Strange dreams

I woke up this morning after a series of somewhat cataclysmic dreams, one of which was about the World Trade Centre. The other involved my mother picking me up from school and taking me back to our old family home where she promptly went to bed and fell asleep. At that moment a huge storm brewed up which started rattling the windows so violently that I thought the house was going to fall down. Very strange.

I walked up to Highgate in really crisp air and was at the cafe working by 9am. The views across London were simply stunning today. I could see right across to the Olympic Park and the hills behind, which Google tells me are a good ten miles away.

I read an article in the Guardian this morning about the need to get more women into composing. Sound and Music, the national organisation for new music, are determined to make sure "at least" fifty percent of the composers they work with "identify" as women. To illustrate their point, the article ran a picture of a young girl playing the flute. No gender stereotyping there then!

If the young people's composition competition I judged recently was representative of what's actually going on in schools right now, I'd say that it's actually young male composers who need to be attracted into the industry. To me, it feels like Sound and Music have blithely missed the far larger looming crisis: namely that it's the lottery of social background and the area where you're brought up which is actually denoting whether or not you're allowed to participate in music. Viewing anything in polar terms is fraught with issues these days.

I personally feel that equality needs to shift in both directions. I understand the view that sexism is about power and that men are the ones in power, but worry that if we take this to an extreme, we'll end up neglecting groups of men who don't want to behave in the way that the heterosexual masculine great order of things deems acceptable. Surely these men are held back from achieving their dreams as much as many women?

...But then you get the hard core feminists who argue that a gay man could never understand what it's like to be a woman. Jenny Murray, from Women's Hour, has apparently recently talked about trans women having the "privilege" of a male upbringing and therefore never understanding how it feels to be a "proper" woman. It's the sort of talk which makes my blood boil. Whatever you think about the issue, that kind of talk is the unacceptable face of feminism.

It may be awful to be a female composer at the moment, but imagine being a member of 5 to 5, the band which was chosen on BBC TV's Let It Shine? Rumours are now circulating that the lads will merely be backing vocalists in the show, and the producers have hardly quashed the chat by "refusing to comment" on whether the boys would be speaking any lines! "When asked whether or not the group would ever be singing or dancing completely on their own in the show, the team behind the show didn't comment," says the BBC, who might well be feeling somewhat bruised right now after promoting the show on prime time telly for five weeks.

It's raining tonight. I can hear the water coming through the roof and splashing onto the step ladder into our loft.

Bitty

It's been one of those incredibly bitty days, where I've permanently felt like I'm behind the pace, rushing about, yet frantically unable to catch up. There's always been something else to do, and I feel as though I've achieved very little. I worked through the morning on the Nene project up in Highgate Village. I've found a new favourite seat in the cafe, which is right by the window, but tucked away in the corner, far away from the hustle and bustle of the main part of the cafe. Peering out of the window onto Pond Square is a real treat. Whilst searching for inspiration, I can look at people on the street rushing to and fro. There are many characters in the villages and the spring flowers have come to Highgate. The crocuses and daffodils were a riot of colour in today's watery sunlight.

I met Julie at Finsbury Park for a coffee and catch up in the afternoon and then, because it's very difficult to travel in an East-West direction across the North of London, was forced to come all the way into town to change onto a tube line that would take me back out again. It probably would have been quicker to walk.

I decided to venture into Soho to do some work in a cafe on Wardour Street. I ordered a cup of tea, but the music was playing really loudly, to the extent that I couldn't focus on the task in hand. I was planning then to go to the gym, but I'd promised myself to stop my day at 8pm to spend a much-needed night at home with my husband, so that too went out of the window. I've got all sorts of nonsense bashing about in my head at the moment like a cheap arcade game. I have applications to fill in, references to write. I've also been asked to be a judge for a prestigious award, and this involves a great amount of ground work, so things feel like they're stacking up, and I'm panicking a little.

