We've been in Thaxted all day, and I've pretty much spent every moment of my spare time plugged into a laptop working on Brass. I'm now 3/4 of the way through this particular process with D-day arriving on Tuesday when I go down to Worthing to do some pre-production work with PK. The clock is ticking down and I could really do with an extra day, to stop me needing to work evenings whilst I'm down there. Tomorrow's going to be like an episode of Challenge Anneka. Will he or won't he get the four remaining arrangements finished? I'm sure I've been fairly aloof all day, and not particularly good company. There's nothing quite as irritating as someone with their head in another world, periodically coming up for air and saying "what was that? What are we all laughing about?" Talk about ramming a stick into the gently revolving spokes of pleasant conversation. My Grannie used to do something rather similar when she was going deaf.
The purpose of today's trip was to have a faux-Christmas meal at Till Towers because Edward's Sascha will be in Australia on the big day this year and the rest of us will all be with Nathan's lot in Wales.
Our family have always gone quite big on the four advents, which, for an almost entirely atheist bunch, is a fairly surprising admission. We've done it for as long as I can remember. On the morning of the first advent, we'd go for a long walk, collecting holly, ivy, ferns and berries to create an advent crown. We used to stick all the undergrowth into oasis, and then place four red candles in the middle. It was such an exciting tradition. On each Sunday before Christmas, whilst eating our roast dinner, we'd light a candle. On the second advent there'd be two candles blazing through the meal and so on. On the fourth advent we'd light all four, by which point the first candle had often burned down to a stump. The thrill of it being your turn to light the candles was almost too much. Such a tiny thing, yet so unbelievably special...
My Mum continues the tradition to this day. The advent crowns don't come bedecked in juvenile piles of undergrowth, but the candles still burn. At some point along the line, a white one was introduced in the middle to be lit on Christmas Day itself. I think that one's called the natal candle.
Plainly we ate too much today, although we did have a pleasant walk around the town in an attempt to at least pretend to be healthy.
The other family Christmas tradition usually takes place on Christmas Eve, but was brought forward to this afternoon. My Mum makes a chocolate log, and for some reason we all take it in turns to give it a stir, and whilst stirring, we make a wish. Family legend has it that the wishes always come true, but, bizarrely, they only come true if they're selfish in nature! There's no point in wishing for world peace, or happiness for someone else, this is the chance to wish for something you yourself need, and furthermore, my mother says it needs to be über-specific! Last year, we were waiting to hear about the wedding, and it was all seeming rather unlikely, so I'll confess, I wished that the wedding would happen... And, well, we all know that it did. Two years ago I wished for the funding to make the requiem and that happened as well. So, maybe. Just maybe...
Sunday, 7 December 2014
Oh Geffrye!
They've turned the garden of the Woodman pub into a Christmas tree shop. It's like a winter wonderland in there, full of families walking between the trees, trying to decide which one is going to accompany them through the Yuletide period. It made me feel very Christmassy.
I was a little less thrilled to turn the corner and find they were chopping trees down in the copse behind the tube station. This rather unremarkable little corner of London has long been a haven for wildlife, and on many occasions I've stared out of my sitting room window, watching the squirrels and magpies hopping from branch to branch. I didn't stop to ask the tree surgeons what the plan was; why they were chopping trees down, and how many had been condemned. There's nothing I can do about, just as I was helpless to protect the trees they chopped down behind our house five or so years ago.
It was Raily's birthday today, so a gang of us descended on the Geffrye Museum in Shoreditch. I took the tube to Old Street which is looks entirely different every time I visit. The roundabout is now surrounded by gleaming modern mini-skyscrapers, some of which are incredibly bold in design. I actually lost my bearings for about a minute, because most of the landmarks I usually navigate by had vanished! This must be how old ladies feel when they return to their city of birth after seventy years of being away.
