Waking up this morning was a little traumatic. A gale was rattling the windows, rain was splashing down the steps outside, and it was barely light. I literally had to use all of my will power to haul myself out of bed, and then I sat for long minutes in the bath, apparently unable to do anything but stare miserably at the taps, whilst my fingers turned into prunes!
Still, things picked up, and I completed another song for Brass, which took me, briefly, into the uncharted world of C flat major, which, for those reading who don't know a great deal about music, is a ludicrously complicated key, right on the edge of sanity! I don't know how I got there, and once I'd arrived, I made a hasty retreat with a snappy little modulation, which delivered me back into D major; a world which will always make far better sense!
I'm writing a sort of showstopper number: a big old ensemble song, with an internal narrative, which could be lifted out of the show and performed out of context. It strikes me that all good musicals have one of these numbers. Think Meadowlark in the Baker's Wife. Because they work independently, they're often the songs which become better known, but equally the first numbers to be cut when a show is too long!
Anyway, Billy Whistle, which is my song's name, is a bitter-sweet ditty about a soldier who likes to whistle. He whistles with the birds, and the steam train which takes him to France. He whistles in the trenches and all the other soldiers whistle back because his music reminds them of English summers. Unfortunately, the one whistle Billy doesn't recognise is the whistle of a whizz bang...
I got really quite upset whilst writing it. Obviously the song tells a sad little tale, and to make it as bitter sweet as possible, I'm trying to tap into a good balance of major and minor chords, to create the impression, musically speaking at least, that there's no hope without pain! There's also the knowledge that the particular characters who I've selected to sing the song will not necessarily survive to the end of the piece, and when you're basing a work on real people, this can be somewhat devastating.
I'm currently retuning from central London, where I had a lovely bite to eat with Ellie. We ate in Soho, and then I walked her to Queensway where she's staying in an hotel.
We met at Broadcasting House and, whilst waiting in the foyer, I bumped into a whole series of people I knew, including the lovely Tom Service, an old university chum, who now presents television shows about classical music, and my friend Ian, who produces current affairs shows. It struck me that the foyer of Broadcasting House is the ideal place to sit and network. I might take my computer there one day! This industry is all about being in the right place at the right time and popping into someone's consciousness just as they're thinking "I wish a really interesting project would present itself to me!" They're most likely to think that on their way to and from work!
Ellie and I walked along the top of Hyde Park and I was quite surprised when she said, "can't you just tell that this is one of those London places where bad things have happened?" She was talking, of course, about the Tyburne Tree, the location of thousands of public executions into relatively modern times, which stood forebodingly in that exact part of town.
Of course, as soon as she said it, the hackles on my neck started rising, no doubt simply because she'd put the thought in my head!
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
Monday, 6 January 2014
The tissue salesman
As I sat on the tube today, headphones clamped to my ears, I became aware of a man passing through the carriage, depositing something on all of the seats. At first I thought he was some sort of crazy Christian, spreading intolerance and bile, but at a second glance, I realised it was a young Eastern European, handing out little parcels of Kleenex tissues, with a note which read, "I need to support my family. Please help me by buying some tissues or offering me some work."
Applauding his courage and entrepreneurial spirit, I immediately gave him a couple of quid for the tissues, if for no other reason than to wipe away the tears that came after witnessing such a strangely pitiful sight. I was immediately reminded of the First World War soldiers who returned from France with no jobs, and ended up selling trinkets and bars or soap in the most undignified circumstances.
The Eastern European thanked me profusely and carried on with his work in the next carriage, whilst around me everyone else pretended he wasn't there.
I got off the tube at Tufnell Park and almost immediately bumped into a gang of young lads, possibly wagging school, in their fancy-brand sports wear, sitting in a heap, drinking cider and making everyone feel uncomfortable.
...And it suddenly struck me that, when we moan and whine about immigration, we conveniently ignore a number of inherent contradictions. Whilst our indigenous population of dispossessed hang about rather threateningly on street corners, spending their benefit money on fancy trainers, shunning hard graft because they've been brought up to believe the world owes them what they demand, Eastern Europeans, who can't or perhaps even choose not to claim benefits, are getting off their arses and trying to support their families by any means, even if it means humiliating themselves in the process.
