Ellen Taylor

I discovered that more things had mysteriously gone missing last night, and lay in bed, tossing and turning, wondering where on earth I'd put them. Proof positive that I need to get my life in order, and fast. 

I took myself to the library at Cecil Sharp House this morning, which is basically the beating heart of the British Folk scene. I wanted to track down some folk melodies about, or from, villages along the Thames, and almost as soon as I'd walked in, the incredibly helpful and knowledgeable librarian handed me a book called "Folk Songs from the Upper Thames," which had been collected before the Great War and published in the early 1920s. The collector, one Mr Williams, had done his bit for King and Country in the meantime and seemed rather apologetic about the fact!  

Williams had written an interesting and unpretentious essay at the start of the book, outlining how he'd convinced a number of suspicious elders in villages along the Thames to share the precious songs which had been passed down from their grandmothers. Money occasionally exchanged hands, but more often than not it was down to patience. 

He also wrote about how folksongs often falsely claim to be geographically specific, as is the case with Scarborough Fair, which is actually a Scottish melody. In crude terms, a travelling balladeer was more likely to sell sheet music for a song which mentioned a town close to where he was plying his trade than he was with a song about an alien world. So Whitby in a Yorkshire melody would be crossed out and replaced with Witney for the good folk of Oxfordshire. 

Those who know me well will know I have a dear friend called Ellen Taylor who used to live in Finsbury Park (Islington) and recently moved to Manchester to write episodes of Coronation Street. Imagine my surprise when I found the following folk song nestling in the book:

All around the room I waltzed with Ellen Taylor,

All around the room, I waltzed till break of day;

And ever since that time I've done nothing but bewail her,

For she's gone to Manchester the summer months to stay. 

'Twas at a ball at Islington, I first did chance to meet her... etc

How bizarre is that? 

We went to Reading in the late afternoon. This isn't part of the folk song. This is fact. Our good friend Ian is playing the baddie in a production of Beauty and the Beast with the wonderfully preserved Vicky Michelle from the iconic Allo Allo. We had a lovely chat afterwards. She's very gracious. 

I love a good panto, but felt incredibly uncomfortable sitting in an audience filled with Mummys and Daddys with no child of my own. The woman who sat down next to me gave me a proper once over with her eyes and I immediately felt like I'd done something wrong. 

A rather intense smell of vodka started wafting towards me from her general direction, and for a moment I started feeling incredibly uncomfortable until I realised I was experiencing the remarkably similar smell of hand sanitizer! Before long the entire auditorium was smelling of the stuff...

Reading feels like a rather unpleasant place; all concrete, yellow 80s bricks and bargain stores like Wilkinson and Matalan. The 99p store sits next to The Pound Shop. I'm serious. I wondered how many people would diss the latter because it was too expensive!?

I spoke to one of the actors afterwards who was incredibly opinionated about the subject, urging me to always use the Pound Shop. "That extra penny," he said, "buys you the better brands..."

Missing

Over the last few days I've not been able to find almost anything I've been looking for. From library cards and newspaper cuttings to iPods, everything seems to be disappearing, There must be some sort of universe-led reason for this. That, or it's my subconscious playing tricks on me. 

After giving it much thought, I've decided things are going missing on account of my head and house being full of crap. There are piles of paper, piles of photographs, piles of receipts, piles of cardboard almost everywhere I look, and they need to go. My mind cannot deal with any more knick-knacks, or keep sakes, or piles of things I'm wanting to recycle or take to a charity shop. So 2013 is beginning with the mother of all clear outs. Basically unless it's got a use, or a huge significance, it's going in a bin.

I have already chucked out four full bin liners and I've only just begun! 

Today started at Colindale newspaper library amongst the reels of microfiche. I love that place, and always feel about 70% more intelligent after a visit. I like rubbing shoulders with men who wear their chino trousers too high in the waste and woman with unruly hair and sensible shoes. 

The library smells a bit like a junior school hall; a hint of dust, a hint of Dettol, a hint of mushy pea. 

I was doing research about the Thames, looking at the reporting of key moments like the visit of the whale in 2006, and the great floods of 1928 and 1953. in 1928, for example, 15 people in Westminster drowned in their basements! The news reporting goes from "what a curious sight" to "Jesus, people still live like this?"

