Please remind me never to do what I’ve done today again! I have not left the house. Instead I have sat, semi naked, on the sofa all day finishing parts for Nene. I haven’t eaten lunch, I’ve just hidden away from the world on this ludicrous mission. It’s a mission, I’m pleased to say, that I achieved. But I’m wondering at what cost to my sanity!
Our car has broken down. There is something very wrong with the back wheel. It has been making funny sounds for months and suddenly, two days ago, it entirely froze whilst we were trying to reverse. The tyre skidded across the gym car park like something from The Wacky Races. Our garage is permanently engaged, so we can’t have it fixed!
Wednesday, 10 January 2018
Tuesday, 9 January 2018
Forbidden fruit
I’ve been to the gym six days in the past seven and have eaten healthy food, low in fat, low in sugar and high in fibre, since New Year’s Day. My body is certainly thanking me. My skin feels really smooth and already I can feel that I am far less bloated. Hurrah.
I think the key to dieting is making nothing entirely off bounds. I am trying not to eat chocolate until Easter, for example, but if someone offers me a small amount or has gone to the trouble or baking a lovely chocolate cake, I’m not going to turn my nose up. Entirely forbidden fruit always tastes so much sweeter. Just as long as I can always tell myself, hand on heart, that I’m eating less and exercising more, I should be alright.
I’ve certainly had to hit the ground running this year with heaps and heaps of formatting to do on the new version of my Nene composition, which is being performed at Peterborough Cathedral and the Northampton Derngate in March. I’m currently trying to create a piano reduction for rehearsal purposes. It’s a real chore. A piano reduction is never actually ever performed, so there’s next to no point in writing an astounding and wondrous piece of music. It just needs to be enough for the choirs to find their notes and get a sense of the orchestral accompaniment. That said, pride usually kicks in and I work around the clock creating something which feels pianistic and appropriate.
There’s little else to say. I think we all turn into boring bastards in January, and with the weather like it is, I reckon I’m fairly happy staying indoors.
I think the key to dieting is making nothing entirely off bounds. I am trying not to eat chocolate until Easter, for example, but if someone offers me a small amount or has gone to the trouble or baking a lovely chocolate cake, I’m not going to turn my nose up. Entirely forbidden fruit always tastes so much sweeter. Just as long as I can always tell myself, hand on heart, that I’m eating less and exercising more, I should be alright.
I’ve certainly had to hit the ground running this year with heaps and heaps of formatting to do on the new version of my Nene composition, which is being performed at Peterborough Cathedral and the Northampton Derngate in March. I’m currently trying to create a piano reduction for rehearsal purposes. It’s a real chore. A piano reduction is never actually ever performed, so there’s next to no point in writing an astounding and wondrous piece of music. It just needs to be enough for the choirs to find their notes and get a sense of the orchestral accompaniment. That said, pride usually kicks in and I work around the clock creating something which feels pianistic and appropriate.
There’s little else to say. I think we all turn into boring bastards in January, and with the weather like it is, I reckon I’m fairly happy staying indoors.
Monday, 8 January 2018
Hell, fire and toasted sandwiches!
Nathan and I went to Julie Clare’s house last night and played Cards Against Humanity till quite late. Sam, who lives with Julie, but only appeared right at the end of the evening, has recently purchased a vintage 1960s toasted sandwich maker which took me very fondly back to my childhood. At one point everyone had one of them, usually at the back of a cupboard caked entirely in sticky grease next to the soda stream and a potato ricer. We were obsessed with ours for at least a week. We tried most combinations of food inside. Cheese and baked beans. Mars bars. Actually that’s probably the long and the short of our imagination...
Sam’s sandwich maker was made by Boots. I had no idea that Boots had made electrical equipment like that. It certainly made delicious toasties. Back then, of course, things were built to last - even the things they sold in Boots. This one was made in stainless steel, so it’s probably no surprise that it was still in working order. I made a sandwich with cheddar, pesto and halloumi, and one with cheese and chutney. They felt decadent and exciting. I reckon I could open up a cafe selling them. If I referred to the sandwiches as “retro” and said they were filled with “Somerset aged cheddar” and “deluxe, wild basil pesto”, I’d be able to triple the cost and sell them to yummy mummies in Hackney for four times the amount. Making money in the world of food is all about the adjectives you use.