Shoreditch is one of those ghastly places where cash machines all charge £1.88 for withdrawals. I think we need to start getting tough with these sorts of rip-offs. I read somewhere that there's a correlation between the poor areas in the country and a lack of ATMs providing residents with free money withdrawals. This is plainly bordering on criminal. Talk about unnecessary taxes on the poor. I don't think anyone would mind a ten pence charge, simply for the upkeep of a privately owned facility, but £1.88 is ludicrous.
On that note, I hope they hurry up and repair our local post office's ATM. Two weeks ago a group of thieves blew it up and took half of the front of the building with it. Silly buggers. I'm told the enterprise failed spectacularly and they ran off empty-handed.
The Geffrye Museum focusses on interior design through the ages. You enter at one end and wander through a series of rooms which have been decked out to resemble different homes through the ages, starting in the days of Pepys, which I think is when the museum buildings were built (as alms houses.)
The highlight of the entire experience was undoubtedly stumbling upon a mini carol service which was taking place within one of the rooms. It was being led by a lass with big brown eyes and a chap at a piano. They handed out song sheets with all the words written on them, and we sang for at least forty minutes. Carols, Christmas songs... I think we were all agreed that the most magical moment was singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." It's always been one of my favourite songs, but I think all of us; Meriel, Sam, Raily and me, had a rather emotional moment whilst singing the words, "through the years we all will be together if the fates allow." I've known Sam since I was fifteen, and Meriel, Raily and Hils from the age of eighteen. That's a lot of silly seasons to nurse each other through. And one day, one of us won't be there any more...
I was very taken by one of the paintings on the wall in the museum entitled "The Arrival of the Jarrow Marchers." It depicts a middle class pair of Londoners, rather passively watching those heroic men and women marching down a London street. The man in the room has his back to the window and is smoking a cigar whilst blowing smoke rings. It's a bold statement which demonstrates middle class London's lack of interest in the plight of Northern working class folk. Sadly, it's an attitude which prevails today. We owe such an astonishing debt to the Jarrow Marchers and their East End counterparts, the Cable Street Rioters, and yet, I've no doubt that most of these brave people died in relative poverty and remained unrecognised for their bravery. Every single one of them should have been knighted in my view.
We went from the Geffrye Museum to a really lovely restaurant-cafe in the De Beauvoir area of London. The restaurant sits on the canal, and the only access is via the towpath, which was pitch black and wonderfully spooky. The brightly lit windows from warehouse conversions were reflected in the indigo water.
On our way back, we happened upon a little choir singing Something Inside So Strong; busking for charity. I think they called themselves the Housewife's Choir. Christmas really does seem to bring the best out in people.
I came home and worked until 1am with Strictly Come Dancing on in the background. It may well be time for bed!
I was a little less thrilled to turn the corner and find they were chopping trees down in the copse behind the tube station. This rather unremarkable little corner of London has long been a haven for wildlife, and on many occasions I've stared out of my sitting room window, watching the squirrels and magpies hopping from branch to branch. I didn't stop to ask the tree surgeons what the plan was; why they were chopping trees down, and how many had been condemned. There's nothing I can do about, just as I was helpless to protect the trees they chopped down behind our house five or so years ago.
It was Raily's birthday today, so a gang of us descended on the Geffrye Museum in Shoreditch. I took the tube to Old Street which is looks entirely different every time I visit. The roundabout is now surrounded by gleaming modern mini-skyscrapers, some of which are incredibly bold in design. I actually lost my bearings for about a minute, because most of the landmarks I usually navigate by had vanished! This must be how old ladies feel when they return to their city of birth after seventy years of being away.
Shoreditch is one of those ghastly places where cash machines all charge £1.88 for withdrawals. I think we need to start getting tough with these sorts of rip-offs. I read somewhere that there's a correlation between the poor areas in the country and a lack of ATMs providing residents with free money withdrawals. This is plainly bordering on criminal. Talk about unnecessary taxes on the poor. I don't think anyone would mind a ten pence charge, simply for the upkeep of a privately owned facility, but £1.88 is ludicrous.
