I am Conor Maynard

...So there I was, chilling out in my Newcastle hotel room, and suddenly I'm aware that people are shouting a bit in the street outside. The shouting becomes screaming. I look out the window - and there beneath me in the street are about 1000 teenaged girls, all of whom see me and start screaming like I'm Elvis.

I run from the window. I close the curtains. I peek out again... they start screaming and waving. Suddemly they're all taking my photograph.

I phone reception:

"Um... why are there 1000 screaming teenaged girls in the street waving at me?"

"Ah, yes," says the receptionist, rather sheepishly, "Conor Maynard has just finished his concert, and they're waiting to see him. If it starts to upset you, we can see about changing your room?"

I was relieved, of course. But imagine if I actually were Conor Maynard? How stifling and horrible would it be to have 1000 girls outside your hotel room every night screaming like banshees and waving pairs of knickers around their heads?

Thing is. I don't actually know who Conor Maynard is...

Sheffield Folkers

Travelling from London to Sheffield by train is always a thought-provoking experience. The first part of the journey finds the train hurtling through a host of towns and landscapes associated with my childhood. It passes the enormous aircraft hangers at Cardington which are impressive enough against the flat Bedfordshire landscape, but as a child I found them almost mystical. I don’t think I’d ever seen buildings so large. I think a huge white zeppelin-shaped balloon used to fly above them which always seemed rather exciting. I always wanted to see it up close, but am not sure we ever did. My mother once told me that there was a haunted wood nearby, which had a dark, peculiar atmosphere.  I imagined that the hangers were filled with witches, and that the air balloon flying in the sky above it was some kind of UFO.

From Bedford, the train heads into Northamptonshire, and my memories move from the 1970s into the 80s. There’s a glimpse of the spire of Rushden church as the train passes above the badly-flooded meadows surrounding the river Nene at Wellingborough. And then for a five-minute period, every factory, every road, every field and every railway bridge holds a different distant memory. Even the colours of the bricks on the Victorian buildings seem somehow unique. This could only be east Northamptonshire. These are the colours and shapes of my teenage years. The train passes the Weetabix factory at Barton Seagrave, before charging through Kettering, and on up to Corby, and then, just like that, the landscape is unfamiliar again. The fields are simply fields; the buildings are just buildings. I peer along a country lane and have no idea where it’s heading.  I no longer know the names of the villages I see nestling between the folds in the land, and barely recognise the words I see written on the road signs which flicker past.

There’s a station called East Midlands Parkway, which seems to be bang, slap in the middle of a power station, which is a curious concept. The grey concrete cooling towers hang above the platforms menacingly. I think I would not enjoy living there.

I’ve spent the day in a lonely cottage in the hills above Sheffield with a lovely lad called Andy, who is recording the 100 Faces project. Andy is a central figure in the British folk music scene, which seems to be entirely centred on Sheffield. We’d periodically find ourselves staring out across the rugged moors, and he’d point at a little cottage clinging to another hillside, and say “the violinist from Bellowhead lives there”, “that’s the pub where they perform the Sheffield carols,” “Kate Rusby lives in the village just over that ridge of hills...” It’s a pretty major scene, and they all seem to support one another, and share their expertise. They’re all pro musicians, but their attitude towards music-making is not money-centred, which is deeply refreshing. Sometimes I wish I were surrounded by people who could afford to make music for the sake of making music.   

Andy has a very delightful dog, whom he rescued, and suspects was badly treated by its former owners. The dog had a terrible case of kennel cough last year, which nearly killed him, and now, every time he hears a person coughing, he rushes over and raises his paw; genuinely looking like he wants to help – or at least sympathise. Dogs are such curious and wonderful creatures.

I’m heading now to Newcastle for the next part of my adventure. Tomorrow evening, we’re recording the English Philharmonic Orchestra in a church in Jesmond. I have formed many ensembles from scratch, and built up many orchestras by layering individual players or groups of players, but it’s not often I get an opportunity to have a full orchestra, in front of me, playing one of my compositions. It’s the sort of thing I realise I should have asked my Dad to come and watch. I think he might have enjoyed the experience.

