Postcards

7pm. I'm on the south coast, hurtling along on the railway line between West Worthing and Hove. I often find myself doing this route and it always seems to take much longer than it ought to to get from one town to the other. There are all sorts of strange-sounding seaside villages in between; Lancing, Port Slade, Shoreham on Sea. The light is amazing tonight, however. A low sun. Clean air. Everything deep green or gold. 

I've been with PK all day making a start on mixing the Great Fire movement from the Pepys Motet. It's almost impossible to know if it's going to be any good. It's definitely experimental, and quite epic-sounding, but some of the individual performances have left a little to be desired. There's a gaping gulf of difference between knowing how to read music and being spot on in time and in tune to a level which is good enough for a recording. It's intricate music and the slightest bum note is noticeable. Auto-tune has become our friend, and that makes me a little sad. 

Still, I guess the use of computer effects sends us in a new sonic direction, which is potentially much more exciting...

1.30am - I am staying the night with Fiona in Hove. Earlier on, we sat on the beach and watched the sun setting. A group of lads were sitting on the sea wall and were, at one stage, perfectly silhouetted against a giant bright orange sun. 

We had a lovely walk along the sea front and came back to Fiona's flat for pasta and I got to listen to her astonishing "Postcards"; a set of instrumental tracks scored for strings which are inspired by different places around the world. The sea air has made me feel very sleepy, which is nice. I'm hoping for breakfast on the beach in the morning. Perfect. 

Translating Arabic

It was the last day of editing on the White City film today, but I feel restless, largely because I had to leave editor Louise beavering away, so that I could get back home to attend a dinner party which I was supposed to be hosting. Poor Nathan had to do all the cleaning and cooking on his own. 

I really thought I'd be coming away from the edit with a DVD of the film in my hand to watch over a celebratory glass of Ribena, but it wasn't to be. I'm told delayed gratification is almost as pleasing as getting something instantly? 

The process of checking the grade and putting credits on the film seemed to take forever, largely because we're working on such a low-fi computer that every change we made needed to be rendered (consolidated) before we could watch it. We spent much of the day twiddling our fingers, looking at the computer and shouting "hurry up!" 

Still, it's done, and very soon this information will filter into my brain...

The highlight of the day was almost certainly our lengthy quest to translate what Islam the Imam said in the film in Arabic, which we blithely included in the hope that it was a positive message rather than a cheeky a call to burn the pope! The sequence from the film was turned into an MP3 and then a movie file and circulated on Facebook and via email with several frustrating responses. Several people "liked" it, others told me they loved me, some said "I speak Arabic, how can I help?" before vanishing into the cyber ether and Brother Edward helpfully suggested google translate forgetting that it only works when there's some kind of notion of the spelling of the word! I've not yet mastered the Arabic alphabet! 

Eventually, a friend of a friend pointed us to a young Egyptian lad, who dutifully translated, proclaiming excitedly; "this Imam is Egyptian! I can tell by his accent." We spent much of the afternoon (whilst waiting for the computer to catch up) Facebook messaging each other. I was much taken with the thought that he was in Cairo, fighting for democracy. 

Turns out the Imam's words are gracious and wise, "Islam means love, security, love and prosperity" which gives me a warm glow. I sincerely hope that most Muslims feel that this truly is the meaning of their religion. 

Light weight

All this beautiful sunshine, and what have I done all day? Errands... And then waited an unfeasibly long time for a 134 bus to arrive at Highgate station.  It eventually rolled up, all innocent, seemingly unbothered by the fact that its late arrival meant that my carefully planned day had gone to seed! I should have left earlier but didn't realise there were road works on the Archway Road or that they'd decide to change bus drivers on the Junction Road. To make matters worse, a man got on who smelt so bad that I was forced to breathe through my mouth. Every time I forgot and breathed through my nose, I gagged. Why does anyone take the bus these days?!

This morning I had to put the final touches to Rich Mix' bid to enter The London Requiem for the British Composers' Awards. It's incredibly kind of them to put the entry in, but I'm certainly not holding my breath!  So many pieces of my music have been entered for this particular award and I've never even heard back from them, let alone been nominated for something. I suspect the compositions that do well in the competition are much more serious classical works, and relentlessly tuneful "pieces of fluff" like the Requiem probably simply cause the judges to either laugh or implode! 