On that note, I hope they hurry up and repair our local post office's ATM. Two weeks ago a group of thieves blew it up and took half of the front of the building with it. Silly buggers. I'm told the enterprise failed spectacularly and they ran off empty-handed.
The Geffrye Museum focusses on interior design through the ages. You enter at one end and wander through a series of rooms which have been decked out to resemble different homes through the ages, starting in the days of Pepys, which I think is when the museum buildings were built (as alms houses.)
The highlight of the entire experience was undoubtedly stumbling upon a mini carol service which was taking place within one of the rooms. It was being led by a lass with big brown eyes and a chap at a piano. They handed out song sheets with all the words written on them, and we sang for at least forty minutes. Carols, Christmas songs... I think we were all agreed that the most magical moment was singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." It's always been one of my favourite songs, but I think all of us; Meriel, Sam, Raily and me, had a rather emotional moment whilst singing the words, "through the years we all will be together if the fates allow." I've known Sam since I was fifteen, and Meriel, Raily and Hils from the age of eighteen. That's a lot of silly seasons to nurse each other through. And one day, one of us won't be there any more...
I was very taken by one of the paintings on the wall in the museum entitled "The Arrival of the Jarrow Marchers." It depicts a middle class pair of Londoners, rather passively watching those heroic men and women marching down a London street. The man in the room has his back to the window and is smoking a cigar whilst blowing smoke rings. It's a bold statement which demonstrates middle class London's lack of interest in the plight of Northern working class folk. Sadly, it's an attitude which prevails today. We owe such an astonishing debt to the Jarrow Marchers and their East End counterparts, the Cable Street Rioters, and yet, I've no doubt that most of these brave people died in relative poverty and remained unrecognised for their bravery. Every single one of them should have been knighted in my view.
We went from the Geffrye Museum to a really lovely restaurant-cafe in the De Beauvoir area of London. The restaurant sits on the canal, and the only access is via the towpath, which was pitch black and wonderfully spooky. The brightly lit windows from warehouse conversions were reflected in the indigo water.
On our way back, we happened upon a little choir singing Something Inside So Strong; busking for charity. I think they called themselves the Housewife's Choir. Christmas really does seem to bring the best out in people.
I came home and worked until 1am with Strictly Come Dancing on in the background. It may well be time for bed!
Friday, 5 December 2014
How do they cope?
What a difference a day makes. I left the house early this morning to buy milk, and was met by a powder blue sky and a low watery sun which was turning the tops of the trees the colour of copper and brass. The birds were singing. The squirrels were stock-piling. The balance of the world had been reconfigured!
I started working on Brass at 8.45am, and the task instantly became so mind-numbing, that I started to give myself little treats as incentives for completing another section of the score. The incentives were tragic. On one occasion I allowed myself to wash up a cup on the draining board, on another, I cleaned the bathroom sink! I was talking to myself at one stage, offering up words of encouragement. I believe this is one of the curses of a freelancer who sits on his own for much of the day. Heaven knows what I'll be like when I'm 80.
I took myself out for lunch, by which point the whether had turned nasty. It was raining great blobs of freezing water and the birds had definitely stopped singing in my garden!
Whilst sitting in the cafe, The Name of the Game came on the radio. It was a treat to hear because it's not one of ABBA's most famous hits. I think many people would actually be surprised to know that it reached number one, particularly in the light of the fact that Thank For the Music and Money, Money, Money didn't.
This got me thinking about that very select group of pop artists who have had multiple number one hits, so I had a quick shufty at the Guiness Book of Records to see who'd had more British number one's than ABBA (who had 9. I'm such a chart geek...) I wasn't at all surprised to find the top three were Elvis, The Beatles and Cliff Richard, or that the top six included Madonna and Take That, but what astonished me was that Westlife equalled Cliff in 3rd place! What kind of insanity is that? I looked at the list of their number one singles; a tragic mish-mash of over-produced, asinine pop pastiches and cover versions (including a song by ABBA which ABBA hadn't even managed to take to number one.) I started to wonder what on earth went wrong with pop music in the late nineties and early naughties, and realised that everything generated in the name of pop in those days was cynically manufactured. The songs, the bands, the looks, the marketing, the blonde women playing their violins, even the chart performances, when the record labels discovered they could even manipulate that! It didn't even matter if you couldn't sing. Formulas took over. Experimentation died. For an entire decade the record-buying public was sucked into the scam. Fortunately, I get the sense that this trend is now coming to an end, but the days of cutting-edge sound experimentation at Abbey Road are over. Sadly, Abbey Road is now the place the oligarchs book for a fancy office karaoke party.
