Lobbying

It’s been a beautiful spring-like day. Earlier on, I went into Highgate Woods and sat on a bench writing. The sun was watery in the sky and the large glade in the middle of the wood looked like a painting by Seurat. Someone was playing a ukulele, a group of girls was playing footie, the breeze was blowing gently, the birds were singing. It was a wonderful English scene.

We’ve been putting little suet fatballs out for the birds. I’ve seen all manner of little yellow and green things darting around the garden and wanted to attract some more. Sadly, wherever I put the suet balls, the squirrels find them, and within hours, the little things are gnawed to the floor, and whisked away to be ensconced in a nearby dray.

It feels like I’m slowly suffocating under the weight of what I need to write between now and the end of April. No one becomes a composer for speedy gratification, and all we’re ever able to do is chip away slowly at whichever manuscript we have in front of us, but every time I contemplate writing an hour’s material for the Fleet Singers, and think that I’ve only managed to write ten minutes so far, my heart starts to beat a little faster.

They’ve pulled up most of the road at the bottom of Jackson’s Lane. There are all sorts of men wondering around wearing hi-viz jackets which say “gas” on them. I was horrified to see one of them smoking! I rushed past him, expecting a massive explosion at any moment.

350 years ago, and Pepys’ maid, Sarah was ill, which seemed to be troubling him rather greatly. He went with the two Sir Williams to Whitehall, where the three men “waited” on the Duke of York in an attempt to get him to hand over some more money to the Navy. An early form of lobbying, I suppose...

Fin de Siecle

I’ve just finished the first draft of my Ebor Vox Anthem. After writing my blog last night, whist Nathan snoozed, I had a bit of a brainwave, and whipped the piece into shape. All that now remains is for me to put it away for a few days, and come at it with a fresh pair of ears to make minor adjustments, check that all of the internal parts make musical sense and format it so that everything looks pretty. There’s still a lot more to be done on the rest of the composition; various break-out sections and the processional, which the choirs will sing as they wind through the streets of York, but it feels a great relief to have written something I’m pleased with, so early into the writing stage.

I took myself to my regular cafe this morning, and chatted to the girl behind the counter about the no plugs rule; “you’re a regular” she said, “you can do what you like.” I rather liked being called a regular. There is so little regularity and routine in my life that any sense of it makes me feel a little warm inside. My innate inner loyal Leo begins to purr.

This afternoon I went to meet producer PK in a cafe in Camden and we talked about the Requiem and many other things. I love talking to PK. He’s got a unique take on life and a heap of extraordinary tales to tell, many from his days at Mute records, where he regularly worked with Erasure and Depeche Mode, and luminaries like Miranda Sex Garden and the Balanescu String Quartet. I learnt today that, as a 14 year old boy, in 1969, he went to see The Stones playing in Hyde Park. He said there was an over-whelming sense of optimism floating in the air; almost as though everyone in the audience felt anything was possible.

It’ funny, I’m beginning to wonder if a similar sense of optimism isn’t floating into 2012. They say recession is really good for the arts. We’re all being forced to rip up the rule books and start all over again. The fat cats in the Arts Industry are dying out; their last hurrah will be the ridiculous Olympics. Their manufactured, expensive art is struggling to find a mass audience and they’re squabbling over an increasingly small piece of the pie. Very soon they’ll be forced into retirement. Everywhere, little pockets of resistance are forming; like the small, but increasingly robust clan of musical theatre writers, and the increasing number of film makers and recording artists who find themselves creating art for themselves rather than doffing their caps to the talentless execs (who are all losing their jobs). Maybe I’m mistaking my own sense of optimism for something greater, but I genuinely sense renaissance is on the way. Historically, this would be bang on. The Fin De Siecle wafts into memory with all its backward-looking derivative art – and like the Dadaists, and Futurists in the 1910s, a new school emerges. All we need now is the war... No, wait... Let’s not wish for war.... although war is also good for art.

But back we sail to the 1660s, the greatest period of political change, and possibly optimism in recorded history. March 14^th 1662 was a Friday, and Pepys spent the day in the office.

In the afternoon came the German Dr. Kuffler to discourse with us about his engine to blow up ships. We doubted not the matter of fact, it being tried in Cromwell’s time, but the safety of carrying them in ships; but he do tell us, that when he comes to tell the King his secret (for none but the Kings, successively, and their heirs must know it), it will appear to be of no danger at all. We concluded nothing; but shall discourse with the Duke of York to-morrow about it

Tepid baths

I’m freezing cold. I just ran myself a lovely hot bath, but sadly, the tank ran out of water so the bath was tepid. I dried myself with a wet towel, and now I’m colder than I was when I started. Colder, but cleaner, I guess. According to the decadent and expensive bubble bath I treated myself to, I now smell like violets. I think I smell more like plastercine.