We went back to the gym in the afternoon. It made me itch. I'm that unfit! I can't wait to get back into a proper health and fitness groove. I feel really zingy this evening as a result of the exercise. I shall sleep well.

Bring on 2013! 

What, no food?

We went to Julie Clare’s house last night with David from the choir, Meriel and her little dog Berry. It was a wonderfully relaxed, quiet evening. We played silly games and ate an obscene amount of food, which included the most supreme chocolate roulade, courtesy of Julie. At midnight we switched the telly on, and watched the fireworks in central London with the volume switched off whilst singing along to ABBA’s “Happy New Year.” Perfect.

We must have left at about 2.30am, our stomachs full to bursting, and today, Meriel, Nathan and I went to Hampstead Heath. I wrote a tweet to say that it was the perfect thing to do on a New Year’s Day, and received a response from someone actually tweeting as Hampstead Heath! “It’s worked for me for a thousand years” said Mr Hampstead Heath, “me too,” I replied, “have you seen Hampstead Heath: The Musical?” “Seen it” came the response, “I’m in every scene y’know...” I stopped tweeting at that point. Interacting with someone claiming to be the personification of a North London Park felt too surreal for words!

We returned from the Heath via Highgate village and spent an hour walking from pub to pub looking for something to eat for a late lunch. The experience became hell on earth. The place was teaming with people. Every pub we entered was either too full, had stopped serving food, or didn’t accept dogs. We drove into Muswell Hill to find all the cafes closed, baring the curious “Jenny’s”, which is like a sort of cross between an old school Wimpy and a Greasy Spoon. It did the trick, although the food we were offered was deeply limited on account of the place having run out of most ingredients. “You got mushrooms?” “no” “veggie lasagnes?” “no” “veggie burgers?” “no” “can you make an omelette?” “yes... no... wait... lemme check if we have eggs...” All the waitresses were rushing around looking utterly bemused. One of them told me she’s started at 10am and hadn’t had a lunch break. January the 1^st would definitely be the day to launch a restaurant!

Pepys’ Yuletide period was quiet. Christmas in those days was a fairly sedate affair; church, followed by a roasted chicken, plum porridge and mince pies. There was a cold, dry frost on the ground, and Pepys went to the theatre many times, his oaths about cutting back on pleasurable exploits having come to an end. He saw his wife’s former companion, Gosnell with her sisters from a distance on Boxing Day, and, despite the fact that she’d proved to be a proper liability, longed to have her back in the household, really just so that he could sing with her again. Pepys loved music.

Gossip of the day told of a merchant’s house in Lothbury, which had burned down inexplicably and utterly silently in the middle of the night; so silently, in fact, that none of its neighbours noticed anything untoward until the house had almost entirely been razed to the ground with no survivors; not even a cat or a dog.

Elizabeth was upset because she didn’t have a winter gown. The fashion dictated mohair... she only had taffeta.

New Year’s Eve was spent at Whitehall Palace, watching the King, the royals and hangers on, dancing and singing in glorious gowns. How the other half lived in those days.

Feet of clay

It's the last day of 2012, which means I've now been writing a daily blog for exactly 3 years. This feels like quite a milestone, and I'm wondering if there's anyone out there who's read all 1096 entries? 

The 31st December is always best reserved for reflection, and what better way to reflect on a year which has involved huge amounts of both rain and travel than whilst driving on the M11 in a rain storm after visiting Lisa, Mark and Poppy in Huntingdon; the very people who encouraged me to start writing this blog in the first place?

It has been, by all accounts, a remarkable year for me. I've had two BBC films broadcast; Hattersley and 100 Faces (which have to be amongst the best films I've ever made) and witnessed the premier of two major community choral compositions; Ebor Vox in York and the Fleet Singers', Songs About The Weather in Hampstead Town Hall. 

Of course the big focus of 2012 for me was the London Requiem; my first ever album release, the subject of eleven online films and probably  the greatest artistic achievement of my life. The premier of that piece, amongst the Victorian graves of Abney Park cemetery on the one sunny day in September, was one of the most spiritual and emotional experiences of my existence. Furthermore, discovering that a Canadian lady had gone to her mother's bedside the day before she died and played her the Requiem recording is probably one of the greatest honours of my life. Hearing from people who have been touched by your work is about as good as it gets for a composer and many people have written to me this year. 