I sat in the cafe at Jackson's Lane this afternoon. Anything for a change of scenery! There was a children's ballet class going on in the room next to me. Periodically the door would fly open and a mother would rush out clutching a child clad in pink Lycra, who'd either wet itself or couldn't stand because it had such a terrible tummy ache. The noise coming from within the room was plainly something from a horror movie. A tinkling piano, the almost constant roar of weeping, wailing and the general gnashing of teeth. Would it be safe to say that little girls don't actually like ballet? I mean, that certainly wasn't the sound of pleasure, it was the massacre of the flamin' innocents! I really don't understand how mothers cope with this. I mean, that's your life for five years isn't it? Noise. Snot. Tears. Wee. Vomit.
All manner of technical things went wrong as I sat in the cafe. Then I spilt coke on my computer. Then I dropped a glass and cut my finger. Then I got so frantically stressed that I took myself to the gym and ran 5km without noticing! When I left the gym I saw the full moon, like a huge evil torch in the sky. No one's gonna tell me that this wasn't a factor in the mayhem!
I started working on Brass at 8.45am, and the task instantly became so mind-numbing, that I started to give myself little treats as incentives for completing another section of the score. The incentives were tragic. On one occasion I allowed myself to wash up a cup on the draining board, on another, I cleaned the bathroom sink! I was talking to myself at one stage, offering up words of encouragement. I believe this is one of the curses of a freelancer who sits on his own for much of the day. Heaven knows what I'll be like when I'm 80.
I took myself out for lunch, by which point the whether had turned nasty. It was raining great blobs of freezing water and the birds had definitely stopped singing in my garden!
Whilst sitting in the cafe, The Name of the Game came on the radio. It was a treat to hear because it's not one of ABBA's most famous hits. I think many people would actually be surprised to know that it reached number one, particularly in the light of the fact that Thank For the Music and Money, Money, Money didn't.
This got me thinking about that very select group of pop artists who have had multiple number one hits, so I had a quick shufty at the Guiness Book of Records to see who'd had more British number one's than ABBA (who had 9. I'm such a chart geek...) I wasn't at all surprised to find the top three were Elvis, The Beatles and Cliff Richard, or that the top six included Madonna and Take That, but what astonished me was that Westlife equalled Cliff in 3rd place! What kind of insanity is that? I looked at the list of their number one singles; a tragic mish-mash of over-produced, asinine pop pastiches and cover versions (including a song by ABBA which ABBA hadn't even managed to take to number one.) I started to wonder what on earth went wrong with pop music in the late nineties and early naughties, and realised that everything generated in the name of pop in those days was cynically manufactured. The songs, the bands, the looks, the marketing, the blonde women playing their violins, even the chart performances, when the record labels discovered they could even manipulate that! It didn't even matter if you couldn't sing. Formulas took over. Experimentation died. For an entire decade the record-buying public was sucked into the scam. Fortunately, I get the sense that this trend is now coming to an end, but the days of cutting-edge sound experimentation at Abbey Road are over. Sadly, Abbey Road is now the place the oligarchs book for a fancy office karaoke party.