My music all too often conveniently falls between two stalls, which makes it relatively easy to pass off as "not quite right for the competition/ radio station/ commissioning editor / ensemble!"  The head of music for BBC Wales once described my music as "lightweight," which I found hugely insulting. Perhaps it's not the most academic or complicated music ever written but it packs a serious emotional punch, which hardly makes it lightweight. 

The other issue is that I'm always called upon to provide three copies of my work's score. This is a relatively easy task for short pieces, but the requiem is 50 minutes long, and has a 150-page score, which costs the best part of £50 to photocopy and bind three times. Add to that another tenner to ensure the scores' safe return by post and you're looking at serious money, which is, of course, only justifiable if the work is taken seriously by the judges.

In order to save myself a further tenner, I'm going to take the package in by hand this afternoon. Problem is, I can't remember where Berners Street is. It's one of those streets I feel I ought to know. I'm thinking it's in the Goodge Street/ Charlotte Street area. Or is it down in Soho? Or am I thinking of Brewer Street? Really, I should just look at a map, but that would make me a tourist! 

Wherever it is, I shall be glad to hand it in, as the heat is making me sweat all over it and I don't want the scores inside to smudge! 

Oh the heat

We've just finished another rehearsal with the Fleet Singers. They're a bit low on bases, so Nathan and I have stepped into the breach and are attempting to bring a new energy to the choir's foundation. 

We're slowly getting there, and I think

we're on for a stupendous performance of the piece. St Anne's Church, for the record, at the bottom of Highgate West Hill; 7pm on Saturday 20th. If you possibly can, come! 

The rest of the day has found Nathan and me trying our hardest to move forward whilst the sheer heat has attempted to turn us into melting ice sculptures. 

At one stage in the afternoon we were trying to tidy the sitting room, but all I felt able to do was sit on the sofa staring at the Hoover! 

Even now, in the relative coolness of the evening, we've entered a house which feels like a Turkish sauna. It's astonishingly hot. I sweated more buying fruit in Hampstead than I did at the gym. 

Poor James, the conductor of the choir, was actually soaking wet by the end of the rehearsal. Still, none of us should complain. This is what we all dearly longed for last summer! Mind you, if they start banning hose pipes again, I think I'll burst a gasket! 

I'm too hot to bust a gasket come to think of it. I have to be as still as possible.  

Wimblehuntingdon

We've been in Huntingdon all day, at Lisa and Mark's house, celebrating Poppy's 7 1/2th birthday party. The poor little lass' actual birthday is on December 31st, which makes parties, particularly wonderful garden parties like this, next to impossible. 

The Murray-Djokovic match occupied many of us for the first part of the afternoon. I very much enjoyed seeing it with a large group of people and we were rewarded with something very special. Watching a British man winning Wimbledon for the first time in well over 70 years was definitely a "where were you when...?" moment, and my heart swelled with pride. A number of kids were watching the match with us, obviously with very little idea quite how remarkable the occasion was. 

The searing heat of the day meant that the party very quickly descended into a water fight with water bombs flying all over the place and excited children running in circles in the garden. When the special balloons had all been thrown, we started lobbing jugs of water, and then pretty much anything we could get our hands on. I emptied a plastic cup over Mark's head, and he spun around to reveal that it wasn't actually Mark at all, but one of the other Dads to whom I'd not yet been introduced. Mortifying, really. He looked rather shocked and didn't seem to think it was very funny! 

Later in the day, I talked to Lisa about her new baby's godparents and discovered, to my great joy, that I had been named as Baby George's godfather. George died just a few hours before being born in 2011, and I dedicated the London Requiem to him. Lisa seemed genuinely surprised that I didn't know the honour had been bestowed on me. I feel deeply proud to be looking after his memory on earth. 

Just after we had this conversation, my mother called to say that Janet, the woman in my life who probably most closely fulfils the role of my own godmother, had gone into hospital with cancer, for a second time. All very worrying. 

It's been a day of ups and downs. We stopped off on the way back to London at a service station to use the loo. I pushed a closed cubical door and it immediately swung off its hinge and cracked me hard against my knee. It was quite some thump and I felt it was rather important to report the incident in an accident book in case I woke up the next day with massive swelling. 