We talked about the fact that there’s a school now charging its pupils to do GCSE music because funding for education from the disgraceful government is now reaching a crisis point. We talked about the fact that most people are now predicting a massive brain drain in this country post Brexit, and the fact that the bankers (who we seem so desperate to keep here) have already oiled their escape routes and added down to their nests in Ireland, France and Germany. There’s predicted to be a major flowering of the arts, in places like Berlin, caused by a huge exodus of British creatives with tragically no other option but to leave these shores. For the first time I wondered whether it might be quite an exciting adventure to go myself, leaving the hell of Brexit and endless Tory cuts behind. If Colman’s mustard can move to Germany, then maybe so can I!
I went to the village of West Wycombe on Saturday afternoon with Michael to visit the really spooky Hell Fire Caves: a series of long, underground tunnels which were dug in the mid 18th Century as a sort of subterranean pleasure garden. They were used as a meeting place for the shady “Hell Fire Club”, a group of society figures who met for bawdy parties which involved all sorts of curious pagan rituals and, probably, quite a lot of sex. Women were allowed to attend, although they wore masks and were only invited if they had a “cheery disposition.” Which probably meant loose morals. Women of the night dressed as nuns were also a feature of these gatherings.
There are all sorts of underground chambers down there, where revellers would gather, including a dining room with an impressive domed roof, maybe 30 feet high.
My favourite part was the inner temple, a much smaller chamber at the very deepest point in the complex, which is, apparently, directly underneath a church on the hillside 100 feet above. To gain access to the temple, you had to cross over the “River Styx”, a man made pool which looks like an eerie underground river. The attention to detail is astounding. The bloke who commissioned the building of the caves in the 1700s even asked the people who dug it out to create stalactites to hang over the water.
The complex is said to be haunted by two ghosts, one called Suki. The “Most Haunted” team (Yvette Fielding’s lot) spent a night down there and were apparently greeted by orbs of light and the sound of children laughing. They also said that it was the darkest place they’d ever visited... whatever that means!
Sam’s sandwich maker was made by Boots. I had no idea that Boots had made electrical equipment like that. It certainly made delicious toasties. Back then, of course, things were built to last - even the things they sold in Boots. This one was made in stainless steel, so it’s probably no surprise that it was still in working order. I made a sandwich with cheddar, pesto and halloumi, and one with cheese and chutney. They felt decadent and exciting. I reckon I could open up a cafe selling them. If I referred to the sandwiches as “retro” and said they were filled with “Somerset aged cheddar” and “deluxe, wild basil pesto”, I’d be able to triple the cost and sell them to yummy mummies in Hackney for four times the amount. Making money in the world of food is all about the adjectives you use.
We talked about the fact that there’s a school now charging its pupils to do GCSE music because funding for education from the disgraceful government is now reaching a crisis point. We talked about the fact that most people are now predicting a massive brain drain in this country post Brexit, and the fact that the bankers (who we seem so desperate to keep here) have already oiled their escape routes and added down to their nests in Ireland, France and Germany. There’s predicted to be a major flowering of the arts, in places like Berlin, caused by a huge exodus of British creatives with tragically no other option but to leave these shores. For the first time I wondered whether it might be quite an exciting adventure to go myself, leaving the hell of Brexit and endless Tory cuts behind. If Colman’s mustard can move to Germany, then maybe so can I!
I went to the village of West Wycombe on Saturday afternoon with Michael to visit the really spooky Hell Fire Caves: a series of long, underground tunnels which were dug in the mid 18th Century as a sort of subterranean pleasure garden. They were used as a meeting place for the shady “Hell Fire Club”, a group of society figures who met for bawdy parties which involved all sorts of curious pagan rituals and, probably, quite a lot of sex. Women were allowed to attend, although they wore masks and were only invited if they had a “cheery disposition.” Which probably meant loose morals. Women of the night dressed as nuns were also a feature of these gatherings.
There are all sorts of underground chambers down there, where revellers would gather, including a dining room with an impressive domed roof, maybe 30 feet high.
My favourite part was the inner temple, a much smaller chamber at the very deepest point in the complex, which is, apparently, directly underneath a church on the hillside 100 feet above. To gain access to the temple, you had to cross over the “River Styx”, a man made pool which looks like an eerie underground river. The attention to detail is astounding. The bloke who commissioned the building of the caves in the 1700s even asked the people who dug it out to create stalactites to hang over the water.