Obviously, in all of this there are shades black and white. I'm sure there are Eastern Europeans who come to the UK expecting an easy ride, as much as there are indigenous Brits who long to find a job - whatever that entails.
The government, of course, must be held accountable for creating a sub-class of Eastern European who the law has allowed to be paid less for doing the same jobs as Brits. But I was shocked and genuinely fascinated by the contrast in the behaviour I witnessed today. There appears to be a genuine work ethic inherent in Eastern Europeans which is not necessarily apparent in UK residents. I therefore wonder if a period of recession in this country won't end up being rather good for us, if not simply to show us that good times can't always be taken for granted, and that initiative, hard work, empathy and a lack of complacency are the tools needed to nurse this nation of ours back to health.
Applauding his courage and entrepreneurial spirit, I immediately gave him a couple of quid for the tissues, if for no other reason than to wipe away the tears that came after witnessing such a strangely pitiful sight. I was immediately reminded of the First World War soldiers who returned from France with no jobs, and ended up selling trinkets and bars or soap in the most undignified circumstances.
The Eastern European thanked me profusely and carried on with his work in the next carriage, whilst around me everyone else pretended he wasn't there.
I got off the tube at Tufnell Park and almost immediately bumped into a gang of young lads, possibly wagging school, in their fancy-brand sports wear, sitting in a heap, drinking cider and making everyone feel uncomfortable.
...And it suddenly struck me that, when we moan and whine about immigration, we conveniently ignore a number of inherent contradictions. Whilst our indigenous population of dispossessed hang about rather threateningly on street corners, spending their benefit money on fancy trainers, shunning hard graft because they've been brought up to believe the world owes them what they demand, Eastern Europeans, who can't or perhaps even choose not to claim benefits, are getting off their arses and trying to support their families by any means, even if it means humiliating themselves in the process.
Obviously, in all of this there are shades black and white. I'm sure there are Eastern Europeans who come to the UK expecting an easy ride, as much as there are indigenous Brits who long to find a job - whatever that entails.
The government, of course, must be held accountable for creating a sub-class of Eastern European who the law has allowed to be paid less for doing the same jobs as Brits. But I was shocked and genuinely fascinated by the contrast in the behaviour I witnessed today. There appears to be a genuine work ethic inherent in Eastern Europeans which is not necessarily apparent in UK residents. I therefore wonder if a period of recession in this country won't end up being rather good for us, if not simply to show us that good times can't always be taken for granted, and that initiative, hard work, empathy and a lack of complacency are the tools needed to nurse this nation of ours back to health.
Saturday, 4 January 2014
Bristol
I've been in Bristol all day, running auditions for the National Youth Music Theatre. I think we must have seen approaching sixty young people, split into three age groups, who stayed with us for a full day, doing work-shops auditions which focussed on the three strands of singing, acting and dancing.
We saw some lovely kids, some of whom were incredibly talented. One girl in particular could very easily be right for the pivotal role of Eliza.
There are, however, as ever, never enough young men. Here's a staggering statistic. When it comes to young people wanting to get involved in acting, the ratio of girls to boys is 8 to 2. Out of the 20% of men who audition, 80% will be recalled, but of the 80% of women who audition, only 20% will be recalled! The odds are seriously stacked in favour of men!
We're currently auditioning for all three shows for the NYMT 2014 summer season, which means there can be something of a bidding war for certain performers. When two of the shows (namely Brass and Howard Goodall's The Hired Man) have very large (Northern-based) male casts, the tussling can be intense, with everyone fighting for their own corners. Heaven knows what will happen when we get up to Leeds next weekend and find a 23-year old bloke with "leading man" written all over him! I'll fight to the death for someone like him, but suspect the director of The Hired Man will be equally viscous!
The day was immensely enjoyable. The NYMT team is so much fun to work with, but I can't wait to get back home to a nice warm television set! I only managed four hours' sleep last night after getting back from York and sorting out all the audition pieces for today.
