There's really very little to be said for Sunday. It was one of those days you look back on and have to focus really hard to remember what you were doing. The sad truth is that I worked for most of it. I have been going through percussion parts for my Nene composition with a fine tooth comb. At the moment I'm "re-beaming", which means I'm trying to make sure that the stems which come out of all the notes look as logical and easy to follow as possible. Formatting is so important in music. Nicely spaced semi-quavers on a score are always, for some reason, easier to play than ones which look all bunched up. Unless you're a cellist, when of course you don't play semi-quavers, unless you're going for a rustling effect. The sound of a crisp packet being opened stylishly!
We went into Muswell Hill for lunch, and had a walk around the block in the evening, but apart from that, I sat, like a sad sack on the sofa writing all day. By about 10pm, I was ready to eat my own hand, and by 11, we were in bed.
That was my day. I should probably drift off into some kind of crazy fantasy story about doing something amazing, but I'm just not that interesting!
Monday, 10 July 2017
Saturday, 8 July 2017
Pride and stuff
We had a wasps' nest in the rafters of our house until yesterday. Sadly I was out when the man came to deal with them, pumping a white dust into the brick work from our bedroom window. Abbie thinks that wasps must hold a cure for cancer, based on a belief that all creatures on this planet must have a purpose of some sort. It certainly seems that wasps don't bring a great deal to the table. I mean, they're alright at this time of year when they're quietly busy making nests and stuff, but then they turn into proper maniacs. I can't imagine how awful it would have been in the autumn when the queen wasp chucked all of the boys out of the home they'd built. No wonder wasps get so angry!
I took a trip into central London today to see what the gays were doing for Pride. The tube journey was rather pleasant. There were loads of young people bedecked in flags and wearing outrageous outfits. A pair of young girls with rainbows drawn with makeup on their cheeks were cuddling fondly.
Pride is very different these days. When I was in my early twenties, it was a political march which we all took incredibly seriously. The party afterwards, which was usually in a London Park was always a legendary and hugely decadent experience, but it was generally regarded as unacceptable to attend without marching first. Politics used to come before partying. The march was the bit which demonstrated to the world the huge diversity within our community. Being gay wasn't just about people like John Inman, or drag queens, or the lisping nellie clichés which abounded in the media. Yes, they were all there, but they were rubbing shoulders with firemen and teachers and ordinary people that Joe Public would never have thought to be gay.
These days Pride is no longer a march. It's been rebranded as a carnival parade. A money-making scheme for which you have to pay to participate. These days the gays pay to show the world how fabulous we are. Those who turn up to march are turned away and told they need a permit. The parade is therefore filled with shiny floats and crowing people dancing to souped-up ABBA songs, wearing little glittery pants and blowing whistles. And, of course, there's nothing wrong with that. But, for me, that's just one part of my community. Only allowing the glitz and glamour to be seen in this parade does nothing but trivialise my community. It makes us all vapid, one-dimensional party animals. But unless we remember the journey we've been on for the last forty years, we'll forget that it can all be taken away from us with one brutally right wing government or a devastating sexually-transmitted disease.
I didn't particularly fancy being sucked into the revelry so we skirted around the outskirts of Soho, doing a tour of vintage shops in Seven Dials after eating at my favourite chippie in London. The "Rock and Sole Plaice" (see what they did there?) serves enormous chips, which are always fried to absolute perfection. They're cooked in vegetable fat as well, so it's a brilliant place to take any vegan friends you might have in town who fancy the British chippie experience. Obviously they'd have to avoid the fish...
Old Compton Street, unsurprisingly, was rammed. Standing at the end of the road was like looking down into the Castro in San Francisco. The searing heat gave everything a sort of nostalgic, hazy quality. Flags of many nationalities fluttered in the breeze. It made a change to see rainbow flags flying on that street again. In the '90s it was almost exclusively gay, until its success pushed the rental prices up and only the fancy brands like Hotel Chocolat could afford to move in. Another example of gay men being pushed out of a club which we popularised!
I went from Central London to Julie and Sam's house in Catford. They'd been with Nathan and Abbie all afternoon knitting in the back garden and when I arrived, I was instantly fed (Julie is Jewish) and then taken out into the allotments behind their house where we picked raspberries and gooseberries.