The complex is said to be haunted by two ghosts, one called Suki. The “Most Haunted” team (Yvette Fielding’s lot) spent a night down there and were apparently greeted by orbs of light and the sound of children laughing. They also said that it was the darkest place they’d ever visited... whatever that means!
Sunday, 7 January 2018
Derry Girls
I tuned in to the much-trailed Channel 4 comedy drama, Derry Girls, last night. It is, I suspect, the finest first episode of a comedy show I have seen since Catastrophe.
The show is set in a girl’s convent school in Derry, in the 1990s, at the height of the troubles. I suspect I’m always going to be a fairly difficult audience member to win over when it comes to anything set in that particular part of the world because of my fundamental issues with Northern Ireland and its backward policies on abortion and gay marriage, but I was utterly entranced.
The joy about this piece is that the troubles rumble along in the background as more of a nuisance than the huge trauma that most of us in Britain probably imagine they must have been. I’m sure we all tend to forget that young Northern Irish people simply had to get on with living through that era. They went to school, had crushes on older boys and dealt with bullying, hard-core, humourless nuns as best they could.
It’s beautifully, and atmospherically shot, and the writing, by Lisa McGee, feels fresh and incredibly witty. There are some absolutely killer one-liners, many of which come from the school’s acerbic head teacher. There’s a wonderful little repeated device which occasionally happens where we’re led to believe we’re hearing the voiceover of the central character but it turns out to be her cousin who has got hold of her diary and is reading sections out to anyone who will listen!
The four main girls are naughty, but deeply likeable characters, exquisitely acted. They defend each other in a world where adults are, largely, imbecilic, over-religious dinosaurs. The show’s lead, Saoirse Jackson, is an absolute diamond with deeply funny bones who genuinely lights up the screen.
Dropped in amongst the Irish girls, like a pig in a slaughter house, is a young English boy called James, who appears to be the product of his mother going over to London for an abortion but changing her mind and bringing him up instead. She has now returned to Derry with her son, but there are such fears for the safety of an English boy at the local school for lads that he’s been sent to the girls’ school where no one can understand what he’s saying, and there’s nowhere for him to go to the loo!
This is a fresh, funny, fabulous show, which I urge you all to watch.
The show is set in a girl’s convent school in Derry, in the 1990s, at the height of the troubles. I suspect I’m always going to be a fairly difficult audience member to win over when it comes to anything set in that particular part of the world because of my fundamental issues with Northern Ireland and its backward policies on abortion and gay marriage, but I was utterly entranced.
The joy about this piece is that the troubles rumble along in the background as more of a nuisance than the huge trauma that most of us in Britain probably imagine they must have been. I’m sure we all tend to forget that young Northern Irish people simply had to get on with living through that era. They went to school, had crushes on older boys and dealt with bullying, hard-core, humourless nuns as best they could.
It’s beautifully, and atmospherically shot, and the writing, by Lisa McGee, feels fresh and incredibly witty. There are some absolutely killer one-liners, many of which come from the school’s acerbic head teacher. There’s a wonderful little repeated device which occasionally happens where we’re led to believe we’re hearing the voiceover of the central character but it turns out to be her cousin who has got hold of her diary and is reading sections out to anyone who will listen!
The four main girls are naughty, but deeply likeable characters, exquisitely acted. They defend each other in a world where adults are, largely, imbecilic, over-religious dinosaurs. The show’s lead, Saoirse Jackson, is an absolute diamond with deeply funny bones who genuinely lights up the screen.
Dropped in amongst the Irish girls, like a pig in a slaughter house, is a young English boy called James, who appears to be the product of his mother going over to London for an abortion but changing her mind and bringing him up instead. She has now returned to Derry with her son, but there are such fears for the safety of an English boy at the local school for lads that he’s been sent to the girls’ school where no one can understand what he’s saying, and there’s nowhere for him to go to the loo!
This is a fresh, funny, fabulous show, which I urge you all to watch.
Friday, 5 January 2018
built to last
I was astounded to arrive at Tottenham Court Road this morning to discover buckets collecting water pouring through underground ceilings and little pieces of yellow and black tape marking trip hazards on the floor. If this were one of the old tube stations desperately in need of renovation, I might be inclined to feel sympathy, but this is the flag ship station in the new Cross Rail and it’s only been open for a couple of years! To me it’s a true indication of modern day style over substance. We live in an era where seemingly nothing is built to last. Apple have finally admitted to “planned obsolescence” with their iPhones, and I wish architects would follow suit. People literally had to fight to keep the iconic 80s Paolozzi mosaics in Tottenham Court Road which look as fresh today as they did there they were made, but many have been ripped out or covered over with shocking pieces of shiny plastic and untreated “industrial chic” concrete, which cost a fortune, look fabulous for a few weeks before becoming tragically tatty and gnarled.