I'm also having a spot of bother thinking of anything for the clarinets or oboes to play in the Nene composition. Funnily enough, having slammed flutes as horrible things played by little vapid, blonde girls, I have to acknowledge they have their uses. The squawking of oboes and the fruity, bowl-like awfulness of clarinets, however, continue to elude me. I am trying desperately to remedy the situation. Of course the fault is all mine. I'm not a wind specialist and know there are timbres and amazing effects which these instruments can achieve. I can think of plenty of uses for a clarinet in jazz and big band, but I'm not writing in those styles. People are always shocked by my hatred of the oboe. They always cite the cor anglais solo in Dvorak's New World Symphony, and the moment the barricade revolves in Les Mis, but for me the beauty of these moments has led to the oboe becoming a somewhat cliched one-trick pony!

Meanwhile, of course, I'm loving writing for percussion, strings and brass. I'm working on a giant steam train sequence at the moment to represent the Nene Valley Railway, which became such a strong presence in my fourth day of walking. In terms of the timeline of the piece, I've just crossed the border between Northamptonshire and Cambridgeshire. I'm about to start the sequence which represents the moody, echoey fens.

I still have no idea how the piece starts!

Hindu Hen do

I've been in Northampton again today, checking out how the Northamptonshire Youth Orchestra is developing this year. This particular ensemble is going to be bearing the brunt of the Nene composition, so I wanted to see where the overall strengths and weaknesses were. They're a really good orchestra and were tackling a programme of incredibly tricky music which included the fiendish but wonderful Symphonic Dances from West Side Story.

My date for the evening was Tash, my old bestie from Youth Orchestra days. Tash played the double bass in pretty much every ensemble going at the music school.

The concert tonight featured the three county youth orchestras. As a young player, you work your way up through the ensembles, starting with the junior orchestra. The fact that there are three orchestras gives everyone, particularly the young ones, something to aspire to. I remember watching the Youth Orchestra at concerts at the Derngate, and thinking, "one day I'll be just like them..." In fact, I remember watching them playing the symphonic dances from West Side Story and thinking how glamorous they all seemed. It's funny how the repertoire doesn't change. The only thing which seems to be different is the decor at the Derngate, which used to be 1970s orange and brown but is now a sort of tatty-looking range of purples.

Tash and I ate cheese after the concert at the little cafe-cum-bar attached to the Derngate. It's actually a really lovely idea. They have a cheese counter in the pub, and you can select either three, five or seven cheeses which come with delicious breads, pickles, grapes and biscuits.

At Matt's birthday last night, I spent some time talking to my good friend Sultana, a young Muslim woman who has a solo line in our wedding film. The line she sings is "I've blown off a hen-do" based on the fact that she cancelled plans to go to a friend's hen do so that she could come to our wedding. She does have quite a strong London accent, however, and we learned last night that she's had the piss mercilessly ripped out of her ever since the show was broadcast because people misheard "I've blown off a hen-do" as "I've blown off a Hindu!"

Shakespeare and stuff

I heard a devastating interview on Radio 4 today with a young Syrian lad who'd fled the civil war in his homeland and spent two years in the migrant jungle at Calais before finally being given the chance to come to the UK under a scheme which allowed unaccompanied young people asylum if they already had family here. His dream was to enrol in English classes, but couldn't do so until he was granted the right to remain, which took many months.

The poor lad was desperate to learn English and contacted scores of people on MSN, whom he deduced, from their names, were English nationals. The messages said that he was a Syrian refugee and that he was looking for friends who would help him to practice English. Not a single person replied. I was driving at the time and had to pull over because I was weeping so much.

On the tube on the way home last night I found myself suddenly surrounded by a gang of young men. I instantly found myself feeling a little vulnerable, but instead of running into another carriage, decided to hold my ground and sit it out. Actually, by staying, I leaned a great lesson in not judging a book by its cover. The lad who'd plonked himself next to me nudged me and told me how much he liked my moustache. He then asked where I was from. "You mean where in the world, or where in London?" It's a question most Londoners ask when asked where they're from. "Where in the world" he said, "you don't look English..." So I gave my stock response about being a bit Welsh and having all sorts of Jewish and non-specific European blood floating about in my veins. "Guess where I'm from" he said. It was obvious. "Somalia" I said. His face lit up and he held out his hand for a fist pump. I obliged. "How did you know I was from Somalia? When I ask that question to most people they say Africa, like Africa is a country." I explained that I'd done some work with the Somalian community whilst working on a BBC film. He held his hand up for another fist pump. I obliged, neglecting to reveal that the film I was making was about female genital mutilation. I felt that was perhaps a little outside the terrain of small talk! So I asked him instead where he was off to. He was going clubbing in Camden. Another fist pump. I wasn't sure what that one was about. He complimented me on my moustache again and we chatted for a while about his childhood. He was born in Sweden and had come to the UK at the age of one. He was a very friendly young man and I felt terrible for ever having thought he might be trouble. I think perhaps from now on I shall endeavour to be less judgemental about the young gangs I encounter.