The situation become something of a disaster when it transpired that the man who'd been cleaning the loos had also been left in charge of the whole service station. To make matters worse, he was obviously getting himself into something of a panic, wondering if my reporting the incident would get him into trouble for not properly sealing off the door, which he'd obviously known was broken. I could see panic growing in his eyes as his story repeatedly changed. As he walked away, I started to feel guilty and then upset. There was me, the white middle-class man, getting all pompous and "health and safety" with a middle-aged bloke who didn't exactly have the best job in the world, but was obviously more than keen to keep it. I felt like a hideous gorgon and as the man walked away, I'm afraid, I started crying! It was all a bit embarrassing with my Macdonalds meal in front of me. I ran after the man and told him that I was sure my knee was absolutely fine and that I certainly wouldn't be complaining to anyone else. He seemed very relieved and I hope I've saved him from a troubled night. 

Heatwave

We woke up in Thaxted this morning. My parents were having breakfast in the garden with their friends Cootie and Andrew and they seemed to be having wonderful fun. By the time we'd drifted off to sleep and woken up again, my parents' friends had gone, apparently in search of medieval ditches in Saffron Walden, which feels like quite a fun expedition.

Breakfast in the garden wasn't an option for Nathan and me. Nathan's hay-fever reached terrifying levels in the grass meadows around my grandmother's house yesterday evening, and he went to bed with bloodshot, puffy eyes which were streaming with tears, feeling very sorry for himself. 

Still, a heatwave seems to have descended on the country and I'm not complaining for a second. The air is still. The sun is baking down. Everything feels somewhat Spanish. 

We went to Craft and Cake this afternoon and basked in Julie's garden with the next door neighbour's cat, who surely has one paw in the hereafter! I've seldom seen a sadder-looking, mangier, more ancient feline specimen. At one point the poor mite started scratching himself and huge clumps of hair were floating into the ether. He spent most of the afternoon hiding in the long grass. "What's he hiding from?" Asked Julie. "Death!" Said Nathan. 

Nathan vanished at 4pm to do a corporate singing gig in Surrey in a place I seem entirely incapable of remembering. I think it's probably a place called Dorking, but I have no concept of the geography of Surrey and not a great deal of interest in the type of people who live there! 

We were supposed to go from Dorking to Corsham in Wiltshire to rehearse Much Ado About Nothing, but we're also due in Huntingdon tomorrow at 2pm, and the thought of travelling 100 miles to spend 30 minutes rehearsing before driving for two hours again started to make us both panic. Furthermore, I was going to have to drive to Dorking with Nathan this evening and hang around for four hours waiting for Nathan's  corporate event to finish so that we could drive onto Wiltshire together.  Everything started to feel rather ridiculous, so, with heavy heart, we decided we'd have to skip Corsham and promised the director we'd rehearse everyone at a later stage. 

There are some moments when going home and shutting the door on life feel like the only option, and I haven't had any time on my own since my illness last Sunday. Literally, not one second, other than long journeys to the East End and back on the tube, during which time I was surrounded by strangers. I literally feel like I've talked non-stop, and when I've not been talking, conversations have almost perpetually been floating around me. My ears have been raped by useless pieces of information about edit formats, Harding tests, policy decisions and the points of view of people whom I don't know. Even at my Grandmother's grave yesterday, I had to take a lengthy phone call which I'm not sure was that important. As a result of all this, I just want to sit down, throw my shoes off, watch telly and fall asleep knowing I don't have to work, think about White City or even wake up until at least 11am.  

Happy Birthday Grannie Garner

We spent the day today in Warwickshire with my extended family, celebrating the 100th anniversary of the birth of my Grandmother. 

A huge number of my family gathered at her grave in the beautiful village of Stoneleigh to lay flowers, drink warm sweet sherry, eat cherries and play games in the meadow behind the house where she used to live. It was a perfect day. The sun shone constantly. It was a moment in time; a memory unfolding in real time. 

It was so wonderful to think that at least 14 of us had my Grandmother's blood coursing through their veins. That's a very powerful thing. The youngest of the children, Matt's son, Ned, had very little recollection of his Great Grandmother; a milky, misty image of someone which I'm sure could have been triggered or reinforced by a photograph. 

We went to look at High Beams, the house where Grannie lived, and peered through the windows: the same house undoubtedly, but somehow entirely different. I felt like a living cypher as I drifted past the windows. An echo from a bygone cry.

I recorded some of the sounds of the village. The familiar squeak of the gate into the churchyard, the sound of the family playing lawn darts, the sound of the bells chiming 7pm, whilst a single-engine plane buzzed in the sky, making its way from Coventry airport.

We ate at the Harvester for old times' sake. 18 of us around a table with someone representing every decade from teenagers to those in their sixties. 

A prefect, sun-drenched, nostalgic  day. Happy Birthday, Grannie. Gone but never forgotten.