Nathan is asleep on the sofa, having had a full day of directing a couple of new actors into Naked Boys Singing. Having been resident director on a number of shows in the past, I can confirm that it's difficult, tiring and ultimately thankless work. If you do a good job, everyone praises the show's original director, and if you do a bad job, you get the sack!

I was expecting to work until late tonight, until I realised that it’s the final of the fat people show on ITV, which surely means a celebratory pizza and a lovely salad in front of the telly.

I’ve been working all day, as usual at the moment, on the York commission. It’s very nearly there, but it's structurally unsound! The poem I’m working with has multiple stanzas, so it’s been quite hard to whip it into a musical shape. At the moment, I think it’s about a minute too long, but it’s difficult to work out where to cut  thematerial without destroying the shape and emotional journey of the original poem.

I went to my regular cafe for the first time in at least a month. Fortunately I hadn’t done what I often do, and plugged my computer into the wall, because a girl who came in with a laptop and asked if there was a plug was instantly told that people are no longer allowed to use the cafe’s plugs. I felt a rush of embarrassment, and then sadness. Obviously there’s only one thing that can be gleaned from a cafe policy which doesn’t allow people to plug computers in; writers, and those who sit for hours in corners doing work, should be discouraged. And this made me feel very unwelcome. I do understand that it must be quite irritating when someone spends a couple of quid on a cup of tea and then proceeds to soak up a load of energy which they’re not paying for. I also feel it must be very irritating when lots of people sit at separate tables, thereby preventing other customers from using the cafe, but I felt very sad nonetheless. My instinct was to leave as soon as I could and I didn’t go for a second cup of tea because I didn’t know that my computer battery would last for enough time!

A very short diary entry from Pepys 350 years ago. He did nothing but work all day; late into the evening in fact. He confessed to being rather proud of himself for his late alacrity when it came to all things business-like.

Father in absentia

I was up at shite o’clock this morning, feeling like death, hauling my sorry 'flu-filled ass to Borough to visit a recording studio which we might use for the Requiem. I’m not sure it’s big enough for our string sessions. It was one of those rather intriguing spaces with curious guitars and weird 1960s organs lining the walls and pushed into every corner. Without the clutter, the space would probably be big enough. Even with the clutter we might be okay, but clutter makes noise. Snare drums rattle and guitar strings vibrate. It’s certainly a strong contender for our choir sessions, but I'd hate to get there with the strings and discover it's just quite big enough.

The weather was beautiful this morning. I walked along a rancid dual carriageway on my way back to the tube, but it didn’t matter because the blossom trees lining the route had all burst into bloom, and the sun was shining. We’re told on the news that the sun has been shining rather too much of late, and that emergency measures are now in place to reverse the drought we’ve apparently had this winter. Drought? We live on an island. Surely a potential lack of drinking water is a direct result of water mismanagement rather than freak weather conditions? You don’t get hosepipe bans in the deep south of America, do you? Or maybe you do. Fiona, do they have hosepipe bans in Texas? Still, I’m sure if the water companies spent some of the money they extort from us mending pipes, we might find we’re in a different position.

My dear friend Marinella has asked me to be her father in absentia at her wedding in May. I have never walked someone down an aisle before (or in this case through a lemon grove, or something) and am touched, thrilled, honoured and excited to be asked. It’s on the afternoon of Eurovision, so once she’s married, we have to jump in the car and whip back to Highgate to host our annual party. I’ve been really worried about the clash, because it only occurred to me yesterday that the two events were due to happen on the same day... Over the last few weeks I’ve been blithely inviting people to Eurovision – so many now that I couldn’t possibly cancel the party, so I’ll just have to make sure all the food is cooked the night before, and all the score cards are printed out and ready for when people arrive. Oh, the tragic traumas of a homosexual cliche!

I went from Bermondsey to Central London, and pottered around Soho, before finding a cafe to work in. They were filming something in the dodgy alleyway next to the Raymond Review bar, and the whole place had been converted into sex shop seedy soho from the sixties. I stood and stared at the various distressed signs and posters that were being plastered over the newer neon signs and thought what an amazing and exciting district it must have been in those days.

350 years ago, and Pepys spent a rather dull day almost exclusively in his office, faffing around with bits of paper. The circular nature of his opening statement pretty much says it all.