We sat on a hammock until the sun set. Nathan was knitting a pair of socks with fluorescent wool which started to glow magically as the light started to fade. Abbie has recently ditched all of her Mac products and largely returned to PCs. Nathan asked her at one point how she was coping "without Apple products" at which point Julie, bursting into the conversation, said "can't you eat apples either these days?"! Ah! The joys of miscommunication!
I took a trip into central London today to see what the gays were doing for Pride. The tube journey was rather pleasant. There were loads of young people bedecked in flags and wearing outrageous outfits. A pair of young girls with rainbows drawn with makeup on their cheeks were cuddling fondly.
Pride is very different these days. When I was in my early twenties, it was a political march which we all took incredibly seriously. The party afterwards, which was usually in a London Park was always a legendary and hugely decadent experience, but it was generally regarded as unacceptable to attend without marching first. Politics used to come before partying. The march was the bit which demonstrated to the world the huge diversity within our community. Being gay wasn't just about people like John Inman, or drag queens, or the lisping nellie clichés which abounded in the media. Yes, they were all there, but they were rubbing shoulders with firemen and teachers and ordinary people that Joe Public would never have thought to be gay.
These days Pride is no longer a march. It's been rebranded as a carnival parade. A money-making scheme for which you have to pay to participate. These days the gays pay to show the world how fabulous we are. Those who turn up to march are turned away and told they need a permit. The parade is therefore filled with shiny floats and crowing people dancing to souped-up ABBA songs, wearing little glittery pants and blowing whistles. And, of course, there's nothing wrong with that. But, for me, that's just one part of my community. Only allowing the glitz and glamour to be seen in this parade does nothing but trivialise my community. It makes us all vapid, one-dimensional party animals. But unless we remember the journey we've been on for the last forty years, we'll forget that it can all be taken away from us with one brutally right wing government or a devastating sexually-transmitted disease.
I didn't particularly fancy being sucked into the revelry so we skirted around the outskirts of Soho, doing a tour of vintage shops in Seven Dials after eating at my favourite chippie in London. The "Rock and Sole Plaice" (see what they did there?) serves enormous chips, which are always fried to absolute perfection. They're cooked in vegetable fat as well, so it's a brilliant place to take any vegan friends you might have in town who fancy the British chippie experience. Obviously they'd have to avoid the fish...
Old Compton Street, unsurprisingly, was rammed. Standing at the end of the road was like looking down into the Castro in San Francisco. The searing heat gave everything a sort of nostalgic, hazy quality. Flags of many nationalities fluttered in the breeze. It made a change to see rainbow flags flying on that street again. In the '90s it was almost exclusively gay, until its success pushed the rental prices up and only the fancy brands like Hotel Chocolat could afford to move in. Another example of gay men being pushed out of a club which we popularised!
I went from Central London to Julie and Sam's house in Catford. They'd been with Nathan and Abbie all afternoon knitting in the back garden and when I arrived, I was instantly fed (Julie is Jewish) and then taken out into the allotments behind their house where we picked raspberries and gooseberries.
We sat on a hammock until the sun set. Nathan was knitting a pair of socks with fluorescent wool which started to glow magically as the light started to fade. Abbie has recently ditched all of her Mac products and largely returned to PCs. Nathan asked her at one point how she was coping "without Apple products" at which point Julie, bursting into the conversation, said "can't you eat apples either these days?"! Ah! The joys of miscommunication!
Friday, 7 July 2017
Hungarians and female composers
I worked on a quiz yesterday in another girls' school. I wasn't running this one. I was working as Abbie's little helper. I was, therefore, slightly perturbed to note that the teacher who had booked the quiz, saw us both setting up and immediately assumed that I was the quizmaster. It was a female teacher as well. It is moments like this when you realise there's still a way to go in the search for equality, and that, sadly, the problem is as much to do with women's perception of themselves.
On that front, a fair amount of articles are presently being written about the lack of female composers in musical theatre. As many as 9 out of 10 musicals, we're told, have male writers. Now obviously, if there are women musical theatre writers out there who fee their gender is preventing them somehow from getting their heads above the parapet, this is something we need to tackle. It's pretty clear, however, that a shockingly high percentage of the high percentage of male musical theatre writers are gay. And this opens up a can of worms which could legitimately lead to straight male writers of musical theatre screaming inequality. More than this, if you're going to try to readdress the balance of women working in musical theatre, you're essentially going to have to take work away from a minority group who are hugely under-represented in other fields of employment.