Producer Jeremy listened to some of the songs on the way home, on the computer with its ghastly synthesiser sounds whilst the train rattled through Wiltshire. It was probably not the most ideal circumstances in which to hear music from the show for the first time, but he said how much he'd enjoyed them.
Obviously my insecure, caveat-soaked brain immediately assumed he'd feel compelled to say he'd enjoyed them out of politeness, but I guess, other than spontaneously bursting into tears, dropping to his knees and proclaiming me the saviour of British musical theatre, there's very little else I could have hoped for him to say!
I am now (and not for the first time) stranded at Edgware Road tube station, which, because it's open to the elements, is always one of the chilliest places on the planet. Trains come into the station and are promptly terminated, which means all the passengers are turfed out onto the platforms and everyone stands in miserable huddles waiting for the next one to come in. This can take up to twenty minutes, which is not great when a load of pissed-up hetties in Ted Baker shirts are yelling and screaming around you. They're no doubt off to the ghastly clubs in Leicester Square to chance their luck with a load of mingettes, who refuse to wear coats at this time of year. It never ceases to amaze me how profoundly touchy-feely straight men get with one another when drunk. It makes me wonder how tragically devoid of physical contact they must feel when sober. Maybe we should initiate a "hug a straight man" week, to do our bit for this awful situation. Maybe my charity work on behalf of the gays has been badly misplaced!
Returning to the issue of Edgware Road and it's sub-zero temperatures, I genuinely think that stations where passengers are regularly turfed out of terminating tubes should at least be fitted with waiting rooms for cold winter nights like tonight.
Bah! You invest too much in the notion of getting home speedily and what can you expect?
Delayed tubes, that's what... and trains for the wrong blinking branch of the Northern Line turning up whilst the recorded voice says "customer announcement - a good service is reported on all London Underground lines." London wishes all of its customers a very Happy New Year!
We saw some lovely kids, some of whom were incredibly talented. One girl in particular could very easily be right for the pivotal role of Eliza.
There are, however, as ever, never enough young men. Here's a staggering statistic. When it comes to young people wanting to get involved in acting, the ratio of girls to boys is 8 to 2. Out of the 20% of men who audition, 80% will be recalled, but of the 80% of women who audition, only 20% will be recalled! The odds are seriously stacked in favour of men!
We're currently auditioning for all three shows for the NYMT 2014 summer season, which means there can be something of a bidding war for certain performers. When two of the shows (namely Brass and Howard Goodall's The Hired Man) have very large (Northern-based) male casts, the tussling can be intense, with everyone fighting for their own corners. Heaven knows what will happen when we get up to Leeds next weekend and find a 23-year old bloke with "leading man" written all over him! I'll fight to the death for someone like him, but suspect the director of The Hired Man will be equally viscous!
The day was immensely enjoyable. The NYMT team is so much fun to work with, but I can't wait to get back home to a nice warm television set! I only managed four hours' sleep last night after getting back from York and sorting out all the audition pieces for today.
Producer Jeremy listened to some of the songs on the way home, on the computer with its ghastly synthesiser sounds whilst the train rattled through Wiltshire. It was probably not the most ideal circumstances in which to hear music from the show for the first time, but he said how much he'd enjoyed them.
Obviously my insecure, caveat-soaked brain immediately assumed he'd feel compelled to say he'd enjoyed them out of politeness, but I guess, other than spontaneously bursting into tears, dropping to his knees and proclaiming me the saviour of British musical theatre, there's very little else I could have hoped for him to say!
I am now (and not for the first time) stranded at Edgware Road tube station, which, because it's open to the elements, is always one of the chilliest places on the planet. Trains come into the station and are promptly terminated, which means all the passengers are turfed out onto the platforms and everyone stands in miserable huddles waiting for the next one to come in. This can take up to twenty minutes, which is not great when a load of pissed-up hetties in Ted Baker shirts are yelling and screaming around you. They're no doubt off to the ghastly clubs in Leicester Square to chance their luck with a load of mingettes, who refuse to wear coats at this time of year. It never ceases to amaze me how profoundly touchy-feely straight men get with one another when drunk. It makes me wonder how tragically devoid of physical contact they must feel when sober. Maybe we should initiate a "hug a straight man" week, to do our bit for this awful situation. Maybe my charity work on behalf of the gays has been badly misplaced!