I sat in the cafe at Jackson's Lane this afternoon. Anything for a change of scenery! There was a children's ballet class going on in the room next to me. Periodically the door would fly open and a mother would rush out clutching a child clad in pink Lycra, who'd either wet itself or couldn't stand because it had such a terrible tummy ache. The noise coming from within the room was plainly something from a horror movie. A tinkling piano, the almost constant roar of weeping, wailing and the general gnashing of teeth. Would it be safe to say that little girls don't actually like ballet? I mean, that certainly wasn't the sound of pleasure, it was the massacre of the flamin' innocents! I really don't understand how mothers cope with this. I mean, that's your life for five years isn't it? Noise. Snot. Tears. Wee. Vomit.
All manner of technical things went wrong as I sat in the cafe. Then I spilt coke on my computer. Then I dropped a glass and cut my finger. Then I got so frantically stressed that I took myself to the gym and ran 5km without noticing! When I left the gym I saw the full moon, like a huge evil torch in the sky. No one's gonna tell me that this wasn't a factor in the mayhem!
Has the sun forgotten to get up?
It was so dark in the kitchen when I woke up this morning that I entirely missed the cereal bowl and poured Shreddies all over the work surface. To make matters worse, I only noticed two hours later, and spent ages clearing up the mess.
It's been gloomy, drizzly and murky all day: '"Has the sun forgotten to get up this morning?" asked Topsy. "No" said Mummy, "it's just a nasty foggy day."'
I went to the gym after lunch and was horrified by how cold it was. Cold and wet. It got right into my bones within seconds. People seemed miserable everywhere I looked.
My two favourite gentlemen were at the gym again today, having their usual "word-association" cyclic conversation, which I was thrilled Nathan finally got the opportunity to hear. For those who didn't read my post about it a few weeks ago, these particular two men are always heard having a conversation across the changing room, which starts with a name - today's was "Steve" - and always goes in the same direction... "Is that the Steve who lives above the motorbike shop?" "No, that one's Steve Brown, this one lives down near the Pineapple pub.""I tell you who used to go down that Pineapple pub. Maureen's son... What's his name?" "Steve?" "He ain't called Steve..." "John?" "John Palmer?" "No, Maureen's John..." And so it goes on. It's clear from their chatter that they've lived in these parts all their lives, but they never talk about the same person for more than a few seconds... And then the cycle takes them onto the next name. I think they're both a little deaf, as they shout very loudly.
I came back from the gym and basically went insane, almost grinding myself into the ground on these blessed Brass scores! There's a huge amount of work to do on them, and I've put twelve solid hours in already today. There's something rather unnerving and disorientating about the experience of spending long hours plugged into headphones. It's rather like being under water.
I stopped working at 10 and ate a rather late tea before watching Penelope Keith's fascinating Channel 4 documentary series about villages, whilst Nathan slept on my shoulder. Bless.
It's been gloomy, drizzly and murky all day: '"Has the sun forgotten to get up this morning?" asked Topsy. "No" said Mummy, "it's just a nasty foggy day."'
I went to the gym after lunch and was horrified by how cold it was. Cold and wet. It got right into my bones within seconds. People seemed miserable everywhere I looked.
My two favourite gentlemen were at the gym again today, having their usual "word-association" cyclic conversation, which I was thrilled Nathan finally got the opportunity to hear. For those who didn't read my post about it a few weeks ago, these particular two men are always heard having a conversation across the changing room, which starts with a name - today's was "Steve" - and always goes in the same direction... "Is that the Steve who lives above the motorbike shop?" "No, that one's Steve Brown, this one lives down near the Pineapple pub.""I tell you who used to go down that Pineapple pub. Maureen's son... What's his name?" "Steve?" "He ain't called Steve..." "John?" "John Palmer?" "No, Maureen's John..." And so it goes on. It's clear from their chatter that they've lived in these parts all their lives, but they never talk about the same person for more than a few seconds... And then the cycle takes them onto the next name. I think they're both a little deaf, as they shout very loudly.
I came back from the gym and basically went insane, almost grinding myself into the ground on these blessed Brass scores! There's a huge amount of work to do on them, and I've put twelve solid hours in already today. There's something rather unnerving and disorientating about the experience of spending long hours plugged into headphones. It's rather like being under water.