Gay men have traditionally been attracted to musical theatre, often as an escape from difficult and lonely childhoods. The "cheesiness" of the art form doesn't seem to bother us as much as it might a more aggressively heterosexual man. In fact, most of the female writers and composers I know would run a million miles from musical theatre. I just think it appeals more to gay men. We feel safe in its world. It's our world. It's where some of our biggest role models can be found.
I don't bang on about the under representation of gay men in sports, because I'm well aware that gay men don't tend to be drawn to that particular area. Yes, of course it's appropriate to ask why gay men aren't traditionally interested in sports, and there are many unanswered questions regarding why sports men don't tend to come out, but the fact remains that there are certain areas which simply attract people of a certain gender or sexuality and I'm struggling to understand why this is a bad thing. Trying to bash down the walls of equality in an area where one minority group is thriving feels a little bit like robbing Peter to pay Paul. No one, after all, tries to claim that gospel music should be the pursuit of fewer black people!
There's even a lobby which refuses to acknowledge the G in LGBT and now talks about "issues for the LBTQ+ community." So it's okay to be bisexual these days, but gay men are no longer allowed to be part of the community we fought so hard to build? We're apparently just too successful. So now, once again, I have to be ashamed of being gay, no longer because of the stigma it generates but because of the privilege being gay apparently now brings me. I could spit.
As far as I'm concerned we need to be promoting good writing, whether that's by women or men. And the problem with British musical theatre is that there's not enough funding regardless of your gender or sexuality.
I had a very pleasant evening last night with Michael, first at a do at the Hungarian Embassy, where my only topic of conversation was Eurovision, after it became embarrassingly obvious that I knew sod all else about Hungary. I kept imagining my brother being really ashamed of me, as I repeatedly said to one of the ambassadors, "I really loved Katy Wolf's song!" The alternative was telling her I'd once looked at Hungary on a map and thought how similar in shape and size it was to Austria. "Have you been to Hungary?" She asked. I giggled nervously and told her that I'd been to Poland. Like that was the same thing. At that point she either got bored or took pity and introduced me to someone from the Polish Embassy so I could be on slightly more familiar territory.
We had tea at the Groucho club where, once again, I bumped into Philip Sallon. He must think I'm always there. That or that he himself is always there! He was with our mutual friend Jo who was looking hugely glamorous in a beautiful pleated summer dress. Philip, as usual, talked the hind legs off our proverbial donkeys, and wanted to sing Jewish songs, Dona Dona and Jerusalem the Gold. He's never happier than when harmonising with someone. I don't blame him for that!
On that front, a fair amount of articles are presently being written about the lack of female composers in musical theatre. As many as 9 out of 10 musicals, we're told, have male writers. Now obviously, if there are women musical theatre writers out there who fee their gender is preventing them somehow from getting their heads above the parapet, this is something we need to tackle. It's pretty clear, however, that a shockingly high percentage of the high percentage of male musical theatre writers are gay. And this opens up a can of worms which could legitimately lead to straight male writers of musical theatre screaming inequality. More than this, if you're going to try to readdress the balance of women working in musical theatre, you're essentially going to have to take work away from a minority group who are hugely under-represented in other fields of employment.
Gay men have traditionally been attracted to musical theatre, often as an escape from difficult and lonely childhoods. The "cheesiness" of the art form doesn't seem to bother us as much as it might a more aggressively heterosexual man. In fact, most of the female writers and composers I know would run a million miles from musical theatre. I just think it appeals more to gay men. We feel safe in its world. It's our world. It's where some of our biggest role models can be found.
I don't bang on about the under representation of gay men in sports, because I'm well aware that gay men don't tend to be drawn to that particular area. Yes, of course it's appropriate to ask why gay men aren't traditionally interested in sports, and there are many unanswered questions regarding why sports men don't tend to come out, but the fact remains that there are certain areas which simply attract people of a certain gender or sexuality and I'm struggling to understand why this is a bad thing. Trying to bash down the walls of equality in an area where one minority group is thriving feels a little bit like robbing Peter to pay Paul. No one, after all, tries to claim that gospel music should be the pursuit of fewer black people!
There's even a lobby which refuses to acknowledge the G in LGBT and now talks about "issues for the LBTQ+ community." So it's okay to be bisexual these days, but gay men are no longer allowed to be part of the community we fought so hard to build? We're apparently just too successful. So now, once again, I have to be ashamed of being gay, no longer because of the stigma it generates but because of the privilege being gay apparently now brings me. I could spit.
