Inverse land speed record

We're at Hilary and Rupert's house in Lewes. Its Hilary's 40th birthday weekend, and we've had a lovely vegetarian stew, a whole plate of cheeses and too many chocolates.

The journey down here was insane. I left Highgate at 4pm, after frantically tidying the house, and immediately got stuck in rush hour traffic. I thought I was going to beat the London mass exodus, but had forgotten that the phenomenon takes place in the mid afternoon on Fridays.

By the time I'd reached the Blackwall  Tunnel I was ready to dig my eyes out with a rusty spoon. My foot kept going into spasm on account of its hitting the clutch and the brakes so regularly, and my back was aching like crazy. There's nothing more claustrophobic than the experience of getting stuck in painstakingly slow moving traffic.

It took four and a bit hours to get down here, a fact made all the more unpalatable by the fact that Iain and Raily, who left Aylesbury two hours later than me, arrived just ten minutes later! Our car's computer reliably informed me that I'd driven at an average speed of 18 miles per hour, which must be some sort of inverse land speed record!

We drove from Lewes to Gatwick at 11.30pm; a mercy dash to rescue Tanya from the airport, whose plane down from Glasgow had been delayed by snow. Despite the delay being nothing to do with any of us, we were forced to pay £3 for the privilege of picking her up. The same thing happens at Stansted Airport these days. I think that's bordering on the definition of daylight robbery!

Still, it was lovely to see Tanya, who we must now address as Doctor Cheadle on account of her recently completing a PHD at Glasgow University. How blinking clever are my friends?

Random acts

I walked into Muswell Hill this morning kicking up piles of Autumn leaves. They're absolutely everywhere at the moment. It seems rather late in the year for that sort of palaver. I made a film for Children in Need in early November a few years ago, and the leaves were similarly thick on the ground, but that was the start of November. What strange weather we're having this year.

Speaking of which, the East Coast of the UK seems to be bracing itself for a rather biblical storm surge, which worries me a little. I have a feeling we're going to wake up tomorrow morning in complete disarray. The news people won't know whether to talk about the death of Nelson Mandella or the terrible floods. It will be one of those dates. I hope I'm proved wrong but I worry about the Essex coastline.

We haven't had any particularly strange weather in North London today. It was a bit blustery earlier, but the trees outside by the tube are almost worrying still.

If the wind picks up, we're on for a rather hysterical scene. The council people have not yet come along with their brooms and enormous vacuum cleaners and there are so many leaves lying in huge heaps on the ground that we'll end up with a sort of brown and orange blizzard.

A sad old bloke came into Costa Cafe today. He went up to one of the baristas and asked if he could have some sugar. I spent ages trying to work out what his story must have been. He could barely walk, poor thing, and was wearing a very silly hat. I couldn't work out why he wanted sugar. Maybe he just needed an energy boost and couldn't afford a drink. The barista gave him some small bags of sugar and he shuffled out again into the rain.

Five seconds later, the barista rushed out onto the street after him and a little later, the man had returned with the barista and was being given a coffee on the house, which he drank keenly.

I was so impressed by the barista. He absolutely didn't need to reach out to the old bloke, but obviously saw a person in need and wanted to do his bit. Some people in his position would even have refused the man a few little bags of sugar. Most would have been glad to see the back of him, "for the sake of the other customers..."

I will remember that random act of kindness for while. It makes me realise that there's always something else one can do to brighten someone else's day.

Shite technology

I decided to wake up when I woke up this morning in an attempt to sleep off any last residue of cold. It was maybe a mistake, as, when I opened my eyes and looked at the bed side clock, it was nearly mid day! I felt like a student again.

Still, it seems to have done the trick. I feel a lot better, in fact, when I went out for a jog in the afternoon there was a real spring in my tail. It might have had something to do with the weather. It was crisp and there was a sort of musty, smoky smell in the air, which I found hugely inspiring. I danced a little as I ran.

