Camden rock

I've had such a lovely day. The joy for me about working at the weekend is that it feels somewhat unpressurised; like anything I achieve is a bonus. I had a lovely lie-in, then worked in the cafe for a couple of hours, before taking myself to my favourite greasy spoon for lunch. I had my usual; two poached eggs on toast with fried mushrooms and hash browns. A proper treat, and only £5.20 including a coke!

I went to Camden in the afternoon. It’s a horrible, expensive, uber-cool sort of place, packed to the rafters with a weird blend of media types, Chinese tourists, Goths, and Italian teenagers, who all become horribly edgy after dark. Every time I drive down Camden High Street at least one pissed or stoned turd staggers out into the road and causes me to slam on the breaks.  They’ve dug up half the pavements, creating a whole load of bottle necks, and people kept bumping into me with suitcases. There was some kind of rock gig taking place under the arches near the canal, and I felt desperately sorry for the local residents, until I realised that by choosing to live in Camden they really only have themselves to blame.

I met my friend Marinella in Tupelo Honey and we sat in a very pleasant window seat eating a pastry which cost more than my entire lunch. It was wonderful to see Marinella. We talked about her forthcoming wedding, which is going to be hugely eccentric, and spent a great deal of time people watching. The girl with hair like the middle of a felt tip pen, the pregnant woman with a matching husband, the man dressed from head to toe in leather with a tubercular face... They were all out on the streets today.

We walked back through Kentish Town, remembering the days when houses there were relatively affordable. There’s a street called Kelly Street where the little cottages are painted every colour of the rainbow. It always used to be the street I aspired to live in when I finally made some money. Sadly this particular dream has not yet been realised, but it was nice to remind myself of a goal I set at the age of 23.

350 years ago, Pepys, who’d had a shed load of blood let from his arm the day before, was not feeling well, so stayed in his room all day, whilst his wife went shopping to find him a gown of some description.

The Christian People's Alliance

One of the parties you could vote for in the election yesterday was the “Christian People’s Alliance.” They go by a single, rather devastatingly pithy tag-line; “supporting traditional marriage.” This would appear to be the thing they consider to be most important in politics. What does the Christian People’s Alliance think about the economy? They think the gays shouldn’t get married. How do they propose we defend ourselves against terrorism? We stop the gays from getting married. What is the Christian People’s Alliance policy on the Arts? The Arts would be a whole lot better if the gays weren’t allowed to marry. It is difficult to sum up quite how pathetic I think the Christian People’s Alliance is. I sincerely hope they lose their deposit.

A jogger ran past me in the street today, and spat with perfect timing to land a little piece of foamy phlegm on my shoes. It was beyond nasty. I called out after him but he just kept on running. I don’t for a moment think he did it deliberately. His mouth obviously felt like a bowl of syllabub and he wanted to have a good clear out, but I was always taught that spitting in the street was one of those things you simply didn’t do. It was the height of rudeness, and, as the adverts used to tell us, it spreads diseases. I think my Mum always used to say TB. It’s certainly not a particularly pleasant experience to have a little bit of gob land on your shoe. I immediately rushed to a patch of grass to try and wipe the gip away, but sadly the grass had turned to mud, my feet started to sink in, and I ended up with more of a mess than I had when I’d started. Bloody joggers. I was in my best shoes as well cus I couldn't find any others.

What does the Christian People’s Alliance think about joggers spitting in the street?

Today has been about rescoring the Libera Me movement in my requiem; which is one of the hell, fire and damnation passages in the traditional Latin text.

Deliver me, Oh Lord, from death eternal on that fearful day, when the heavens and the earth shall be moved...

It, of course, sounds a whole lot better in Latin;

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda.

As a teenager I got to sing these very lines as the baritone soloist in Faure’s extraordinary requiem. I think we performed the work in a church in Cherry Hinton near Cambridge. It was a hot summer’s day and the roads felt dusty and dry. On the coach on the way back to Northmptonshire, Liz Rowbotham had sandwiches with cheese and spring onion inside. I’d never seen or smelt anything so bizarre. The whole thing excited me hugely. This was in the days before I’d tasted hummus or pesto. It’s funny the things you remember.

Anyway, when you know and respect a setting of a lyric as well as I know and respect Faure’s Requiem, it becomes quite a trial to escape its rhythmic clutches, and with the Libera Me I was forced to almost run in the opposite direction to avoid plagiarism. I ran to the most rhythmically insane place you could ever imagine. It’s a five minute semi-quaver run, basically. It never stops. I think it’s going to make people scream. I looked through the string parts yesterday and wondered if they were even possible.

And what of Pepys 350 years ago? Well it was a Sunday and Thomas Hollier the doctor came to his house to let blood. Sixteen ounces of the stuff, we’re told. Pepys was thrilled, writing that he was “exceedingly full of blood”. How little these people knew about medicine. Perhaps unsurprisingly the letting of blood caused Pepys to feel sick (one suspects dizzy) but after lying on his back for a time he felt well again. No surprises there. His arm was then tied up with a fancy black ribbon.