Returning to the issue of Edgware Road and it's sub-zero temperatures, I genuinely think that stations where passengers are regularly turfed out of terminating tubes should at least be fitted with waiting rooms for cold winter nights like tonight.
Bah! You invest too much in the notion of getting home speedily and what can you expect?
Delayed tubes, that's what... and trains for the wrong blinking branch of the Northern Line turning up whilst the recorded voice says "customer announcement - a good service is reported on all London Underground lines." London wishes all of its customers a very Happy New Year!
Friday, 3 January 2014
York and Leeds
Just before leaving Wakefield for London, we had the mother of all issues with the emergency disabled alarm cord in Nathan's flat. Essentially, and I should add, only by mistake, I pulled the damned thing. More specifically, I lent against the bed that it was draped across and the thing was somehow activated. Obviously, this is only something which could happen to me.
The alarms went off - almost everywhere in the building; a nasty, high-pitched wail. I waited patiently for the obligatory "are you alright, Mrs Jones" telephone call, but nothing came. The alarms just kept ringing...
I ran into the hall way, and in a panic pressed a "call for assistance" button, which set a whole new alarm off... And still no one came.
Here's the issue I have: If you're going to fit state-of-the-art spac-cess into a building, you HAVE to have a procedure in place which is triggered when a disabled or elderly person pulls the blinking cord! Otherwise someone lies in a pool of their own vomit all night whilst a screaming alarm rips their ears to shreds! Insult upon misery.
In the end I found an emergency out-of-hours help number on some kind of inventory in the flat's kitchen, and a rather lovely lady let me know where the reset button could be found. I hit the button and the noise stopped as soon as it had begun. ...And breathe (or actually, run like the blinkin' wind to the train station to make the train with seconds to spare!)
The rest of the day was just lovely. The sun shone all day. It apparently rained almost everywhere else in the country. I drove Cindy to Leeds first thing in the morning. I had a radio interview with the BBC to publicise the Yorkshire auditions for Brass. I'll consider myself to have failed entirely if a good percentage of the eventual cast aren't genuine Northerners.
The chat went well, and I hope it will have generated a few enquiries from young people in Yorkshire.
From Leeds, we drove to York. I wanted to show Cindy the city which has probably meant more to me over the years than any other.
The nostalgia tour started in Ambrose Terrace, one of the many little Victorian streets which meander down to the River Ouse. It's where I once lived, in a corner house, in a little stables complex. My best friend, Pete and I, for three years running, wrote our initials in tippex on the bottom brick of the back wall of the house. Twenty years on, the three sets of initials are as clear as they ever were. Twenty years of rain and wind and broken guttering... And yet the letters are still white as snow. As I get older, the sight becomes more moving.
We parked up near Micklegate and walked along the city walls towards the minster. We fed squirrels in Museum Gardens, drank tea Cafe Concerto, shopped for antiques on Stonegate, ate proper Yorkshire chips, and climbed to the top of Clifford's Tower to look down upon a sun-drenched city.
I did a second, and rather lengthy interview with Radio York about Brass. The presenter reminded me that the last time he'd interviewed me, I'd just had vocal surgery, and was holding up a white board with written responses to his questions! That was the night that a Symphony for Yorkshire won three Royal Television Society Awards. Not the best time to be unable to speak!
We returned to Wakefield by car and sat for a while in Subway before heading back to the flat, where the incident with the disabled wire happened, and that, as they say, was that! A perfect day. I feel very much alive, tired, but stress-free.
Tomorrow, I head to Bristol...
The alarms went off - almost everywhere in the building; a nasty, high-pitched wail. I waited patiently for the obligatory "are you alright, Mrs Jones" telephone call, but nothing came. The alarms just kept ringing...
I ran into the hall way, and in a panic pressed a "call for assistance" button, which set a whole new alarm off... And still no one came.