Other than this I’ve done very little today apart from working on the piano vocals scores for Brass. My aim is to have six songs done in this way by the end of the month, plus another draft of the script. Auditions for the show are happening through January and this feels like a good position to be in before they start. There’s so much to do when it comes to writing a musical! It’s quite bewildering, in fact. I guess all I can do is take one step at a time and not move on until I think what’s been written is of the absolute highest standard.

I am so frustrated by the state of technology in my life. Here’s the current deal. 1) My mobile phone no longer has reception in the house. Whether this is due to the phone or the service provider, I’ve no idea, but it’s quite astonishingly frustrating. 2) My new computer sometimes doesn’t send emails. I think at least it tends to tell me when it’s decided not to send one, so I don’t have to send the same message several times just in case, but, earlier this evening I had an email refused so many times I was forced to give up. 3) My new computer only sometimes connects to the internet, and when it does, it often immediately throws me off with an error message. 4) When I’m using my music software, some rubbish new shortcut with Windows 8, which I inadvertently trigger when I’m trying to place a crotchet on the page, throws me off the manuscript I’m working on, and brings up an internet tab. This happens, I’d say, once every five minutes.

I appreciate these things are all rather ghastly First World problems, but can you imagine the combination of all of this, and what that must do to my nerves!

Anyway, I’ve bored myself. I have nothing of any interest to write. I think it’s simply time for bed!

Loneliness

Well, after today, I can cheerfully say that the era of me going into the Snappy Snaps in Crouch End is officially over! Keen readers of this blog will remember that they printed a year's worth of photographs too dark on Saturday, and when I turned up to collect the replacements today, they were, as Sod's law would dictate, way too light! It looked like I’d spilt milk all over the pictures.

I really didn't want to create a fuss and said I dearly wished they'd simply split the difference between the two extremes, before asking if I could take away some of the darker versions of the more dramatic shots. After all, who wants a sunset which looks like it’s coated in ice. The man behind the counter begrudgingly said I could take "some" of the original batch, "as long as I didn't take too many" as I'd given him the impression that none of them were good enough.

None of them were good enough. But some of the originals were better than the recent hatchet job, and frankly, it's the least they could do after knackering up a whole second set!

It was all slightly embarrassing. The man behind the counter was nice enough, and went out of his way to help. I just think, from time to time, you simply have to acknowledge defeat. We don't share the same photographic eye. What he considers to be well-lit, I consider to be murky. That, or he's just used to dealing with photos which are such poor quality, he's become a little complacent. They work in a funny old light in there as well, horrid neon strips, which has to impair their visual judgement. 

Today's been all about a) trying to get over this blessed cold once and for all and b) working on piano arrangements for Brass. It's a horrid task, which feels upside down. The work will eventually be scored for a rather large ensemble of musicians, and a huge amount of the process of composing for me is built around orchestration. It's when the music can take off and soar, and huge tonal developments take place as a result...

At the same time, the pressing need is for me to create a piano-vocal score which can be used for rehearsals and workshops. So which ought to come first? Problem is, things will change out of recognition when I get orchestrating, but the idea of creating a piano reduction from an orchestral score is almost too painful. I don't think this problem happens very often in most musical theatre productions, because things are usually done by committee. A composer hands a melody and chords over to an orchestrator who basically deals with the rest. I'm just not sure anyone can call themselves a composer if they don't do their own orchestrations!

I’m burbling because I’m feeling a little lonely. Apart from the man in the shop, I’ve really spoken to no one today. I’ve spoken rather regularly to myself, which doesn’t count, namely because it can’t be very good for me, and I refuse to acknowledge that I do it. Nathan, up in Wakefield, is on voice rest, so we’ve waved at each other on Facetime, but not said anything.