This evening, we went to see an evening of Shakespeare at St Cuthbert's Church in Earls Court. It's a really interesting, very dark and gloomy space, with dark, intricate carved woodwork panels stretching high into the roof. It's the perfect setting for theatre. Abbie had directed the show, and I was incredibly proud of her for pulling such a complicated programme together with such extraordinary panache. Half of the material had been filmed and projected onto a giant screen, and there were some genuinely marvellous moments which included a male rendition of Lady MacBeth's "out damned spot" monologue and a very dark interpretation of "now is the winter of our discontent" from Richard III. I was staggered to learn afterwards that the actor who'd done this particular speech was actually blind.

We had to leave fairly hastily after the show to get to Maida Vale where my friend Matt was celebrating his birthday. It was a veritable gathering of the old crowd. Until Kevin's death we were almost constantly in each other's pockets but in recent years haven't had the chance to get together very often. That said, I spent most of the evening talking to a lovely lass called Clare who had recently found the mother who'd given her up for adoption in the early 70s. It's all very new ground for her, and I sensed a fair amount of fear and trepidation. Obviously it's a subject I'm very familiar with, and I was able to provide her with a bit of a sounding board and offer a few insights into the sorts of emotions which might be bombarding her birth mother as the two of them discover each other once again.

We stayed out much later than perhaps we should have done, but we were having way too much fun to leave at a sensible time.

The kindness of friends

I went into Shoreditch today to work with Philippa at the painfully swanky Ace Hotel, which has a dining room which can only accessed via a flower shop. The restaurant is called Hoi Polloi, but judging by its Speak Easy vibe, it's certainly not designed to be enjoyed by the many. You have to be in the know to appreciate that place. In fact, you have to be in the know to know that the place is called Hoi Polloi! There isn't a sign in the building. Just a tasteful set of cards at the payment desk. Only in Shoreditch!

I've traditionally been a bit down on Shoreditch, largely because it becomes such a hetty hell-hole on weekend evenings, but I can't help myself from being drawn to its hipster-laden charm during the days. Of course it's all a bit try hard and industrial chic. It presents itself as a bohemian Mecca, but only the most successful artists can live in the area these days. The majority of its residents are dot.com millionaires and city slickers who whip their suits off, get their tattoos out and chow down on organic kebabs as soon as they leave the Square Mile. But I do like to sit in cafes listening to people wearing tight jeans pitching film projects and talking pretentiously about conceptual art. (I hear ya! How else are you expected to talk about conceptual art?) There's more facial hair per square metre in Hoxton than anywhere else in the world baring the Castro in the 1970s. Fact.


Philippa and I worked. We got a bit distracted catching up. And then I'd think of something else to say every time she knuckled down to work, but by lunchtime I'd finished checking the latest draft of Em.

Lunch was a delicious halloumi salad in a cafe on the Bethnal Green Road. It was another one of those Shoreditch standards: a shambolic smattering of mismatched tables and super-food dishes served by French women with nose rings who would love to be Lesbian. I asked for some vinegar to pour on my salad. The waitress looked blankly. "I'll see if we've got some." It turns out that there are even trendy versions of bog standard condiments in Shoreditch. She came back with coconut vinegar. COCONUT VINEGAR! One wonders how far in the world of psued one needs to travel before that particular delicacy jumps off the shelf and lodges itself in the mind of the purchaser as a good idea. It tasted fairly abrasive, but did the trick and I left the cafe feeling like I'd saved some pandas.