As far as I'm concerned we need to be promoting good writing, whether that's by women or men. And the problem with British musical theatre is that there's not enough funding regardless of your gender or sexuality.
I had a very pleasant evening last night with Michael, first at a do at the Hungarian Embassy, where my only topic of conversation was Eurovision, after it became embarrassingly obvious that I knew sod all else about Hungary. I kept imagining my brother being really ashamed of me, as I repeatedly said to one of the ambassadors, "I really loved Katy Wolf's song!" The alternative was telling her I'd once looked at Hungary on a map and thought how similar in shape and size it was to Austria. "Have you been to Hungary?" She asked. I giggled nervously and told her that I'd been to Poland. Like that was the same thing. At that point she either got bored or took pity and introduced me to someone from the Polish Embassy so I could be on slightly more familiar territory.
We had tea at the Groucho club where, once again, I bumped into Philip Sallon. He must think I'm always there. That or that he himself is always there! He was with our mutual friend Jo who was looking hugely glamorous in a beautiful pleated summer dress. Philip, as usual, talked the hind legs off our proverbial donkeys, and wanted to sing Jewish songs, Dona Dona and Jerusalem the Gold. He's never happier than when harmonising with someone. I don't blame him for that!
Wednesday, 5 July 2017
Trompe L'Oeil
Bees occasionally fly into the kitchen. I don't understand why they can't sense where the air is, because they almost always immediately fly upwards and bash against the closed top half of the window. I spend quite a lot of time with a cup and a piece of paper rescuing them.
I took yesterday nice and slowly on account of coming down with this little coldy thing which is doing the rounds at the moment. It seems to be nothing more than a recurring sore throat and a general feeling of fuzziness. Julie has it, and we've nicknamed it "Theresa" because it won't go away and only an imbecile would want it.
Nathan and I went for a late afternoon walk on the Heath today and found ourselves in Kenwood House, which is the one part of the Heath I don't know that well. Kenwood has a charming tearoom which has the loveliest kitchen garden which you can sit in whilst eating a (slightly overpriced) cream tea. We walked down to the lake with its charming little bridge framed by dark green trees. It's such a glorious view which can be seen from the house at the top of the hill. Look how lovely it is!!
All is, however, not quite what it seems. We ended up taking a little stroll which took us into the woods to the rear of the lovely bridge, and were utterly bemused and surprised to see it from behind...
Not only does the water barely extend beyond the "bridge"'s base, but the bridge itself is nothing but a painted fence! A wonderful example of trompe l'oeil!
The rest of the walk was idyllic and accompanied by the sound of crickets, which I'm not sure I've ever heard so loudly in the UK. We saw two sparrow hawks darting to the ground, no doubt to attack some sort of vole, but they were seen off by an angry crow, and then a magpie. Plainly sparrow hawks are not welcome in those parts. The avian Heath neighbourhood watch has made its feelings very clear!
Tuesday, 4 July 2017
Girls' school
I went out to the arse end of beyond today to do a quiz. I was up on the Metropolitan line. That's the burgundy coloured line. It's a line I have so little concept of that I didn't even know how to spell it when I wrote it down just now! There are huge geographical leaps between stations, traveling from Finchley Road to Wembley Park, you leapfrog zone three entirely. Then you end up in all these somewhat suburban places which are plainly home to many, but which have names you've never seen before: Northwood Hills, Preston Road...
I was in the area to run a quiz. It was my first job as a fully-fledged, all-singing-all-dancing quiz master. It was the first time I got to press all the buttons, decide which questions got asked and do all the other things I was secretly dreading! Abbie was on hand, of course, and has been a brick throughout the training experience. She actually only needed to step in once, when I inadvertently closed one of the programmes down and froze a bit whilst trying to remember how to open it up again!
Otherwise, it went pretty smoothly. It wasn't anything like as terrifying as I'd expected it to be although I probably didn't sparkle a great deal. My head was simply trying to make sure I didn't mess up any of the technical aspects. Sparkling requires confidence, and isn't helped by coming down with a blinking cold! All things considered, however, I don't think I could have done any better, and feel very proud of myself for overcoming my huge fear.