When those beautifully-tiled, Art Nouveau tube stations were built in the 1880s and again when they built the fabulously futuristic buildings at the end of the Piccadilly Line in the 1930s, people wanted architecture that would still be there in a hundred years. And they got it... with style icons being created in the process. It’s almost as though modern day people don’t think the world has a future. And with Trump sitting with his finger on the nuclear button you can’t really blame them!
When those beautifully-tiled, Art Nouveau tube stations were built in the 1880s and again when they built the fabulously futuristic buildings at the end of the Piccadilly Line in the 1930s, people wanted architecture that would still be there in a hundred years. And they got it... with style icons being created in the process. It’s almost as though modern day people don’t think the world has a future. And with Trump sitting with his finger on the nuclear button you can’t really blame them!
Tuesday, 2 January 2018
Sobering
After a glorious roast dinner at Lisa and Mark’s yesterday, which must have featured vegetables of every colour of the rainbow, we did something of an emergency dash to Aylesbury, where my godson, Will had been rushed into hospital. There’s not a great deal to say about why he’s there. Until the doctors have done the necessary tests, all we can do is wait. Besides, it hardly feels appropriate to be speculating here.
Knowing that no one knew what the problem was, and that tests were going to take a few days to happen, it struck us that it might be a good idea to simply turn up at the hospital yesterday, to create a cheery distraction for the family as they waited for news. Will is obviously very poorly, but he perked up considerably when he saw us. Because he’s already had some investigative keyhole surgery, he’s been banned from laughing, which, of course, makes laughter the forbidden fruit which you crave more than anything else. It’s like being in assembly as a kid. And I couldn’t help trying to make him laugh...
Raily and Iain are obviously a little anxious but they are being honest with Will and sharing news as it comes in so he doesn’t panic when he sees doctors talking in little huddles and hushed voices a few feet away from his bed. Will is an exceptionally bright lad so I think they’re exactly right to treat him like an adult in this respect.
After he’d been tucked up in bed in the hospital, we went back to Raily and Iain’s house and talked quite late into the night about anything and everything whilst drinking cups of tea, which, incidentally, spent the night working their way through my body. I must learn not to drink tea past about 8pm!
I’m sure Will’ll be absolutely fine, and that yesterday’s madness will slowly sink into some sort of dramatic anecdote, but it was certainly a sobering start to the year, one which reminds me of the importance of human contact and the well-being of one’s family and loved ones. Nothing else really matters does it?
Knowing that no one knew what the problem was, and that tests were going to take a few days to happen, it struck us that it might be a good idea to simply turn up at the hospital yesterday, to create a cheery distraction for the family as they waited for news. Will is obviously very poorly, but he perked up considerably when he saw us. Because he’s already had some investigative keyhole surgery, he’s been banned from laughing, which, of course, makes laughter the forbidden fruit which you crave more than anything else. It’s like being in assembly as a kid. And I couldn’t help trying to make him laugh...
Raily and Iain are obviously a little anxious but they are being honest with Will and sharing news as it comes in so he doesn’t panic when he sees doctors talking in little huddles and hushed voices a few feet away from his bed. Will is an exceptionally bright lad so I think they’re exactly right to treat him like an adult in this respect.
After he’d been tucked up in bed in the hospital, we went back to Raily and Iain’s house and talked quite late into the night about anything and everything whilst drinking cups of tea, which, incidentally, spent the night working their way through my body. I must learn not to drink tea past about 8pm!
I’m sure Will’ll be absolutely fine, and that yesterday’s madness will slowly sink into some sort of dramatic anecdote, but it was certainly a sobering start to the year, one which reminds me of the importance of human contact and the well-being of one’s family and loved ones. Nothing else really matters does it?
Monday, 1 January 2018
And a happy new year to you all
And a Happy New Year to you all! I’m in Huntingdonshire at Lisa and Mark’s. I’ve just looked out of the window across a somewhat windswept countryside. The colours of nature in these parts feel terribly familiar. We’re actually only 11 miles away from Higham Ferrers where I grew up and the earth round here must have a similar clay content.