Sometimes the love which one's friends are capable of generating can be overwhelming. Philippa reached out to me today with a gesture of generosity I shall never forget. I wept openly in the Speak Easy.

On my way into Old Street, I found myself deeply troubled by a young child who was standing right in front of me, pointing at me and saying, "I want to sit there" to his Mum. For some time the accusatory comments continued, "he's sitting in my chair, Mummy." To my surprise the mother seemed entirely unfazed by her son's blatant rudeness. Had my son been pointing at a complete stranger and whinging like a twat, I'd have immediately told him to stop, or at least apologised to the stranger in question with one of those looks which says, "my child is a work in progress." But no, the tirade went on for some minutes until I felt incredibly embarrassed and wanted to stand up and give the little blighter my seat.

Now and Nene

I've been thinking it was March 1st all day today. I even managed to send out St David's Day greetings to some of my Welshie friends. It just goes to prove what a washout yesterday was!

Today found me throwing myself head first into the Nene. I've been making little musical notes for the piece for the last two months, but realised today that I simply needed to get on with it, so lined up a massive manuscript and started free-styling. I'm writing for an obscenely large orchestral ensemble and I sat and stared at the empty staves for some time, terrified about what I was about to do.

It turns out that I was ripe and ready to write, because the music flew out of me like water from a garden tap. I have set myself a target of writing one minute of fully-orchestrated music a day for the entire month, which means, by the end of March I should have a first draft of the piece to put away for a bit before going back in with a mallet, then a chisel, then a scalpel knife to make it shine like a thing of great sonic intricacy and beauty. That's the theory anyway!

I started about two fifths of the way through the composition, at the point where the river runs through the marshes at Denford in Northamptonshire. I started by scoring a melody I'd sung into my phone as I walked along the river in that area. Oddly, it was just after my accident, so I was limping like a tragic inadequate. I remember a woman walking past me as I was singing. She plainly thought I was a homeless person, shuffling along, talking to myself. Half-way through the recording, I break off from singing and say, "hello there." The woman doesn't reply. Plainly she thought her life was in danger and that she'd end up being dredged out of the river at Oundle.

I've been using oboes to sound like geese in the composition. It's not a difficult task. That's all oboes are actually good for, but, in a composition about a river, that's no bad thing.

Speaking of my epic walk, I'm proud to announce that my big toe nail has just dropped off. It got profoundly bruised, and never really recovered. It dropped off whilst I was watching the Gilmore Girls this evening. Rock and roll.

Cardboard chips

Yesterday was a bit of a wash-out. It turns out that I needed another morning to mope and generally feel a bit sorry for myself before spending the entire afternoon and evening resubmitting my application to the Arts Council. I've tried to up the number of times I use words like "edgy" and "innovative" and answered "prefer not to say" when asked about my gender. Desperate. It all felt so futile, as though I were pouring my passion and well-considered words into a giant vacuum. It was nothing but pride which made me check and double check the meaning of every sentence, but, I guess, as they say with all lotteries, you've got to be in it to win it.

The day was genuinely not worth anything more than that. I went down the road to buy some chips for my tea from the fancy place on the corner opposite the Murugan Temple, and was horrified when the woman poured oven chips into her "healthy low GI vegetable oil." By the time I'd carried them back to the house and boiled some peas, they'd become sticks of cardboard. I crumbled some feta over the top in an attempt to give the illusion of a classy meal, but in reality I'd merely recreated one of Fiona's famous experimental gluten-free brick cakes! I had to eat the chips with a glass of water in my right hand. Five chips in, they started backing up and I got chronic hiccups. Twenty chips and I was done!

I went up to the loft late in the evening and did some work on my Nene composition. This month is all about Nene. It's nice to enter a sonic world where I can explore subtle dissonance and elements of minimalism and folk music. The slight panic I have about Nene is that, because a river by its nature is linear, and I'm writing a work which represents my experience of walking along it, I'm not altogether sure how I'm going to inject much-needed form and structure into the piece. I may have to embrace the episodic nature of what I've written so far and allow the leitmotif to become my best friend.