Here's the issue I have: If you're going to fit state-of-the-art spac-cess into a building, you HAVE to have a procedure in place which is triggered when a disabled or elderly person pulls the blinking cord! Otherwise someone lies in a pool of their own vomit all night whilst a screaming alarm rips their ears to shreds! Insult upon misery.
In the end I found an emergency out-of-hours help number on some kind of inventory in the flat's kitchen, and a rather lovely lady let me know where the reset button could be found. I hit the button and the noise stopped as soon as it had begun. ...And breathe (or actually, run like the blinkin' wind to the train station to make the train with seconds to spare!)
The rest of the day was just lovely. The sun shone all day. It apparently rained almost everywhere else in the country. I drove Cindy to Leeds first thing in the morning. I had a radio interview with the BBC to publicise the Yorkshire auditions for Brass. I'll consider myself to have failed entirely if a good percentage of the eventual cast aren't genuine Northerners.
The chat went well, and I hope it will have generated a few enquiries from young people in Yorkshire.
From Leeds, we drove to York. I wanted to show Cindy the city which has probably meant more to me over the years than any other.
The nostalgia tour started in Ambrose Terrace, one of the many little Victorian streets which meander down to the River Ouse. It's where I once lived, in a corner house, in a little stables complex. My best friend, Pete and I, for three years running, wrote our initials in tippex on the bottom brick of the back wall of the house. Twenty years on, the three sets of initials are as clear as they ever were. Twenty years of rain and wind and broken guttering... And yet the letters are still white as snow. As I get older, the sight becomes more moving.
We parked up near Micklegate and walked along the city walls towards the minster. We fed squirrels in Museum Gardens, drank tea Cafe Concerto, shopped for antiques on Stonegate, ate proper Yorkshire chips, and climbed to the top of Clifford's Tower to look down upon a sun-drenched city.
I did a second, and rather lengthy interview with Radio York about Brass. The presenter reminded me that the last time he'd interviewed me, I'd just had vocal surgery, and was holding up a white board with written responses to his questions! That was the night that a Symphony for Yorkshire won three Royal Television Society Awards. Not the best time to be unable to speak!
We returned to Wakefield by car and sat for a while in Subway before heading back to the flat, where the incident with the disabled wire happened, and that, as they say, was that! A perfect day. I feel very much alive, tired, but stress-free.
Tomorrow, I head to Bristol...
Pretty Haworth
The new symptom of this ludicrous virus is blocked up ears, which have made everything a bit swimmy and echoey.
We were up early this morning, and on the road to Yorkshire by 10am. The journey was smooth and pleasant enough, but for the eerie sight of a jack-knifed lorry on the M1 in Northamptonshire. Twitter is a marvellous thing, and we quickly ascertained that the driver of said lorry had walked away from the accident with no injuries. No nightmares for me tonight...
We dropped Nathan off in Wakefield and then Cindy and I drove on to Haworth, home of the Brontes and one of the most beautiful places in the world. Note to all blog readers: when showing a spiritual American around this stunning country of ours, don't forget to factor in a visit to Haworth! Cindy absolutely loved the place. She loved the views, the crazy little shops, the tea rooms, the old-school apothecary, the history, the smell of wood smoke in the air... She even loved the piped guitar musak they were playing in the parish church, which I thought was a little too much!
I managed soup for lunch without the gripes returning, and a second soup for tea back in Wakefield after watching Nathan in the panto being even more epically brilliant than he was the last time I saw him. He looked a little tired afterwards however. 3 shows a day and a whole heap of make-up have slightly taken their toll. He just asked me to tell him honestly if his voice sounded like it was at the end of a panto run. "Not at all" I said, "just your face!" We laughed.
Cindy was a panto virgin. I've no idea why the Americans have no concept of the art form. They know all the fairy stories and love big songs, camp dances and slightly grotesque caricatures. It was amusing to hear the things that she particularly enjoyed (mostly the things that were unfamiliar to her.) Top of the list was the pantomime cow which she couldn't stop talking about!
Anyway. It's an early start tomorrow and a very full day, so it's probably time for bed.