At the office from morning till night putting of papers in order, that so I may have my office in an orderly condition. I took much pains in sorting and folding of papers.

As I write, Nathan is tidying the kitchen. I must help him.

Spring begins

It's the first day of Spring. I declare Spring. There's optimism in the air. 

Nathan and I went for brunch with Daniel and his delightful partner, Matthew. They live in a stunning house in Belsize Park with tall ceilings and light bursting through enormous windows. The food kept coming; croissants, fruit salads, curious egg and tomato bakes.

We went for a walk across Hampstead Heath with their floppy-haired, bumblingly bounding dog, Molly, who charmed every one she met, but had to be put on a lead every time she went anywhere near a muddy puddle!

We've been at Julie's all evening; another dose of craft and cake involving a cream-filled lemon drizzle cake, half a tonne of scone and seven people sitting in a room knitting and doing cross stitch. I stuck pictures in a photo album. I must get myself a craft, although I don't know where I'd find the time to do it.

The cold continues. I was quite relieved to come down with it, if I'm honest. My throat had been feeling a little scratchy all last week and I was terrified the polyp was making an unwelcome return.

It was wash day in the Pepys household 350 years ago. Perhaps unsurprisingly Elizabeth fell mysteriously ill and Sam hid in his chamber sorting out and throwing away papers. Washing was therefore left in the hands of the servants. Job's a good'un... 

Corker

My God, this cold is a corker. My head feels like it’s inside a carrier bag and I can’t stop sneezing. My lips are dry, I’ve got spots everywhere, it feels like I've dived into a swimming pool and breathed in a tonne of water through my nose.

I went into Crouch End to do a series of errands and sat working in Costa for a few hours whilst the world passed by. On my way home, I shuffled straight past one of my exes, just after sneezing and wiping a soggy tissue over my face which stuck to my beard. I didn’t stop to say hello, and I hope for the life of me that he didn't recognise me and just thought I was some old, arthritic man in a hat, struggling his way down the street.

I couldn’t find any of the things I needed in Crouch End. I had a very specific list, which included mounting board card, CD cases and scouring pads. I kept walking into shops and not being able to think of the word of the thing I was looking for.  In the end I gave up and went to Muswell Hill where I know the shops a little better.

There’s nothing else to say. All I want to do is curl up on the sofa and eat huge amounts of food. What do they say? Feed a cold, starve a fever. Shame there's no food in the house.

350 years ago was not a special day for Pepys either. In fact, the most interesting thing he could think to write about was the fact that the following day was washing day.

Wiped out by lethargy

I switched on the television this evening to hear more ridiculous reporting on the case of the six soldiers killed in Afghanistan. This came from ITN, whose closing line in the early evening news reported that the child of one of the dead men had said, “Daddy is now a star,” like this was the most important news of the day.This is not news, it’s weird emotional propaganda. It's the sort of thing you'd expect from tabloid newspapers. Perhaps I’m being unpatriotic or really hard-line, but when you stop to actually listen to the news, you sometimes realise what you’re hearing is merely an opinion.

I woke up this morning and realised why I felt so uptight yesterday. I have the mother of all colds. I can’t stop sneezing or blowing my nose, my glands are up, and I’ve come out in three blind spots like a tragic, lumpy adolescent. The computer screen is spinning and every bone in my body aches. Boo!

I went to see Nathan singing in a cabaret last night; the songs of a new trans-Atlantic writing partnership, who show a great deal of promise. I was pleased to see a room full of people - no mean feat for show that started at 11pm - and there was much whooping and cheering. There are a growing number of new and young musical theatre writers cropping up in the UK at the moment, which can only be a good thing. They have a fan base, they support one another, they share cabaret slots and compete against each other. Before any of us can say “Wicked”, one of them will have a hit musical, which could well revitalise the industry.

When I was fresh on the scene in the late 90s, there didn’t seem to be any other musical theatre writers around. There was no one to talk to, no one to whinge with, and worse still, no one seemed to be interested in looking for new writers. Musicals were considered purely commercial enterprises, lacking in any form of creativity, and probably at the time, they were. I went to a meeting of musical theatre composers in the year 2000 and they were all sandal-wearing middle-aged married couples with wiry hair who’d written “rock” musicals with biblical themes. I think, when people look back on musical theatre in this country, there will be a complete dearth of writers born between about 1965 and 1985, which is a rather peculiar thought. A generation completely wiped out by lethargy.

Not a great deal to say about Pepys 350 years ago. It was a Sunday, so he did Sunday things. Church (twice), a brief constitutional in the garden, supper, prayers and bed.