It’s designed to prevent groups of young people gathering en masse. Charlie said the sound used to really irritate him, but now, at the age of 20, he can only just hear it. I could hear it incredibly faintly, but it was the kind of sound that would probably really get under the skin. It’s probably also the reason why all the dogs I’ve seen tied up outside the shop do nothing but bark!

At one stage we visited a building site, and I stood on a raised pile of earth to take a photograph. It immediately gave way, and my feet sank knee deep into a pile of incredibly soggy mud which left my shoes looking like they’d been shat on by an elephant. We went back to June’s house, and I sat on the step with a dish cloth and a bowl of water trying to clean them up. June gave me a couple of freezer bags to put over my socks and I left looking a little eccentric, but feeling dry!

350 years ago, Pepys went to his friend Lord Crew’s house, where he met a Northamptonshire vicar called Benjamin Templar, who he described as an ingenious man and a person of honour. Templar was a man of the world, and talked about dim and distant lands (probably Italy) where fiddlers were hired by farm hands during the harvest season to play for those with the, probably mythical disease, Tarantism, where those who had been bitten by the wolf spider were said to need to dance frenetically to avoid death by the spider’s venom. Hence the tarantella.

And so the cold weather continues...

It's been one of those rather endless days. I was up fairly early and working in the cafe by 10. I'm trying to whip the Fleet Singer’s memories into some kind of coherent narrative. As always, the problem with real stories and memories is that they’re rarely blessed with a through-line. Life is just a little bit too random. This is the predominant reason why biopics tend to underwhelm. Nevertheless, I've put all the texts I’ve been sent into a massive time line – starting with the earliest and ending with the most recent, and am slowly whittling them down. It feels a little like I'm carving something without really knowing what. It's a heartbreaking process. Sometimes I find myself having to cut a really brave piece of writing or something which really speaks to me. But, as Sir Arnold Wesker used to say, sometimes you have to kill your darlings. The bigger picture is more important than the constituent parts, however beautifully written they are. So I've killed many  darlings and am painfully aware that at least another 50% will have to go before I’m done.

Today is Philippa's birthday so I ambled over to the Hackney Hood to give her a little devil's glass vase which I'm convinced she needs to hang in a window. We had a little green devil’s glass hanging in the sitting room window for most of my childhood. My mother was very superstitious about it. I once managed to pull it down from its green woollen holder. If there’s something to be fiddled with, I'll usually fiddle with it until it's broken. I broke a wall chart at Philippa’s today, and then managed to pull the back off a little hair grip, which I didn’t own up to. Anyway, when the devil’s glass fell into my hand as a ten-year old child, I didn’t want my Mum to think I’d been fiddling again, so told her it simply fell from the string unaided. She freaked out, worrying, no doubt that the angel of doom was descending on the family. Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I felt obliged to tell the truth.  

All was well with the Goslett-Emerys. Goddaughter Deia was suitably chirpy and eccentric, greeting me with a lion's roar, which she told me wasn’t a lion, or a tiger, or a bear, or a koala or a funny little elephant. “So what are you, Deia?” I said. “Daddy says I’m a nut.” She replied. We ate a blackberry crumble birthday cake from Marks and Spencer's, played a game involving cards which looked like plates of food, and chatted merrily. Philippa had just had her hair cut and looked stunning; like a glamorous actress from the 1970s.

350 years ago marked the 3^rd anniversary of Sir William Penn’s marriage and there was much mirth in the Navy office. To tell you the truth, Pepys’ account of the day is so charming, that I’m going to let the words come from him:

Among other froliques, it being their third year, they had three pyes, whereof the middlemost was made of an ovall form, in an ovall hole within the other two, which made much mirth, and was called the middle piece; and above all the rest, we had great striving to steal a spooneful out of it; and I remember Mrs. Mills, the minister’s wife, did steal one for me and did give it me; and to end all, Mrs. Shipmann did fill the pye full of white wine, it holding at least a pint and a half, and did drink it off for a health to Sir William and my Lady, it being the greatest draft that ever I did see a woman drink in my life.

Feeding ducks

My fingers ache. It is so unbelievably cold in North London. I’m told that most of Europe is sitting underneath the second highest high pressure system ever recorded, which, in winter time means stupidly cold, bone dry weather, which is exactly how I’d describe what’s been going on today. Not a cloud in the sky; throw in a bitter Easterly wind and you have a bad case of chilblains. It's so dry, I'm told, that we won't experience any frost tonight, except on the grass, which is weird but kind of wonderful. I love these temperatures. My internal thermostat is horribly broken, so it's rare for me to feel anything other than uncomfortable heat. It’s the curse of being an hairy man, I'm afraid, so being cold is actually fun; although I'm sure I won't be saying that when I'm old and have nothing but faded photographs.