The quiz was in a girl's school. It astonishes me how different things are in schools these days. Abbie and I needed to be escorted everywhere by a teacher who couldn't even leave us alone in the hall to set things up. She literally had to watch us at all times. I had to provide photo ID just to be able to sign in. Of course it's inevitable and entirely understandable but part of me wonders where it all ends. There's now apparently a great emphasis being placed on the jeopardy of potential radicalisation. I sincerely hope this applies to Christian doctrine as well as anything Islamic. My personal worry is that it will also silence passion. We had some fairly radical left wing teachers at my school who set out to challenge the right-leaning tendencies of the kids. Being challenged not to accept everything you've been told at home by parents is a vital part of early education.
I was in the area to run a quiz. It was my first job as a fully-fledged, all-singing-all-dancing quiz master. It was the first time I got to press all the buttons, decide which questions got asked and do all the other things I was secretly dreading! Abbie was on hand, of course, and has been a brick throughout the training experience. She actually only needed to step in once, when I inadvertently closed one of the programmes down and froze a bit whilst trying to remember how to open it up again!
Otherwise, it went pretty smoothly. It wasn't anything like as terrifying as I'd expected it to be although I probably didn't sparkle a great deal. My head was simply trying to make sure I didn't mess up any of the technical aspects. Sparkling requires confidence, and isn't helped by coming down with a blinking cold! All things considered, however, I don't think I could have done any better, and feel very proud of myself for overcoming my huge fear.
The quiz was in a girl's school. It astonishes me how different things are in schools these days. Abbie and I needed to be escorted everywhere by a teacher who couldn't even leave us alone in the hall to set things up. She literally had to watch us at all times. I had to provide photo ID just to be able to sign in. Of course it's inevitable and entirely understandable but part of me wonders where it all ends. There's now apparently a great emphasis being placed on the jeopardy of potential radicalisation. I sincerely hope this applies to Christian doctrine as well as anything Islamic. My personal worry is that it will also silence passion. We had some fairly radical left wing teachers at my school who set out to challenge the right-leaning tendencies of the kids. Being challenged not to accept everything you've been told at home by parents is a vital part of early education.
Sunday, 2 July 2017
Weston Super Mare
We're trundling along the M4 on our way home from Weston Super Mare, where we've been for the weekend. Saturday found us at Fran and Rob's lovely house for a multi-birthday barbecue. I have seldom known a gathering of more people whose birthdays were coming up within the next few weeks. A rainbow birthday cake arrived at one point and everyone started singing Happy Birthday. When it came to singing the name, there was great confusion: "Happy Birthday dear Nathan, Philip, Derek, Fran, Rich..." (Various combinations of the aforementioned...)
We arrived in Weston as the sun burst out from behind fairly heavy cloud, and for some hours, we baked in its rays. We were joined for the day by many of Nathan's friends from his RAF drama group, a number of Fran and Ron's neighbours and four delightful Tonkinese cats of varying ages and shapes. One of them spent some time nestled on the inside of Nathan's elbow.
At the end of the evening, we headed off to Nathan's father and step mother's house, which, it so happens, is also in Weston Super Mare. We stayed the night and woke up this morning to a gloriously sunny day.
We had a wonderful walk this morning, up through a somewhat magical wood which wound down to a little cafe with stunning views over Sand Bay. The tide was out and mudflats stretched as far as the eye could see. Ocean liners drifted along the Bristol Channel in the far distance.
We walked with David and Liz' dog Barney, who bounced along with us, searching for squirrels. He likes squirrels. And hates flies!
We had dinner in the garden. Liz did a fine Mediterranean spread of a Caprese salad, tortilla, hummus, olives and halloumi and avocado. It felt highly appropriate to be eating that sort of food in the heat of the sun. It's probably my favourite kind of food.
The traffic was a little sticky on the way back to London. It seems that people who go out of London on a nice Sunny Sunday like to return for their tea at 5pm.
We arrived in Weston as the sun burst out from behind fairly heavy cloud, and for some hours, we baked in its rays. We were joined for the day by many of Nathan's friends from his RAF drama group, a number of Fran and Ron's neighbours and four delightful Tonkinese cats of varying ages and shapes. One of them spent some time nestled on the inside of Nathan's elbow.
At the end of the evening, we headed off to Nathan's father and step mother's house, which, it so happens, is also in Weston Super Mare. We stayed the night and woke up this morning to a gloriously sunny day.
We had a wonderful walk this morning, up through a somewhat magical wood which wound down to a little cafe with stunning views over Sand Bay. The tide was out and mudflats stretched as far as the eye could see. Ocean liners drifted along the Bristol Channel in the far distance.
We walked with David and Liz' dog Barney, who bounced along with us, searching for squirrels. He likes squirrels. And hates flies!