I have been chuckling to myself all morning about an article in the Standard about a fare dodger getting his penis caught in ticket barriers at Covent Garden tube station! A large crowd apparently gathered as London Underground staff and police tried to free him. A passer by was heard to say “butter him up, butter him up.”
We came here yesterday in the late afternoon after spending a lovely few hours with Llio and her Mum, Silvia; two women it would be difficult for me to adore any more thoroughly. We drank tea and shared music. Llio has written some blinking good pop songs lately, one of which, I’m quite sure is a bone fide hit. I have told her I will not stop nagging her until she gets it into the hands of a top producer.
It was a wonderfully quiet New Year. Just Lisa, Mark, Nathan and their charming kids, Poppy and Rosie. Rosie is only 5. There was a long period of time when she was sitting incredibly quietly in the sitting room whilst we were all in the kitchen. After a while the silence became concerning and Lisa popped her head next door to see if she was okay. We were all astounded to discover that Rosie had found the Mac computer, donned a pair of headphones, opened up a new project on Logic and somehow managed to input some sonic data. It was an incredible sight!
We played Articulate and wrote cards with our highlights and lowlights from 2017 and our hopes for 2018 which we then sealed. Lisa has suggested looking at them again in ten years’ time. I don’t really want to think about ten years’ time. Everything is so up in the air at the moment. Brexit. My career. The health of loved ones. For the first time in my life I have no concept of what the next ten years might bring. Right now, I’m quite certain I won’t still be writing music. It has become painfully clear to me this year that it is almost impossible for a writer to maintain a career in writing for theatre. And everyone I know in the Arts in general seems to be struggling bitterly. The odds are entirely stacked against us.
So, for the record, 2018 for me is about finding clarity and meaningful employment. I suspect none of this can start until I’ve lost weight, so if anyone reading this sees me stuffing my face with chocolate before Easter, gently remind me of the fact that I’ve made this particular resolution! And please don’t offer me cake... however much my eyes look at you pleadingly like hungry Bambi.
I hope everyone reading this has a hugely healthy 2018, filled with love, laughter and friendship. If you feel lonely, reach out to existing friends, or put yourself in different worlds where you can meet new people. Don’t rely on social media. We all need, and deserve human contact. Remember that.
I have been chuckling to myself all morning about an article in the Standard about a fare dodger getting his penis caught in ticket barriers at Covent Garden tube station! A large crowd apparently gathered as London Underground staff and police tried to free him. A passer by was heard to say “butter him up, butter him up.”
We came here yesterday in the late afternoon after spending a lovely few hours with Llio and her Mum, Silvia; two women it would be difficult for me to adore any more thoroughly. We drank tea and shared music. Llio has written some blinking good pop songs lately, one of which, I’m quite sure is a bone fide hit. I have told her I will not stop nagging her until she gets it into the hands of a top producer.
It was a wonderfully quiet New Year. Just Lisa, Mark, Nathan and their charming kids, Poppy and Rosie. Rosie is only 5. There was a long period of time when she was sitting incredibly quietly in the sitting room whilst we were all in the kitchen. After a while the silence became concerning and Lisa popped her head next door to see if she was okay. We were all astounded to discover that Rosie had found the Mac computer, donned a pair of headphones, opened up a new project on Logic and somehow managed to input some sonic data. It was an incredible sight!
We played Articulate and wrote cards with our highlights and lowlights from 2017 and our hopes for 2018 which we then sealed. Lisa has suggested looking at them again in ten years’ time. I don’t really want to think about ten years’ time. Everything is so up in the air at the moment. Brexit. My career. The health of loved ones. For the first time in my life I have no concept of what the next ten years might bring. Right now, I’m quite certain I won’t still be writing music. It has become painfully clear to me this year that it is almost impossible for a writer to maintain a career in writing for theatre. And everyone I know in the Arts in general seems to be struggling bitterly. The odds are entirely stacked against us.
So, for the record, 2018 for me is about finding clarity and meaningful employment. I suspect none of this can start until I’ve lost weight, so if anyone reading this sees me stuffing my face with chocolate before Easter, gently remind me of the fact that I’ve made this particular resolution! And please don’t offer me cake... however much my eyes look at you pleadingly like hungry Bambi.
I hope everyone reading this has a hugely healthy 2018, filled with love, laughter and friendship. If you feel lonely, reach out to existing friends, or put yourself in different worlds where you can meet new people. Don’t rely on social media. We all need, and deserve human contact. Remember that.
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