It strikes me how absolutely horrific it must be for the many people in this world who go for weeks without speaking to anyone; the people who fall in love with radio presenters and get their only company from the television, or watching the world passing by from behind net curtains. I suppose it must have been like that for my Grannie by the end, waiting every day for her carer to arrive. I have no idea what propels people in these circumstances. The thought that today might be the day when they struggle out to the shops and find someone en route to talk to? It might be the day when the neighbour pops in for a nice cup of tea? Or the day when they’re finally reunited with a loved one who died five years before? Perhaps that’s why people begin to look forward to death. So many people simply evaporate through loneliness...

Gosh, I don’t know that there’s any reversal procedure for this blog. I apologise if anyone’s day has taken a nose dive as a result of reading this! If you’re feeling lonely yourself, go and find someone to talk to. Join a book club or a knitting circle, or write a letter to someone. And better still, if you’re passing an elderly person on the street, smile and say hello, because it might be the only human contact they’ll have today.

Decent human beings

I find myself feeling rather proud of Tom Daley for coming out today. I think the phrase he used which I found rather touching was when he said of his partner, “he makes me feel safe.” We all need to feel protected sometimes, and a relationship ought to provide a person with a sense of safety, particularly those, like Daley, who lost a parent in their teenage years. I’m excited to see if this announcement will have a positive effect on other gay sports people. It’s time we brought that particular industry kicking and screaming into the 21^st Century.

Today started early in Borough with another visit to my osteopath. I like my osteopath. He’s very quirky. His name is Ollie, and, like everyone who sees you at the British School of Osteopathy, he’s a student, in his case, a mature student, who used to be a printer. He claims to be dyspraxic, which makes for quite a laugh when he’s trying to explain what positions he wants me to adopt! I barely know my left from my right and find it impossible to put my body into a pre-described position. He also tells me that he looks forward to seeing which odd socks I’m wearing when I come in.

From Borough, I went to Somerset House to meet Michelle of the Turkie for lunch. We go to a rather fancy little cafe, which is a bit pricey, but it serves delicious food. Each week I eat a little bap filled with mushrooms and blue cheese and drink a freshly squeezed orange juice. We natter for an hour and then go our separate ways.

I came back to Highgate, went jogging, and continued to work on Brass, making my way through a glossary of Edwardian slang to see if anything felt right to use in the script. I’ve also started scoring one of the songs for piano and voice. It sounds lovely on the actual piano, but bloody awful on my computer, which is a little worrying.

I’ve just watched a TV film about the terrible Glasgow helicopter crash. The piece finished with interviews from two men, the first of whom, a priest, said, “the thing about Glasgow people is that they respond to everything from their hearts.” What a wonderful thing to say about the people of a city. The other interviewee then added, “until my dying day, I will remember watching people rushing through the streets towards the accident scene to see if they could help.” These sorts of awful things often serve to remind us that, when push comes to shove, the majority of people in this world are decent sorts.

Posh pianos

I did another day of leafleting in Highgate today, this time in the enormous Victorian mansions which stretch from the village down to Hampstead Heath. I have seldom seen houses with such enormous gardens. We're talking properties with three quarters of an acre of land, which by London standards is almost obscene. Obviously one tries ones hardest to look in awe rather than envy, but I have seen grand pianos in front rooms which would make a grown composer weep! Of course you can't help but wonder how competent the musicians are who play those stunning instruments, or whether there's any sense of how lucky they are when they do!

It reminds me a little of how I felt as a child when I heard Jacqueline du Pre had given 'cello lessons to Prince Charles. Even then I wondered whether the Prince would ever realise quite what an honour was being bestowed on him. Perhaps the honour was all Jacqueline's. Maybe she dined out on horror stories about what a terrible noise he was making!

Another clear memory I have from childhood days is my mother sitting down with me and saying she didn't think it would ever be possible for me to have my own 'cello. We just weren't wealthy enough. I resigned myself to being content to play the instrument which we'd borrowed from the county council (the kind of instrument which recent cuts have meant that kids are no longer offered.)

Anyway, that night on the telly they showed a 'cello being smashed up in a comedy sketch. I was horrified. If I couldn't have a 'cello, how could there possibly be enough 'cellos in the world for one to be smashed up? I think I wanted to write to the BBC to let them know how appalled I was by the sight, but things got in the way. Besides, a year or so later, my Nana died and left me enough money in her will to buy my own, and I've never really looked back.