I stopped working at 10 and ate a rather late tea before watching Penelope Keith's fascinating Channel 4 documentary series about villages, whilst Nathan slept on my shoulder. Bless.
Thursday, 4 December 2014
Stranger danger
I've been sitting at the kitchen table for much of the day, re-scoring and reformatting the songs from Brass. I'm not going fast enough and am panicking somewhat. Tomorrow may well be a really early start, just so that I can get some serious bars of music behind me.
I've been simultaneously dipping into my pile of receipts, and trying to work out what I actually earned in 2013-14. A large amount of money was spent on osteopathy, which, fortunately, counts as a legitimate expense. And so it ought to; my back got knackered by years of sitting at pianos and laptops.
Probably the most interesting part of the day was a visit to the gym. I still find it a little bit odd when a father brings his little girl into the changing rooms. The gym has started running swimming classes, which means there are often children floating about in the early afternoon. It's always been a fairly aggressively testosterone-fuelled environment with guys wandering about naked, flexing their muscles and preparing their energy drinks. I don't really think this is the place for a child - particularly a girl...
Part of the problem is that children tend to stare at anything they find intriguing, and this can be immensely disconcerting. I am an hairy man! Over the years I have reconciled myself to this fact. Sometimes I even use a hair dryer to dry my hairy chest! Not all daddies are hairy, however, and one little girl made me feel like a proper freak by staring at me like I was some kind of animal in a zoo, which made me rush to put my clothes on, which meant I left the gym all damp, which meant I ended up chafing!
What's the way forward here? Do I embrace my masculinity and continue to stand entirely naked, tending to my body hair with a hairdryer? Do I tell the father that his daughter's staring makes me uncomfortable? Do I hope he'll notice himself and deal with the issue? Or do I do the über English thing and sign up with another gym?!!
In the olden days I would have simply stared back until she felt embarrassed and stopped, but I decided some years ago only ever to look at children whose parents I know, or have at least been introduced to. The way society over-reacts to all issues pertaining to the protection of children has forced me to consider this to be the best option. So if a child waves at me on the tube or tries to catch my eye, I will point blank ignore it, unless I'm on a passing boat or something, where etiquette dictates I have to wave like a loon.
It's sad, really, because I'm sure I'm missing out on all sorts of charming encounters, but I think the line in the sand has to be drawn somewhere, and if stranger danger is as large a threat to society as some would believe, I'm quite happy for children to learn that strange men ought to be aloof and disinterested, so they know to run like crazy if someone offers them a sweetie!
I've been simultaneously dipping into my pile of receipts, and trying to work out what I actually earned in 2013-14. A large amount of money was spent on osteopathy, which, fortunately, counts as a legitimate expense. And so it ought to; my back got knackered by years of sitting at pianos and laptops.
Probably the most interesting part of the day was a visit to the gym. I still find it a little bit odd when a father brings his little girl into the changing rooms. The gym has started running swimming classes, which means there are often children floating about in the early afternoon. It's always been a fairly aggressively testosterone-fuelled environment with guys wandering about naked, flexing their muscles and preparing their energy drinks. I don't really think this is the place for a child - particularly a girl...
Part of the problem is that children tend to stare at anything they find intriguing, and this can be immensely disconcerting. I am an hairy man! Over the years I have reconciled myself to this fact. Sometimes I even use a hair dryer to dry my hairy chest! Not all daddies are hairy, however, and one little girl made me feel like a proper freak by staring at me like I was some kind of animal in a zoo, which made me rush to put my clothes on, which meant I left the gym all damp, which meant I ended up chafing!
What's the way forward here? Do I embrace my masculinity and continue to stand entirely naked, tending to my body hair with a hairdryer? Do I tell the father that his daughter's staring makes me uncomfortable? Do I hope he'll notice himself and deal with the issue? Or do I do the über English thing and sign up with another gym?!!
