Gravy

I've just made the most agreeable gravy, with stock cubes, a knob of butter and half a tonne of port. Nathan and I don't really drink, but have a cupboard full of high quality alcohol left over from various parties which I'm always delighted to add to gravy to give it that special meaty flavour... Not that I have any idea what meaty actually tastes like! It's 31 years now since I last ate anything with a face or a mother, although I did find myself looking at a fish finger in Sainsbury's today and wondering what it might taste like, but that's probably because I've never eaten a bright orange bread crumb before and the ADHD kid in me wants a reason to climb the walls! 

I've been a-pitching all day. It's time to try and get something exciting on the slate for 2013, and I've put together a document which outlines a potential way forward for my composition about The Thames. 

There's not a lot else to say, really. Nathan and I have just sat down to watch last night's Dancing on Ice, and every time Beth Tweddle does the splits on the ice, Nathan says "cold minge," which is obviously making me giggle quite a lot.

They repeated 100 Faces on telly in the North East and Cumbria this evening. It's a little strange to think that it's all going on again without me. Apparently the BBC's website which shows the film in the area has had 4000 hits, which is great to hear. Messages of support are still coming in and I'm still incredibly proud of the film. 

 

Inferno

My cleaning frenzy took me up into the loft today and I spent a very merry three-hour period emptying drawers and consolidating boxes like a crazy person. 

It suddenly struck me that one is only required to keep tax records for the last 7 years, so a whole heap of boxes filled with flimsy pieces of paper immediately went into the green Haringey recycling sack. 

As I carried the bag out to the street, I remembered our eccentric neighbour who likes to break open bin liners to see what interesting things he can find within, so, with no shredder, I decided my only option was to burn anything which had an address attached to it, which turned out to be almost everything.

I used the chiminea that Nathan had bought me for my birthday, took myself to the corner shop for a can of lighter fluid, and created a brilliant inferno which incinerated the lot, whilst simultaneously filling my neighbours' lungs with the stench of wood smoke! Goodbye tax from the 90s and early naughties. You won't be missed! 

I'm obviously not the only one in Highgate doing a big clear out, as the alleyway behind our house was blocked by a bed, which I was forced to carry out into the street. The mattress was sodden and the whole thing weighed a tonne. Rule number one about alleyways; they're not places to piss and dump litter. They're often the paths to people's homes. Remember that the next time you're out on the piss, or thinking a piece of litter ceases to be your problem if you can't see it any more.

The curios continue to appear in every corner of the house; a wheelie suitcase too small to carry a suit in, a curious Afro wig, a little bag filled with Scrabble letters and Tiddlywinks, piles and piles of useless stationery and a box of broken staplers. Heaven knows how I've managed to accumulate so much dreadful junk. 

We went to Ian and Jem's for tea. Lovely food, as ever, and hysterical stories about Broadway and West End shows. 

We rushed back at just gone midnight to take down the Christmas decorations. Does it count if you take them down after midnight on Twelfth Night? It is, technically, January 7th. With Nathan and me both unemployed at the moment, a run of bad luck is all we need! 

The blue inflatable

I had great fun this morning emptying out cupboards. I found, and binned, all sorts of curios including a blue plastic inflatable thing which seemed only to semi-inflate. Was it once a lilo? An inflatable bed? An enormous balloon?  It looked a little sinister if you ask me, but it was made in China, so I didn't need to think twice about throwing it away. I am trying to cleanse my life of things bought in China. Obviously it's a battle I'll never win, but I'm determined to do my bit to register my disgust at the human rights record over there, and the largely rubbish quality of what they make in dubious sweat shops.

I left the house today looking like a tramp, wearing clothes I found in bottom drawers which I decided to audition instead of immediately throwing away.  The trousers I wore lasted until 2pm, when the zip of the fly suddenly broke, and left me needing to walk about with a bag pressed against my groin. I'm such a tramp!

Still, on that note, I feel very pleased with myself after throwing away every sock I could find with a hole in it. The joy about always wearing odd socks is that I only have to throw the damaged sock away! 

I met Ellen (Taylor - from the folk song) for lunch at St Pancras station. As ever, we laughed hysterically whilst putting the world to rights. She's had the most shocking 2012 and I sincerely hope that things will very much pick up for her this year. 

We talked, amongst other things, about the cul-de-sac of atheism. There's really no way out, apart from a miracle, which of course is about as unlikely as I am of knowingly eating meat again. 

Atheists have the most difficult paths to tread on this planet, largely because there are no easy answers for us to fall back on, and, more crucially, because there's no one else to blame for our inadequacies. None of us want to be atheists. All of us would love to believe there was something else; that we're merely pawns in a game of universal chance, but when you look at the inconsistencies of all religions, and the  complete lack of proof, there really is no other option. And that's very difficult to stomach. 