The misery of leafleting became a somewhat easier pill to swallow when I happened upon a Yummy Mummy, getting out of a car on her drive just off Spaniard's Land. As I reached the letter box of her house, I saw with horror that it had the familiar "no junk mail" sign plastered onto it. I turned around and said to the woman, "I'm terribly sorry, I see you have a sign..." She thanked me for not putting the leaflet through her door and then called me back saying "is it a local thing?" I showed her the postcard as she said, "that's not junk mail! We put that sign up to stop the pizza fliers!" She took the postcard from me and I felt a glimmer of sunshine which lasted till the end of her street.

That said, I've not had a single sale yet as a result of all this entrepreneurial activity, but I did drop an apology and a Requiem CD through the woman's door whom I'd rowed with yesterday. I hope she'll at least enjoy listening to it.

Wood smoke

Today started rather badly. I went all low blood sugar and then drove into Crouch End to pick up £90-worth of photographs from Snappy Snaps, which had been disastrously and universally badly printed. All the excuses came out; what works visually for one customer doesn't for another, exposure is subjective, the large borders you've asked us to add to these pictures make the images look much darker, what you see on our screens doesn't match what you see in the pictures... I told them I'd been taking photographs for thirty years, which was long enough to recognise bullshit, and eventually they begrudgingly agreed to do the pictures again after I'd tugged at their heart strings and pointed out that I simply wanted to be able to see the faces of the people I love, staring out of the photographs I'd taken.

It put in a fowl mood and made me late for the next part of my day, the far more pleasurable task of meeting up with Little Michelle, who'd agreed to come with me on a mission to deliver a few more post cards. We spent two hours trolling around Highgate Village, daring each other to go up the garden paths of the grandest looking houses; properties belonging to people like George Michael and Victoria Wood, who are too famous to have letter boxes...

Michelle very much brightened things up, but the sinking feeling returned when one woman rushed out of a house we'd just fliered and said, "no, no, no... there used to be a  sign on my door saying that I didn't want any junk mail." "Well there's no longer a sign, so, as I'm not psychic, I'd say your house was fair game." I don't remember what was then said. All I know is that a red mist descended. The woman made me feel ashamed, like a beggar. I remember telling her I thought she was rude. I remember her saying that she didn't want junk mail in the future and me saying, "there won't be a future.  Do you think I do this for a living?" I departed telling her that I hoped she enjoyed the leaflet, and spent the next half an hour fuming.

In retrospect, of course, I realise the argument was all about my insecurities. I turned her into an ogre and got shirty because it made me feel less worthless. It suited me to imagine her as a rich Highgate snob, when actually, she was trying to deal with me as politely as she could. What upsets me is that my outburst plainly shocked her and possibly made her feel a little frightened. So I shall put a copy of the Requiem through her door tomorrow with a note of apology. It's the least I can do. And frankly, if no one's buying them, I might as well give them away! I'd sooner the piece was heard.

From Highgate I picked Tina up in East London and we drove up to the wood smoke-scented village of Thaxted, where we drank tea and ate cake and convincingly won a quiz in the village hall. It was a brilliant night, and I have a bottle of champagne and one of red wine to show for our victory. I'm sure the champagne will be consumed by a passing alcoholic and I can use the red wine for gravy. I've decided I quite like the taste of alcohol after the alcohol's been burned off and a stock cube has been added.

We came out of the quiz to an astonishing light display in the heavens. The night sky was pitch black and the stars were supremely bright.

As we drove home, just as I was telling Tina about phantom misty light displays on the roads around Thaxted, a hare rushed out into the road in front of us. I was going slowly enough to avoid it, and catch the creature in full beam as it stared hopelessly at the car. That's the second hare I've seen in as many months. I wonder what that means...

It was so lovely to spend the evening with Tina and my family...