We just watched Pretty Woman on the telly. I haven't seen it since it came out. I remember going with a group of girls to the cinema to watch it. We looked up the date that the film was released and I was quite surprised... What do you think? Go on, take a guess, think what you were doing around the time you saw it, and then spool down to see the answer...
1990
(I would have said mid 80s!)
We were up early this morning, and on the road to Yorkshire by 10am. The journey was smooth and pleasant enough, but for the eerie sight of a jack-knifed lorry on the M1 in Northamptonshire. Twitter is a marvellous thing, and we quickly ascertained that the driver of said lorry had walked away from the accident with no injuries. No nightmares for me tonight...
We dropped Nathan off in Wakefield and then Cindy and I drove on to Haworth, home of the Brontes and one of the most beautiful places in the world. Note to all blog readers: when showing a spiritual American around this stunning country of ours, don't forget to factor in a visit to Haworth! Cindy absolutely loved the place. She loved the views, the crazy little shops, the tea rooms, the old-school apothecary, the history, the smell of wood smoke in the air... She even loved the piped guitar musak they were playing in the parish church, which I thought was a little too much!
I managed soup for lunch without the gripes returning, and a second soup for tea back in Wakefield after watching Nathan in the panto being even more epically brilliant than he was the last time I saw him. He looked a little tired afterwards however. 3 shows a day and a whole heap of make-up have slightly taken their toll. He just asked me to tell him honestly if his voice sounded like it was at the end of a panto run. "Not at all" I said, "just your face!" We laughed.
Cindy was a panto virgin. I've no idea why the Americans have no concept of the art form. They know all the fairy stories and love big songs, camp dances and slightly grotesque caricatures. It was amusing to hear the things that she particularly enjoyed (mostly the things that were unfamiliar to her.) Top of the list was the pantomime cow which she couldn't stop talking about!
Anyway. It's an early start tomorrow and a very full day, so it's probably time for bed.
We just watched Pretty Woman on the telly. I haven't seen it since it came out. I remember going with a group of girls to the cinema to watch it. We looked up the date that the film was released and I was quite surprised... What do you think? Go on, take a guess, think what you were doing around the time you saw it, and then spool down to see the answer...
1990
(I would have said mid 80s!)
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
Couch potato
So there were about fifteen of us bringing in the New Year at ours last night. Cindy and I had a much-needed lie-in and then spent the afternoon prepping food and tidying the house for the party.
For the record, I made a stew, two cheese, mushroom and leek bakes, a second non-dairy-gluten-free stew, roast potatoes and a big salad. Frankly, I might not have needed to bother. Loads of our guests arrived with plates of food: a delicious chocolate and orange cake from Julie, a perfectly-iced raspberry cake from Jem, gold and silver sparkling brownies from Meriel, a home-made panettone from Tina and a huge vegetable lasagne from Abbie. People bought fruit, chocolates, biscuits and huge quantities of wine and champagne.
We had an absolute riot, laughed like drains all night and played some brilliant games. I had a Gin and Tonic - in fact I had two - and by midnight had forgotten all about my stomach gripes, which sadly returned in the night and have been plaguing me all day.
On the stroke of twelve, we played ABBA's Happy New Year, and then, rather randomly, sang Away In a Manger in four-part harmony. I've never been in the company of so many music readers before, so zipped up to the loft and did five copies of the first relatively-easy piece of four-part Christmassy music I could find. This particular Christmas carol was slightly in honour of Moira, who had once held a birthday party at her house when she was so ill, she was forced to spend the entire night in bed. There was one particularly surreal moment when everyone gathered around her bedside and (miles away from Christmas) sang Away In a Manger.
Later still in the evening, a few of us gathered around the piano and Abbie sang through one of the songs from Brass. It was rather lovely to hear it springing into life.
Bed came at about 3am, just as our next door neighbours started playing dreadful techno music, which kept Nathan awake for hours.
Tina and Mez stayed the night. We had planned a walk on the Heath today, but the weather's been so grotty that we simply sat and watched the Sound of Music (for a second time this Christmas) and then the network premiere of the final Harry Potter film.