I listened to some of Plan B's Ill Manors album today. There is, in my view, no doubt that the man is a genius. His music is daring and unconventional and his lyrics paint extraordinary pictures. My great sadness is that he comes across as such an unlikable, arrogant sod in interviews. 

Mania

I've spent the day feeling extremely nostalgic in a rather sad way. This particular melancholy most likely descended with the news that my friend from university's husband had died. Cancer, of course...

Like me, he was a keen blogger, and had been writing regularly about his battle with the disease. He was young, fit and vibrant, and it seems so unfair that he's been ripped away from his family at such an early age. I can't begin to imagine what my friend must be going through.

The mood continued to deepen after I opened up my music chest to find a pile of beautifully developed black and white photographs, which, over the years I'd obviously meant to frame but never got around to it. The pictures go back to 1993 and are of friends and family members looking terribly young and smiling happily on warm summer days. Some were of people I no longer see. Some of the faces are no longer with us. It became almost painful to look through them. Face after face, smile after smile, memory upon memory. Where the hell does life go? 

We blink, and then another year goes by...

This slow process of cleansing my life is throwing up all sorts of emotions, which include a feeling of great relief. Another two bin bags went out today, stacked full of paper, and hole-ridden socks, and little bottles of toiletries I always thought I might use one day, but now smell of hay. It's almost astonishing what I've hoarded over the years, but the more memories I sift through, the more determined I am to push even harder to achieve my goals this year. What I've done so far isn't nearly enough.

Those reading should not confuse drive with mania, by the way. I've just re-read the previous paragraph and it sounds a little bit on the edge. It's not. I'm just in the process of doing what I do with the start of each year; drawing a line under the previous year, and whipping myself into a frenzy of excitement about life's possibilities. Loose your sense of magic and enthusiasm in this game and you'll go under forever. I'm also benefitting wildly from daily exercise.

My alacritous cleaning regime is generating tangible results however, and not just mental ones. I found my iPod yesterday night. There's still no sign of the gum guard I'm meant to wear every night to prevent me from grinding my teeth. I bit my tongue twice in the night as a direct consequence of not wearing it. Tragic. 

After a morning of life laundry, with Nathan doing taxes and things in the sitting room, we went to the gym and then into Muswell Hill to see my dear friend Nicky and her charming 20-month old, Oscar who has a large vocabulary already but still calls Mummy Daddy, which is priceless. Apparently she's given up correcting him! I love the idea that he might grow up calling her Daddy. It's so wonderfully eccentric! 

Ellen Taylor

I discovered that more things had mysteriously gone missing last night, and lay in bed, tossing and turning, wondering where on earth I'd put them. Proof positive that I need to get my life in order, and fast. 

I took myself to the library at Cecil Sharp House this morning, which is basically the beating heart of the British Folk scene. I wanted to track down some folk melodies about, or from, villages along the Thames, and almost as soon as I'd walked in, the incredibly helpful and knowledgeable librarian handed me a book called "Folk Songs from the Upper Thames," which had been collected before the Great War and published in the early 1920s. The collector, one Mr Williams, had done his bit for King and Country in the meantime and seemed rather apologetic about the fact!  

Williams had written an interesting and unpretentious essay at the start of the book, outlining how he'd convinced a number of suspicious elders in villages along the Thames to share the precious songs which had been passed down from their grandmothers. Money occasionally exchanged hands, but more often than not it was down to patience. 

He also wrote about how folksongs often falsely claim to be geographically specific, as is the case with Scarborough Fair, which is actually a Scottish melody. In crude terms, a travelling balladeer was more likely to sell sheet music for a song which mentioned a town close to where he was plying his trade than he was with a song about an alien world. So Whitby in a Yorkshire melody would be crossed out and replaced with Witney for the good folk of Oxfordshire. 

Those who know me well will know I have a dear friend called Ellen Taylor who used to live in Finsbury Park (Islington) and recently moved to Manchester to write episodes of Coronation Street. Imagine my surprise when I found the following folk song nestling in the book:

All around the room I waltzed with Ellen Taylor,

All around the room, I waltzed till break of day;

And ever since that time I've done nothing but bewail her,

For she's gone to Manchester the summer months to stay. 

'Twas at a ball at Islington, I first did chance to meet her... etc

How bizarre is that? 

We went to Reading in the late afternoon. This isn't part of the folk song. This is fact. Our good friend Ian is playing the baddie in a production of Beauty and the Beast with the wonderfully preserved Vicky Michelle from the iconic Allo Allo. We had a lovely chat afterwards. She's very gracious. 

I love a good panto, but felt incredibly uncomfortable sitting in an audience filled with Mummys and Daddys with no child of my own. The woman who sat down next to me gave me a proper once over with her eyes and I immediately felt like I'd done something wrong. 

A rather intense smell of vodka started wafting towards me from her general direction, and for a moment I started feeling incredibly uncomfortable until I realised I was experiencing the remarkably similar smell of hand sanitizer! Before long the entire auditorium was smelling of the stuff...