Apart from being poorer than a church mouse, I genuinely don't have anything to grumble about at the moment. I've travelled to Germany, Italy and Ibiza, I've felt supported, had adventures, intriguing encounters and good health. I've worked with some remarkable people, met Sooty and Sweep, recorded Tanita Tikaram, Maddy Prior and Barbara Windsor, visited Cumbria and Cornwall for the first time (my last two British counties) and strengthened friendships. 

Thank you to every single one of the readers of this blog for being interested enough to read my ramblings over breakfast. I hope you all have a wonderful New Year's Eve and a peaceful, successful, creative, inspiring and loving 2013. Remember life is there to be taken, so if you're miserable, lonely, or dissatisfied, there's only one person in the world who cares enough to put things right. Go shake things up!

"Happy New Year, Happy New Year. May we all have a vision now and then of a world where every neighbour is a friend. 

Happy New Year. Happy New Year. May we all have our hopes, our will to try, if we don't we might as well lay down and die."

Love Benj

Bedknobs

Yet again there's very little going down today. In fact, Nathan and I slept in til past mid day, which is almost student-like behaviour!

Still, all this desperate lethargy is plainly replenishing my energy supplies. I'm feeling a great deal less washed out today and by January 2nd, I reckon I might be ready to take on the world again. 

I watched the whole of Bedknobs and Broomsticks this afternoon, which is a first for me. It's one of those films which I've only ever seen in little chunks. It's a lovely little piece. Heaven knows why it's not yet been turned into a big West End musical. 

We left the house to go to the shops at about 6pm, which means I haven't put my face in daylight for an entire 24-hour period. 

I've spent the rest of the day reading books about the River Thames. Yes, you guessed it, I'm tentatively flexing my muscles for another big project. At the moment it's just thoughts floating about, which I'm trying to pull together. The process of finding funding will come next. I shudder at the thought, but it's a necessary evil. 

Do you think the games makers wash their nasty little orange and purple tops? They're still everywhere, sitting in audiences on every television quiz show, gurning excitedly and waving their arms like imbeciles. I think they must by now be smelling really ripe, but fair play to the clothing designers: if those tops are being regularly washed, they're holding their nasty colours really well! 

Grinding to a halt

I have sort of ground to a halt. I spoke to Fiona in Texas today, who is similarly inert. I think it’s just the end of the year blues. Too much food. Too much excess. Too much driving. Too much conversation. The body is pumping trans-fats, and lack of energy breeds lack of energy.

I got all panicky at the thought of going to the shop downstairs for a loaf of bread. I am perfectly content on the sofa today, sending emails and watching telly. I even saw the start of a Carry On film! That really is an indication of not being able to move!!

There’s genuinely nothing else to say. I am wracking my brains. There’s little in the news, other than that Kate Bush has just become a CBE, which I find thrilling. I don’t know what I think about 23 year-old athletes becoming dames. I understand that they gave us great pleasure this summer, and won the greatest award it’s possible to win in their field, but surely the dame-hood comes when they’ve dedicated the rest of their lives to charity? Kate Winslett is not a dame after winning an Oscar and receiving countless more nominations. A dame-hood is surely the recognition of a life’s work?  

Anyway, I’m plainly not setting the world on fire with this blog... If I had the energy I’d make some tomatoes on toast... but I don’t. If I had the energy, I’d care!

Remember to watch, forward, tweet and like 100 Faces in timefor New Year’s Eve.

 

49

I've done very little today other than sit on the sofa watching telly and eating Quality Streets. I've also been trying to get people to watch our 100 Faces film and must have sent about 800 texts and emails. My absolute dream would be for the piece to go semi-viral in time for New Year's Eve. I think it's the right time for it...

We had lunch with Abbie from the choir today. It was her birthday and she was bedding down for the day in a beautiful pub in one of the old warehouses they've recently done up at King's Cross station. Sam Becker was there and I ate mushrooms on toast. Abbie has recently started knitting and has already been signed up for Craft and Cake.

There is, of course, very little else to say. I came home and did a bit of composing before admitting defeat and hitting the sofa again. I have no energy. None whatsoever. And to add insult to injury, I'm feeling a bit shivery and achy and worrying that I might wake up with some kind of cold.

Right, back to the DVD of Sarah Millican I got for Christmas... 

Friends and family tally this Christmas... 49.