In the olden days I would have simply stared back until she felt embarrassed and stopped, but I decided some years ago only ever to look at children whose parents I know, or have at least been introduced to. The way society over-reacts to all issues pertaining to the protection of children has forced me to consider this to be the best option. So if a child waves at me on the tube or tries to catch my eye, I will point blank ignore it, unless I'm on a passing boat or something, where etiquette dictates I have to wave like a loon.
It's sad, really, because I'm sure I'm missing out on all sorts of charming encounters, but I think the line in the sand has to be drawn somewhere, and if stranger danger is as large a threat to society as some would believe, I'm quite happy for children to learn that strange men ought to be aloof and disinterested, so they know to run like crazy if someone offers them a sweetie!
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
Never had it so good
At 9.40am this morning, the Bank train I was on was mysteriously diverted via Charing Cross. An announcement was made at Camden Station, which meant an entire trainload of people suddenly had to alight onto the platform and wait for the next train to come in. Two middle-aged, über posh women were standing next to me and were increasingly incensed by what was going on. "Well, this is ridiculous!" "It's disgusting!" "It's intolerably rude!" They were like those two old men in the Muppets! By the time we got onto the next train, they'd decided that the last-minute change of route was "generational... The younger generation can't stick to anything these days..." I sort of agree with them on that particular point, but am not sure the re-routing of a tube train could be put down to a flibbertigibbet teenaged driver!
It struck me that upper middle class people of the post-war baby boomer generation have had it easy all their lives, and as such always expect things to go their way. They are a lucky bunch. This will be the last generation of people who retire with healthy pensions and potentially spend more of their adult lives retired than they ever have working. The NHS will serve them properly until they die, by which point they will have long since paid off their mortgages. The "we've never had it so good" motto has always applied to them.
The same is not true for my generation, where I'm pretty sure there's a great deal less security and certainty. I see it with most of my friends, even those in good jobs have struggled to put deposits down on mortgages, and ten years into buying houses, are still only paying off the interest on their loans.
In the space of about 24 hours, winter has arrived. I couldn't quite believe the wind growling down Oxford Street this afternoon. One particularly large gust took down two signs outside a Subway store. One had a flag attached to it which worked as a sail as the sign bounced its way down the street.
I worked in Soho through the afternoon, before meeting Nathan for a late lunch. By the time we'd emerged from our little pizza restaurant on Drury Lane, the weather had turned even nastier, with bitterly cold rain flying through the air like arctic ball bearings.
Fiona texted to say she was still on the sofa. She'd popped out to the shops and decided the concept of heading back to Brighton in such dreadful weather was foolish beyond words. She was correct!
At Tottenham Court Road they were plainly going for the record of how many announcements they could make in the shortest period of time. Every one seemed to be in a different voice, each duller than the next. We heard about "double-tapping" - which has apparently started happening now that people can pay for journeys on their debit cards as well as their Oysters - and all sorts of planned engineering and wet weather warnings. By the time the recorded voice from the tube itself had joined in on the act with its "this station is Tottenham Court Road", I was ready to scream.
I came home and ate baked potatoes with Fiona whilst continuing to sift through my ghastly pile of tax receipts. Fortunately they are now in neat little piles and I feel less stressed about things.
It struck me that upper middle class people of the post-war baby boomer generation have had it easy all their lives, and as such always expect things to go their way. They are a lucky bunch. This will be the last generation of people who retire with healthy pensions and potentially spend more of their adult lives retired than they ever have working. The NHS will serve them properly until they die, by which point they will have long since paid off their mortgages. The "we've never had it so good" motto has always applied to them.
The same is not true for my generation, where I'm pretty sure there's a great deal less security and certainty. I see it with most of my friends, even those in good jobs have struggled to put deposits down on mortgages, and ten years into buying houses, are still only paying off the interest on their loans.
In the space of about 24 hours, winter has arrived. I couldn't quite believe the wind growling down Oxford Street this afternoon. One particularly large gust took down two signs outside a Subway store. One had a flag attached to it which worked as a sail as the sign bounced its way down the street.