Speaking of the elderly, there are two gorgons who live around the corner from us who give old people a bad name. They're suspicious. They peer out from behind net curtains, and they stand in darkened rooms watching the street, peering like perverts.

Their biggest crime, however, is to think they have the right to put a traffic cone on the parking space outside their house to prevent anyone but their visitors (of which they seem to have very few) parking there.

The thing about parking on the street in London is that residents pay a certain amount each year to park in any bay within a designated set of streets. The streets in Highgate can get quite busy and often the space outside this couple’s house (which is somewhat tucked away) is the only one without a car in it.  

We often find ourselves having to move the cone whilst the couple ruffle their curtains and look out at us as though we were hideous ruffians. Sometimes the woman gestures at us frantically to put the cone back and move our car. We pretend not to notice.

We left our car there for a week once and returned to find a note on the windscreen, which said "please make sure you don't leave your car in this space for such a long period of time again." Part of the deal of having a permit to park in our neighbourhood is that we can choose to leave our car in any space for as long as we like.

I should point out that the parking space nearest to our house is on a much busier road, and that if we tried to reserve it for ourselves in the manner described above, we'd have our knuckles very quickly and very firmly rapped by Harringey Council.

One day the woman came beetling out of her house to talk to us. "This space needs to be kept clear” she barked. “Ummm... Why?” we asked. “Because I have a disabled sister." "I’m sorry to hear that. Does she live here?" "No, but she visits very regularly." "Is this a designated disabled bay?" I asked, pretending to give a shit. "No, but we're the only house on the street which doesn't have its own private parking bay, which is not fair." (ah... now, I get it) “Well, I'm sure the lack of private parking was reflected in the price you paid for the house. Lovely to meet you." She sneered at me like a miserable crone. I swear she swallowed one of her teeth.

As it happens, of course, their putting the traffic cone on the space and having no friends means we get a space reserved just for us, being the only people who seem to know about these horrible people's game. Others simply assume it’s been reserved by the council. But if we're scratching their backs by not reporting them or setting fire to their blessed traffic cones they could at least ditch the "we're tragic elderly people who struggle to look after our disabled sister" act. You're rich. You're loathsome. You're not used to being told no. So get over yourselves, or buy a house with its own parking bay!
A short, sharp diary entry from Mr Pepys 350 years ago, which simply informed us that an Oxford man had delivered an “impertinent” sermon in church. “Cast your bread upon the waters.” Surely only when you’re feeding ducks?

Spluttering

I feel washed-out. I’ve been staving off this cold for too many days. The regular adrenaline rushes in the recording studio kept it at bay, but now that I’ve started to relax, the dreadful thing has started to engulf me.

It’s been a day of admin; a day spent drinking tea, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at my computer screen. A day of regular trips to the post office to buy envelopes and then stamps for investor packs for the Requiem. A day of constantly blowing my nose and coughing and spluttering and wishing I could get warm. I don't really have a great deal more to report...

I went running and it nearly killed me. As I got into the house, I was gasping for air, wondering if I was going to suffocate; a thought which was more embarrassing than scary. My legs now feel like lead. The run did, however, offer one rather beautiful moment as I staggered across the top of Waterlow Park. London was basking in a sort of golden light that I’m not sure I’ve seen before. It was so clear and crisp and I could see for miles and miles, across to my brother’s house in Canary Wharf and all the way due south to Crystal Palace. The sun was so low that the trees were half in shade.

A woman was sitting on a bench reading a book. The sun was lighting her face through a gap in the trees. She looked like a sepia photograph. I ran passed her, and then returned, compelled to tell her how extraordinary she looked, glowing magically on her bench. I hope she didn’t think I was out of my mind.  

We went out in the freezing air tonight to buy curry which we’re eating whilst watching Masterchef. I'm obsessed with cookery programmes, which is probably a weird admission for a vegetarian.

Saturday February 1^st, 1662, and Pepys spent the morning walking in the garden of the Navy office with Sir William Penn, who was thinking of transferring his son from Oxford to Cambridge University. Pepys went with Peter Pett the master shipwright to  visit Mr Savill, the painter. Pett admired the portraits Savill had painted of the Pepyses, and Pepys was thrilled. Perhaps Savill could finally breathe a sigh of relief...