Reading feels like a rather unpleasant place; all concrete, yellow 80s bricks and bargain stores like Wilkinson and Matalan. The 99p store sits next to The Pound Shop. I'm serious. I wondered how many people would diss the latter because it was too expensive!?

I spoke to one of the actors afterwards who was incredibly opinionated about the subject, urging me to always use the Pound Shop. "That extra penny," he said, "buys you the better brands..."

Missing

Over the last few days I've not been able to find almost anything I've been looking for. From library cards and newspaper cuttings to iPods, everything seems to be disappearing, There must be some sort of universe-led reason for this. That, or it's my subconscious playing tricks on me. 

After giving it much thought, I've decided things are going missing on account of my head and house being full of crap. There are piles of paper, piles of photographs, piles of receipts, piles of cardboard almost everywhere I look, and they need to go. My mind cannot deal with any more knick-knacks, or keep sakes, or piles of things I'm wanting to recycle or take to a charity shop. So 2013 is beginning with the mother of all clear outs. Basically unless it's got a use, or a huge significance, it's going in a bin.

I have already chucked out four full bin liners and I've only just begun! 

Today started at Colindale newspaper library amongst the reels of microfiche. I love that place, and always feel about 70% more intelligent after a visit. I like rubbing shoulders with men who wear their chino trousers too high in the waste and woman with unruly hair and sensible shoes. 

The library smells a bit like a junior school hall; a hint of dust, a hint of Dettol, a hint of mushy pea. 

I was doing research about the Thames, looking at the reporting of key moments like the visit of the whale in 2006, and the great floods of 1928 and 1953. in 1928, for example, 15 people in Westminster drowned in their basements! The news reporting goes from "what a curious sight" to "Jesus, people still live like this?"

We went back to the gym in the afternoon. It made me itch. I'm that unfit! I can't wait to get back into a proper health and fitness groove. I feel really zingy this evening as a result of the exercise. I shall sleep well.

Bring on 2013! 

What, no food?

We went to Julie Clare’s house last night with David from the choir, Meriel and her little dog Berry. It was a wonderfully relaxed, quiet evening. We played silly games and ate an obscene amount of food, which included the most supreme chocolate roulade, courtesy of Julie. At midnight we switched the telly on, and watched the fireworks in central London with the volume switched off whilst singing along to ABBA’s “Happy New Year.” Perfect.

We must have left at about 2.30am, our stomachs full to bursting, and today, Meriel, Nathan and I went to Hampstead Heath. I wrote a tweet to say that it was the perfect thing to do on a New Year’s Day, and received a response from someone actually tweeting as Hampstead Heath! “It’s worked for me for a thousand years” said Mr Hampstead Heath, “me too,” I replied, “have you seen Hampstead Heath: The Musical?” “Seen it” came the response, “I’m in every scene y’know...” I stopped tweeting at that point. Interacting with someone claiming to be the personification of a North London Park felt too surreal for words!

We returned from the Heath via Highgate village and spent an hour walking from pub to pub looking for something to eat for a late lunch. The experience became hell on earth. The place was teaming with people. Every pub we entered was either too full, had stopped serving food, or didn’t accept dogs. We drove into Muswell Hill to find all the cafes closed, baring the curious “Jenny’s”, which is like a sort of cross between an old school Wimpy and a Greasy Spoon. It did the trick, although the food we were offered was deeply limited on account of the place having run out of most ingredients. “You got mushrooms?” “no” “veggie lasagnes?” “no” “veggie burgers?” “no” “can you make an omelette?” “yes... no... wait... lemme check if we have eggs...” All the waitresses were rushing around looking utterly bemused. One of them told me she’s started at 10am and hadn’t had a lunch break. January the 1^st would definitely be the day to launch a restaurant!

Pepys’ Yuletide period was quiet. Christmas in those days was a fairly sedate affair; church, followed by a roasted chicken, plum porridge and mince pies. There was a cold, dry frost on the ground, and Pepys went to the theatre many times, his oaths about cutting back on pleasurable exploits having come to an end. He saw his wife’s former companion, Gosnell with her sisters from a distance on Boxing Day, and, despite the fact that she’d proved to be a proper liability, longed to have her back in the household, really just so that he could sing with her again. Pepys loved music.

Gossip of the day told of a merchant’s house in Lothbury, which had burned down inexplicably and utterly silently in the middle of the night; so silently, in fact, that none of its neighbours noticed anything untoward until the house had almost entirely been razed to the ground with no survivors; not even a cat or a dog.

Elizabeth was upset because she didn’t have a winter gown. The fashion dictated mohair... she only had taffeta.

New Year’s Eve was spent at Whitehall Palace, watching the King, the royals and hangers on, dancing and singing in glorious gowns. How the other half lived in those days.