I worked in Soho through the afternoon, before meeting Nathan for a late lunch. By the time we'd emerged from our little pizza restaurant on Drury Lane, the weather had turned even nastier, with bitterly cold rain flying through the air like arctic ball bearings.
Fiona texted to say she was still on the sofa. She'd popped out to the shops and decided the concept of heading back to Brighton in such dreadful weather was foolish beyond words. She was correct!
At Tottenham Court Road they were plainly going for the record of how many announcements they could make in the shortest period of time. Every one seemed to be in a different voice, each duller than the next. We heard about "double-tapping" - which has apparently started happening now that people can pay for journeys on their debit cards as well as their Oysters - and all sorts of planned engineering and wet weather warnings. By the time the recorded voice from the tube itself had joined in on the act with its "this station is Tottenham Court Road", I was ready to scream.
I came home and ate baked potatoes with Fiona whilst continuing to sift through my ghastly pile of tax receipts. Fortunately they are now in neat little piles and I feel less stressed about things.
Monday, 1 December 2014
Second post
It appears we've had two posts today. Can this be possible? I thought they stopped doing a second post some years ago. Unless they've re-introduced the concept for December and the Christmas post?
Nathan and I returned to the house at 4pm today after a visit to the gym and found a post man walking up the steps to our house. Perhaps he was a curious imposter. Maybe he wanted to nick our washing?
I made a start on the Brass songs this morning, returning to my scores and making sure they were marked up with all the mega-cuts I'd made in the technical rehearsal. Once all these cuts have been put into the scores, I can then start thinking about what the musicians will play in the recording sessions in early January.
Fiona arrived at lunchtime today. I received a text from her saying, "I'm in the Woodman pub drinking a Bloody Mary... Because I can!" She's finally finished all her touring commitments for the year, and is determined to wind down.
I sort of feel the same way, but the Oranges and Lemons and Brass recordings mean I'm going to need to work even harder through December than I probably would have done had I had a full-time job! It's a little insane.
I realise I'm a bit stressed as I go to bed. I sat down this evening to go through my receipts for last year's tax, which has been hanging over me like a bad smell for some months now. I emptied my receipt drawer onto the sitting room carpet and thousands of pieces of flimsy paper fell out, which I spent the next four hours sifting through, until the repetition of picking up a receipt, circling the date and the amount, and putting them in one of about 90 piles, started to make me panic!
I've downed tools for the night now and am determined to spend the last hour before bed not thinking about receipts, or Oranges and Lemons or anything for that matter!
Where's a Sue Perkins documentary about the Mekong River when you need one?!
Nathan and I returned to the house at 4pm today after a visit to the gym and found a post man walking up the steps to our house. Perhaps he was a curious imposter. Maybe he wanted to nick our washing?
I made a start on the Brass songs this morning, returning to my scores and making sure they were marked up with all the mega-cuts I'd made in the technical rehearsal. Once all these cuts have been put into the scores, I can then start thinking about what the musicians will play in the recording sessions in early January.
Fiona arrived at lunchtime today. I received a text from her saying, "I'm in the Woodman pub drinking a Bloody Mary... Because I can!" She's finally finished all her touring commitments for the year, and is determined to wind down.
I sort of feel the same way, but the Oranges and Lemons and Brass recordings mean I'm going to need to work even harder through December than I probably would have done had I had a full-time job! It's a little insane.
I realise I'm a bit stressed as I go to bed. I sat down this evening to go through my receipts for last year's tax, which has been hanging over me like a bad smell for some months now. I emptied my receipt drawer onto the sitting room carpet and thousands of pieces of flimsy paper fell out, which I spent the next four hours sifting through, until the repetition of picking up a receipt, circling the date and the amount, and putting them in one of about 90 piles, started to make me panic!
I've downed tools for the night now and am determined to spend the last hour before bed not thinking about receipts, or Oranges and Lemons or anything for that matter!
Where's a Sue Perkins documentary about the Mekong River when you need one?!
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