We had dinner in the garden. Liz did a fine Mediterranean spread of a Caprese salad, tortilla, hummus, olives and halloumi and avocado. It felt highly appropriate to be eating that sort of food in the heat of the sun. It's probably my favourite kind of food.
The traffic was a little sticky on the way back to London. It seems that people who go out of London on a nice Sunny Sunday like to return for their tea at 5pm.
Saturday, 1 July 2017
Nathan's birthday
It was Nathan's birthday yesterday and we went to Cambridge for the day with Abbie. It was somewhat overcast, so we didn't rush to get there, and actually only did about an hour punting on the river. I forget how quiet the river can be on a week day in the summer. I reckon we can only have passed five or six other punts and a couple of canoes. Punting uses a set of muscles which don't get a great amount of usage in everyday life, so there's always that feeling afterwards that you might be coming down with something! It was, nevertheless, hugely relaxing. The cool water lapping the underside of the boat, the trees rustling overhead, cows braying, birds chattering, the distant sound of children laughing...
We went to Thaxted afterwards, via an Aldi in Saffron Walden. Aldis never cease to amaze me. Everything is so cheap, but woe-betide anyone going in there in a search for something specific. Shopping in Aldi requires one to master the art of Zen. You have to clear your mind of any preconceptions and merely allow yourself to be carried through the aisles purchasing things you didn't realise you wanted and will never see again.
We had a lovely time in Thaxted. My brother was there and the parents had invited our friends Sally and Stuart over with the kids, who were sporting home-made woollen beards in honour of Nathan. My mother had bought Nathan lots of little flavoured balls which you drop into glasses of Prosecco and the like. You're meant to suck them up through a straw, at which point they burst in your mouth. Great fun, although I'm not sure they tasted very nice. It was like having frogspawn in your mouth. It was also slightly off-putting to learn that the film on the outside of the balls was made of seaweed, which is no doubt why it doesn't burst or corrode whilst it's sitting at the bottom of a glass, but the moment I learned it was seaweed, I couldn't get the thought out of my mind.
We had tea in the Swan pub. I wanted macaroni cheese (or Mac 'n Cheese as everyone's suddenly and unacceptably calling it these days). They'd run out. I had a quinoa burger instead which was fairly heavy-going! Young Cate drew a picture of Nathan whilst sitting at the table, which she presented to him at the end of the meal. We all agreed that it was a very good likeness. Cate's older sister, Sky, who's about ten, has started knitting. Nathan was impressed by her technique.
We returned home to eat my mother's delicious chocolate and orange cake before Abbie and I took a little stroll down to the magic place, for a little top up of the universe's energy. It's been a fairly exhausting few weeks. I could do with all the help I can get at the moment.
We went to Thaxted afterwards, via an Aldi in Saffron Walden. Aldis never cease to amaze me. Everything is so cheap, but woe-betide anyone going in there in a search for something specific. Shopping in Aldi requires one to master the art of Zen. You have to clear your mind of any preconceptions and merely allow yourself to be carried through the aisles purchasing things you didn't realise you wanted and will never see again.
We had a lovely time in Thaxted. My brother was there and the parents had invited our friends Sally and Stuart over with the kids, who were sporting home-made woollen beards in honour of Nathan. My mother had bought Nathan lots of little flavoured balls which you drop into glasses of Prosecco and the like. You're meant to suck them up through a straw, at which point they burst in your mouth. Great fun, although I'm not sure they tasted very nice. It was like having frogspawn in your mouth. It was also slightly off-putting to learn that the film on the outside of the balls was made of seaweed, which is no doubt why it doesn't burst or corrode whilst it's sitting at the bottom of a glass, but the moment I learned it was seaweed, I couldn't get the thought out of my mind.
We had tea in the Swan pub. I wanted macaroni cheese (or Mac 'n Cheese as everyone's suddenly and unacceptably calling it these days). They'd run out. I had a quinoa burger instead which was fairly heavy-going! Young Cate drew a picture of Nathan whilst sitting at the table, which she presented to him at the end of the meal. We all agreed that it was a very good likeness. Cate's older sister, Sky, who's about ten, has started knitting. Nathan was impressed by her technique.
We returned home to eat my mother's delicious chocolate and orange cake before Abbie and I took a little stroll down to the magic place, for a little top up of the universe's energy. It's been a fairly exhausting few weeks. I could do with all the help I can get at the moment.
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