A coke float

For the past few days it's seemed that everything which could go wrong has gone wrong. Last night, for example, we sat down to watch the second part of Derren Brown's extraordinary Apocalypse on iPlayer and immediately realised that the old problem with our broadband connection had returned. Just as something exciting happened, we'd find ourselves looking at the spinning wheel of doom. To polish things off, Cas the rat suddenly decided to chew through the Internet cable, and that was that for our evening's entertainment.

This morning, whilst in Crouch End trying to replace the chewed-through Internet cable, I treated myself to a lovely cup of tea which I managed to drop on my lap as the car pulled away, causing not just a mess, but a nasty burn.

I returned home and, to make myself feel better, sat down to eat a plate of leftovers from Saturday's dinner party.... Which I managed to drop on my shoe. There was ketchup on my laces and quinoa all over the carpet. My carefully prepared lunch looked like road kill. I scraped it back onto my plate and ate it, feeling very sorry for myself, picking bits of carpet fluff from my teeth.

Still, the day improved significantly from then on in. I heard on the grapevine that Bryn Terfel enjoyed listening to The London Requiem, and had a little nibble about the recording from a radio station in Canada. It's also Fiona's birthday and we've been at the Woodman pub all evening. Monday night is quiz night, and we romped to victory with the ultimate team. We also won the "craft" round. As we arrived, we were handed a blob of play dough and told to create a sculpture of something both topical and comical. I don't think the quiz master was prepared for our scale model of a flooded Manhattan complete with miniature Chrysler, Empire State and Rockerfella buildings, three bridges, Central Park, Wall Street, a Statue of Liberty and the High Line. We flooded the model with coke. The quiz master said it was the best play dough model he'd seen in the two years he'd been running quizzes. We felt proud. Fiona got hammered. All is good.

And Manhattan...

I'm less proud of our pumpkins, which have gone mouldy and started to drip juices all over the fire place. I enclose a photo for your amusement. I tried to pick one up to throw it away, but immediately entered it with my thumb. I'll leave it to Nathan to somehow scrape them into a dustbin!

Mr Pancake

We've been in the Midlands all day, having Sunday lunch in Spaldwick with Lisa, Mark and their lovely daughter, Poppy. 

Spaldwick village is somewhere between Huntingdon and the Northamptonshire town where I was bought up. Everything in that part of the world feels incredibly familiar; the colour of the fields, the way the landscape undulates gently, the sandstone houses... Even the smells.

Lisa is about four months pregnant with a rather large boy-shaped belly, who we're all very excited to meet.

It was a wonderfully lazy day in front of an open fire. Lots of tangerines, cups of tea and a stunning plum and apple crumble made from the fruits of their garden. 

Poppy was delightful. She spent about an hour putting hundreds of pretty clips into Nathan's hair before giving him a make-over which involved mascara, foundation and, for some reason, an enormous star which was drawn onto his forehead with a red eyeliner. He looked a picture. 

Poppy's favourite toy is Mr Pancake. She's had him for years, and they're the best of friends. Mr Pancake is a terrifying-looking rubber zombie with a face contorted in twisted agony. Lisa and Mark used him for a Hallowe'en party once and Poppy, for some reason, instantly fell in love with him. Mr Pancake scares all Poppy's friends, but Poppy doesn't care. She loves him. Today Mr Pancake appeared wearing a party frock, an orange wig, and a very beautiful necklace. 

We're heading back now along the A1, which remains as eccentric a road as it was in 2008 when I made a musical film about it. The A1 is the only trunk road I know with its own sex shop, a biker cafe and a designated club for swingers! It's also the road on which I live. I'm constantly amused by the idea that, if I chose to, I could come out of my flat, turn left, and walk all the way to Edinburgh on the same road. I have neighbours who live in a different country! 

Courgettes

I fell asleep last night before managing to write a blog. I went out like a light watching something on iPlayer and slept through til 10am.