In the afternoon Pepys and his wife went for a walk with their house boy Wayneman wearing his full uniform for the first time, which included a sword specifically purchased to “outdo” the two Sir Williams’ servants, who had also been kitted out with new liveries. Pepys decided his was the neatest of them all.

In the evening, after church, they went for a walk to the fashionable Greys Inn to see what the socially mobile ladies were wearing. Elizabeth was making some new clothes and wanted some tips.

Dirty protest

I voted at lunchtime today. As I entered the polling station, I thought I might at least try to gem up on the various candidates, and was horrified to find there were no brochures or posters anywhere. No one was standing with a rosette, or a clip board, just a couple of women behind a trestle table. I didn’t need proof of identity. I simply gave my address and agreed when she said “David Till?” I was handed three pieces of paper; one to vote for the mayor, one for local councillors, and another which I didn’t understand, which simply listed the main political parties. I assume this was something to do with the London assembly.

I had contemplated making some kind of dirty protest. I thought about spoiling my ballot paper. I also considered basing my decision entirely on who the best looking candidates were. Something arbitrary like that would match the arbitrary way that we’re governed in this country. Sadly, there were no photographs anywhere. But how do I know what these councillors stand for? I have nothing but a name to judge them by. Why even bother with a name? I'd rather have put a tick by my favourite shape. These people don’t have fliers, they haven’t knocked on my door. They’re just names. Why should I give them my vote? In the end I decided to go Lib Dem. I think Brian Paddick is wet, but I’ve always been hugely impressed by our local Lib Dem MP, Lynne Featherstone, who seems to be doing good work both locally and on a national level. For my second choice, I’m afraid to say I voted Green, which is a hideously middle class thing to do, but I couldn’t vote for Boris or Ken.

I received a phone call this afternoon from a chirpy -ounding bloke who told me he was phoning on behalf of Boris. “Have you voted yet?” he asked hopefully, “yes” I said. I could hear that he instantly wanted to bring the conversation to a close, but he carried on, “may I ask how you voted?” I told him, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice. I felt secretly quite pleased.

350 years ago, London was basking in a heat wave and Pepys took Lady Sandwich and the well-behaved, well-to-do children of Sir Thomas Crew to the Tower of London to see the lions. It’s hard to comprehend that the tower in those days was not just a prison, but its menagerie was world-famous and it was also home to the royal mint.

In Paradisum

It’s Requiem-a-go-go right now. I’ve been working on the In Paradisum today; the final movement of the piece, which takes on a kind of "after darkness light" quality. It's scored for a female soloist and I'm presently trying to work out who that might be. We’ve had a glimmer of interest from a singer who means more to me than any other in the world. She's asked to hear the piece and we are going to try and create the highest calibre demo imaginable. Even the thought of her hearing my music makes me shudder and feel emotional. I can’t tell you her name in case it all goes wrong, although those who know me well could probably guess. We have to assume she’ll say no, but if everyone could keep their fingers crossed, I’d be hugely grateful because her singing my music would probably make my life feel complete. I keep drifting off into fantasy; imagining what it would feel like to stand with her in a studio. How proud I'd be...

There’s really not a great deal more to say. I’ve been a bit of a hermit all day, and know I’ve consumed too much tea because I’m feeling a little jittery. We’re waiting for another massive rain storm tonight, which will, no doubt cause mayhem in places like Tewksbury where it always seems to flood. For my part, I’m battening down the hatches. It’s 9pm and I really want to have a few hours in front of the telly with a plate of food on my lap before going to bed. I

Friday 2^nd May, 1662, and Pepys made his triumphant entry into London. It was, he reported, the hottest day of the year and he took himself for a wash; a rare occurrence in 17^th Century life. People actually feared getting wet, they felt water spread diseases and frankly must have stunk to high heaven!

Pepys went to see his new mate, Dr. Clerke’s, wife. Clerke had obviously stayed in Portsmouth, so Pepys was delivering a letter and some kind of token to her. He decided that she was a very fine lady. She was furthermore surrounded by equally fine women, so fine, in fact, that Pepys wrote he could “hardly carry himself like a man among them.”

What mayoral election?

It would seem that Londoners are due to go to the polls on Thursday to vote for our mayor. No one has bothered to put any literature through my door on the subject. Boris and Ken plainly think that they don't just walk on water, but they can also control minds; download bits of information direct to the synapses of their potential subjects...

It's difficult to comprehend quite how disinterested I am in the process. The older I get, the more I realise that politics isn't about doing good, or being principled or standing up for the underdog; it's about remaining in power. At any cost.

When I was younger, particularly amongst Labour politicians, there was a genuine sense that those who stood for parliament actually cared. In those days there was no such thing as a career politician. MPs were key figures in medicine, industry and law before they went into politics. They brought with them expertise and a detailed knowledge of the mechanics of their area.