So, from today, Romanians and Bulgarians have the same right to work here has other EU Countries... And quite right. I was actually really moved and very proud to see that groups of British people had turned up to airports with bunches of flowers to welcome them in. I'm frankly rather bored of British xenophobia (which invariably comes from the mouths of lazy, uneducated people who read rubbish newspapers.) I don't believe a single person coming into this country from those two countries will be expecting to collect benefits (or, for that matter, taking any jobs which would otherwise have gone to British people.) Sure enough, the immigration Armageddon which was predicted for today hasn't happened. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, UKIP.
For the record, I made a stew, two cheese, mushroom and leek bakes, a second non-dairy-gluten-free stew, roast potatoes and a big salad. Frankly, I might not have needed to bother. Loads of our guests arrived with plates of food: a delicious chocolate and orange cake from Julie, a perfectly-iced raspberry cake from Jem, gold and silver sparkling brownies from Meriel, a home-made panettone from Tina and a huge vegetable lasagne from Abbie. People bought fruit, chocolates, biscuits and huge quantities of wine and champagne.
We had an absolute riot, laughed like drains all night and played some brilliant games. I had a Gin and Tonic - in fact I had two - and by midnight had forgotten all about my stomach gripes, which sadly returned in the night and have been plaguing me all day.
On the stroke of twelve, we played ABBA's Happy New Year, and then, rather randomly, sang Away In a Manger in four-part harmony. I've never been in the company of so many music readers before, so zipped up to the loft and did five copies of the first relatively-easy piece of four-part Christmassy music I could find. This particular Christmas carol was slightly in honour of Moira, who had once held a birthday party at her house when she was so ill, she was forced to spend the entire night in bed. There was one particularly surreal moment when everyone gathered around her bedside and (miles away from Christmas) sang Away In a Manger.
Later still in the evening, a few of us gathered around the piano and Abbie sang through one of the songs from Brass. It was rather lovely to hear it springing into life.
Bed came at about 3am, just as our next door neighbours started playing dreadful techno music, which kept Nathan awake for hours.
Tina and Mez stayed the night. We had planned a walk on the Heath today, but the weather's been so grotty that we simply sat and watched the Sound of Music (for a second time this Christmas) and then the network premiere of the final Harry Potter film.
So, from today, Romanians and Bulgarians have the same right to work here has other EU Countries... And quite right. I was actually really moved and very proud to see that groups of British people had turned up to airports with bunches of flowers to welcome them in. I'm frankly rather bored of British xenophobia (which invariably comes from the mouths of lazy, uneducated people who read rubbish newspapers.) I don't believe a single person coming into this country from those two countries will be expecting to collect benefits (or, for that matter, taking any jobs which would otherwise have gone to British people.) Sure enough, the immigration Armageddon which was predicted for today hasn't happened. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, UKIP.
Happy New Year
...And a wonderful, happy and peaceful New Year to you all.
I am so tired that my head is spinning and my eyes are itching, so I very much need to go to bed.
2014 is the year of creativity; the year when creative people need to realise that the most important thing is that they keep creating against the odds that are being thrown in our paths.
On that note, I'll leave you all...
No more champagne and the fireworks are through
Here we are, me and you, feeling lost and feeling blue
It's the end of a party and the morning seems so grey
So unlike yesterday, now's the time for us to say
Happy New Year,
Happy New Year
May we all have a vision now and then of a world where every neighbour is a friend
Happy New Year
Happy New Year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try
If we don't we might as well lay down and die
You and I.
I am so tired that my head is spinning and my eyes are itching, so I very much need to go to bed.
2014 is the year of creativity; the year when creative people need to realise that the most important thing is that they keep creating against the odds that are being thrown in our paths.
On that note, I'll leave you all...
No more champagne and the fireworks are through
Here we are, me and you, feeling lost and feeling blue
It's the end of a party and the morning seems so grey
So unlike yesterday, now's the time for us to say
Happy New Year,
Happy New Year
May we all have a vision now and then of a world where every neighbour is a friend
Happy New Year
Happy New Year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try
If we don't we might as well lay down and die
You and I.
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