We had my first partner, Daniel, and his current partner, Matthew over to dinner last night, so the day was spent turning our pig sty of a house into a beautiful palace. 

The ABBA playlist went on at ten in the morning and we cleaned, dusted, washed and wiped-down every corner. We'd heard 60 songs by the time we'd finished!

We cooked some beautiful food. A courgette soup, asparagus spears, a warm pesto and potato salad, quinoa stuffed peppers and an apple pie. Every mouthful was a masterpiece and Daniel and Matthew made all the right noises. We've vowed to do more dinner parties. We must owe about twenty people!  

Cynical

Another day of relentless admin, hoping against hope for a little requiem bite from a major newspaper. I also applied for a job; the first job I've applied for in an age. I tend to think that there's no such thing as a job in our industry. Believe it or not, I have never actually applied for a job that I've got! There's always a sense that they've already been promised to someone else. The Guardian ads are simply there to tick the box that stops things from looking like a stitch up. "We have to advertise," says the man with the Arts Council funding to his mate he met in Edinburgh doing student drama, "but the job's as good as your's!" 

I'm a cynical bastard aren't I? That's what you become after 20 years' hard slog in a ruthless industry!

Talking of ruthless, whilst lolloping on the treadmill today, I had the shock of my life, when the blooming thing stopped dead, and flashed up the message "contact technical support." The shock of the treadmill stopping without warning caused my whole body to tense and jolt rather badly and I ended up with quite a sore back. The staff there dealt with the issue quite well, particularly a woman called Julia on reception who rode in triumphantly, informing me that she was the trained first-aider. You could tell she felt her time had arrived. She even offered to call an ambulance. Overkill, of course, but it's important not to underestimate the potential of these sorts of injury.

I went to another treadmill eventually and carried on my work out. Imagine my shock when the very same thing happened again... And then a third time. Whether it was something I was suddenly doing, or something the gym was doing, or just a freak coincidence, I've no idea, but it was weird, and not very good for my back! 

Tarantulas, bat-mobiles and skunks

Sam and I drove to Aylesbury today for my godson, Will’s birthday party. We started out at some ungodly hour, eating toast and drinking tea in Muswell Hill, whilst waiting for the toy shop there to open. I ended up with a kit for discovering dinosaur bones (a must-have for any intrepid 7 year-old) and a hoola hoop for Will's sister, Jeanie. (It's horrible to be present-less on your big brother's birthday.)

The party itself was held in a little village hall and had, as its special guest, a zoologist, who brought with her a number of unusual animals to show to the children. There were snakes, tarantulas, strange rat-like rodents and iguanas, but by far the most exciting animal was the skunk. I’ve never seen a skunk before. Not in the flesh. I actually got quite excited when I was given the opportunity to stroke it. It was a fluffy little thing; slightly docile, but terribly sweet. I was rather disappointed, however, to hear that he’d had his stink gland removed. The 8 year-old boy in me has always wanted to know what skunk stink smells likes!

We went back to Raily and Ian’s (Will’s parents) afterwards for the most wonderful butternut squash soup, which we ate whilst building things out of Lego on the dining room table. For the record, I assisted in the creation of a Bat-mobile, a totem pole and a bi-plane, which met a sticky end in a pumpkin.

We sat by the open fire and I taught Will how to play chess, whilst Sam read to little Jeanie-Rae in an armchair. Will is growing up into such a remarkable young man. He’s intelligent and considerate and has a wonderful imagination. As we walked along the street towards his house, he stopped, and stepped out of the way for a nun on a mobility scooter. Jokes about nuns on mobility scooters aside, I was very impressed to see a 7-year old behaving so chivalrously and felt genuinely proud to be his godfather.

As we said goodbye, Raily hugged me and said, “you know we think of you as part of the family, don’t you?” My eyes prickled slightly.

Saturday November 1^st, 1662, and Pepys was back in the cellars of the Tower of London digging for buried treasure. They dug all afternoon, under every arch they could find, because intelligence suggested that the gold coins were buried underneath an arch. After about four hours, they went away, “like fools.”