In 1997, everything changed. For the first time a slippery pole emerged for champagne socialists. It was suddenly okay to be left wing. Oxford graduates who’d risen to the top of student politics found jobs as private secretaries to the 30-year-olds who’d suddenly found themselves elected in the shock landslide election. With one foot in the door at Westminster, and enough money to holiday in Tuscany and eat expensive meals on Upper Street, they could kick start their own quest for power by standing as a local councillor in touchy-feely New Labour-voting middle-class inner city London wards. A brief stint in an organisation like the Fabian society would inevitably take them to the next rung, and keep their kids in private school whilst they made all the right noises about Mr Blair and stood for a couple of "unwinable" parliamentary seats to gain experience for the glorious moment that they could expect to be parachuted into that Sheffield constituency where the previous Old Labour MP had weighed his majority rather than counted it!

These days, if you haven’t become an MP by the age of 40, then you’re plainly not going to make it.  You’re obviously not good-looking enough or you don’t have that steely killer instinct that Simon Cowell considers to be a great attribute, or you’re too “maverick”, which is a word all-too-often used to mean compassionate, or simply flawed like the rest of us.

Make no mistake, the aforementioned w**kers are the people who are now in Parliament. I met many of them in the three years that I dated a New Labour MP. I listened to their conversations, their blanket philosophies, their lack of interest in the people who would have to jump when they said jump. They know nothing about schools outside London, or how people live, or what makes us frightened or worried or angry or passionate. They don’t know what it’s like to not have child care, or how it feels when you get turned down for all six choices of school. They simply exist to remain in the spotlight – and the longer they survive at the top of the greasy pole, the longer they believe they have a God-given right to remain there.

Of course I shall vote on Thursday. It is vitally important that we continue to exercise our electoral prerogative; even if we express this simply by spoiling our ballot papers, but I shall vote with my eyes closed because my decision will not make the blindest bit of difference to the way that London is run.

350 years ago, Pepys left Portsmouth, obviously convinced that the future Queen of England was not worth the wait! On their journey home, at Petersfield, news came from the capital that the Duke of York’s misses (the future James II) has given birth to a baby girl. Pepys was very dismissive; “at which I find nobody pleased.” Little did he know that, because the future Queen of England, bobbing somewhere in the Bay of Biscay, was as barren as a moorland, this little girl would grow up to be Mary Stuart, the future Queen of England.

Overdressed

The sun shone all day for the first time in what seems an eternity. People were universally overdressed, sweating profusely into scarves and heavy winter coats on the tube this afternoon. They say it won't last, and I'm told there are already thunder storms rolling into Essex and heading our way.  Nathan and I have ended up going  to bed ridiculously late for the past three nights and getting up relatively early. The exhaustion is beginning to take its toll. I have a headache and a funny tummy. I made a start rewriting the requiem today. I'm plainly putting too much pressure on myself, but when you're writing for the Balanescu String Quartet, it's difficult not to feel a tad intimidated! My first album release has to be absolutely perfect, or at least as good as I can make it... Fiona finally handed back the keys for her London flat today and is officially no longer a Londoner, which feels more than a little strange. We toasted her departure with a cup of tea in the local greasy spoon and then waved her on her way to Brighton. This evening found me putting the Fleet Singers through their paces on the piece I've written for them. They seem to be responding well to the music and they're a terribly friendly bunch, which makes working with them a great treat.  350 years ago, Pepys relieved himself of his official Navy duties to woo and coo at his new lady friends. He took them to the mayor's office to show them the fine presents that were being assembled for the future Queen of England.  Pepys and the doctor took the women back to their lodgings where they played cards and drank until gone midnight. Pepys and the doctor shared a bed that night, gossiping about the women they'd been with, one of whom was "somewhat old and handsome, and painted and fine, and had a very handsome maid with her, which we take to be the marks of a bawd." How awful to be so ludicrously judged. 

Musical theatre brunch

We went to Carol's house today for a musical theatre-style brunch. Carmen, the pint-sized Yankie diva, made delicious American-style pancakes, which were served with bacon and eggs, and strawberries and grilled halloumi.  We watched Broadway shows on DVD, mostly the canon of Stephen Sondheim. Angela Lansbury in the 1979 production of Sweeney Todd was a particular force of nature. I've seldom seen a more extreme, yet remarkable performance.  Nathan started knitting a new pair of socks and I tried my hardest to relax, even though my mind kept flitting to the Arts Council application, trying to weigh up the need to implement two more sets of comments against my need to clear my mind to begin rewrites on the requiem first thing tomorrow.  The sun finally came out this evening, and our drive home from Catford was fairly intense with the wet roads reflecting the blinding sunlight like a giant mirror. We had pizzas for tea, which will be the last trashy food I'm going to eat for a while. Helen kept tapping my belly last night. She was right to; I'm a fat chocolate froozler!  350 years ago, and Pepys and his new doctor friend found a group of tasty young fillies to wine, dine and supply with sweet-meats late into the night. The ladies' lodgings was within the city walls, and one of them was permanently stationed next to a window to keep a watch out for the closure of the city gates. Pepys and the doctor didn't want to get trapped within the  walls all night. I actually find it quite bizarre that the gates were shut and locked in this manner. Perhaps there was a heightened state of security due to the Queen's imminent arrival.