Movement One

I am standing at West Worthing station in the freezing cold. I neglected to bring a coat or scarf with me to East Sussex because I had no idea it could be this cold!

I've been with PK all day today, editing together the first movement of the Pepys Motet, which is very much sponsored by Melodyne (the software which can correct the odd rogue note!) It would be impossible to do something this intricate, fragile, complicated and a'capella without the aid of some kind of tuning device. It very much suits the style of the work, which sits in the bizarre space between classical, pop and electronica, and needs to have a clean, precise sound, which can be manipulated at will.

I'm very pleased with the way things are going. The first movement is the mystical one; filled with the sounds of snow and hollow wind. It sets up the world of Pepys' Diary, which was very much a product of the excitement and panic which followed the interregnum. Would Charles II return to England and accept the throne? Was Oliver Cromwell's son a lunatic?! And what of the year of the devil, 1666? Surely nothing untoward would happen to London during this, most anticipated, date?

We're very much on schedule. My target today was to get half way through the editing process for the first movement. I'd like to have gone slightly faster, if for no other reason than to give PK an evening off, but we're being thorough and that's important.

Heavens! The train's been delayed, and my fingers have turned into blocks of ice. I can barely type into my phone!

Whilst waiting for the West Worthing train at Hove this morning, a train pulled into the West-born platform, heading East to Brighton. I rushed over to the guard to ask whether I'd got confused and was standing on the wrong platform without realising. "No, sir," he said (very politely), "Hove Station is completely reversible." I found this quite an interesting fact and a rather peculiar concept, but instead of nodding my head and saying "how interesting," I pulled a ridiculously camp face and said,  "ooh, get You!"  He plainly had no idea what to say to that. I had no idea how to continue the conversation, so wondered off, mortified.

Interesting though, that a station can be reversible. I can't imagine how that works.

The train has now arrived, but it's a slow train to Hove. That said, it could well take that long simply to warm up! I am not used to being this cold. What is wrong with me, please?

Skating

This cold weather is definitely making me a little ratty. I'm finding myself with little tolerance for people faffing about in tube stations and making illogical choices when walking along the pavements.

The day started ludicrously early. The slight issue with shifting to a more nocturnal existence is that, from time to time, there's an unavoidable early start. This morning it was to go to the osteopath, who pummelled my lower back whilst complimenting me on having the highest pain threshold of anyone he'd ever met. Interesting, I thought.

I went to meet Michelle of the Turkie for lunch at Somerset House, and we treated ourselves to a 40-minute skate in the open air. Perhaps not the most sensible thing to do after a trip to the osteopath - I'm sure I'll wake up in the morning completely unable to move - but we managed to choose the one part of the day when the sun was shining brightly, and we had enormous fun drifting around in circles to the sounds of popular classics!

It's such an odd thing, skating. I haven't done it for years, and was instantly struck by how hard the ice actually is! I subsequently ended up looking like Todd Carty. Michelle, on the other hand, can even skate backwards, which impressed me greatly.

I'm currently in Hove, staying a few nights at Fiona's flat whilst working on the Pepys Motet with PK. Fiona is, of course, somewhere impossibly glamorous with Placebo. Except she's not. She's in Essen, which is, according to her, greyer than Corby! That's some claim! Corby is a proper shit hole. It's also the fastest growing town in the UK. Fact!

I arrived here and immediately took myself for a run. If this cold won't leave me any other way, I'll sweat the bastard out!

I ran from Fiona's all the way to Brighton Pier, forgetting how wondrously easy it is to run on a flat surface with no gradient. Highgate is hill after hill, whichever direction you run in. It was also an absolute treat to jog along the sea front. The sun a distant memory in the Western Sky, the moon reflected on the velvety water, the illuminations flashing. The old pier looked particularly eerie as I ran past, silhouetted against the night sky. I passed the Brighton Conference Centre and doffed an imaginary cap at the place where ABBA won Eurovision. One day I'll stand on that stage!

I've been at Fiona's flat all night, under a lovely blanket, waiting for the storage heaters to get their act together. How long do these things take? What is a storage heater anyway?

Conkers

Ian and Jem came over this afternoon, which gave me a rather lovely focus for an otherwise entirely uneventful day. When they arrived, I suddenly became hugely aware of how freakishly cold the house was, and had to rush around trying to switch heaters on and things.

I'm not sure I understand quite how to change the settings on the boiler, so, for example, I'm almost permanently without hot water at the moment. It's slightly tragic to have to acknowledge that there's at least one thing that your partner always deals with!

Still it was fabulous to see the boys, who are off to the States to get married just before Christmas. I feel envious when I hear of anyone going to New York, but the concept of someone else going to the city at that time of year is almost too much to bare.

Nathan and I have friends who have a wonderful Christmas party in Queens, which we've been lucky enough to attend a number of occasions. Yuletide in the city subsequently feels like OUR New York time, yet I'm desperately trying to imagine when we next might be able to afford to visit. There are people there I miss hugely... And a baby I need to meet for the first time.

New York and London are such similar cities. I do wish immigration laws meant that residents from both cities could simply up sticks and visit  and work in the other place as often as they liked. Nathan and I would love to live in New York for a while.

The rest of the day was spent pottering. I wrote some music. I watched the X Factor and Strictly on catch up. I tried to have a second bath, but the water was cold...

Really, I'm dull as dishwater.

Talking of metaphors, I often use the phrase "as thick as conkers" to describe someone who's maybe not that intelligent. I think it's a family expression, but Nathan always takes the Micky out of me for using it. Does anyone else reading this know of the expression? Is it a Midlands thing?

Second Cherry

We're somewhere in Clerkenwell, in a chi-chi bar, absolutely surrounded by gay men who seem to know more about Eurovision than I do! (I know, impossible, right?)

I'm here with Brother Edward, Sascha, a lady called Sylvia and Michelle (who henceforth shall be known as "Little Michelle" to differentiate her from "Michelle of the Turkie" who I've been meeting for lunches at Somerset House of late. Little Michelle is actually rather tall!)

We're all at an event called "Second Cherry," a celebration of all the songs which finished runner up in their own countries' national finals. Sadly, there's no UK song to vote for, because, as we all know, the public in this country don't get to select their own Eurovision entry these days. Someone at the BBC merely dedicates an afternoon in her busy schedule towards thinking of a few has-beens who might want to subject an incredibly dull song on the rest of Europe.

The aim of Second Cherry is to give us our own mini-Eurovision competition, where we get to judge the songs and create our own juries. We're representing Finland today, which is good because the Finnish song is streaks ahead of the rest. Sadly, it's a ballad, the subtleties of which will no doubt be lost on a room full of poofs who basically want to dance and cheer whenever someone takes an item of clothing off, or a pretty boy winks at the camera! I can say that because I'm gay. And because, much as it pains us to acknowledge the fact, minority stereotypes do exist!

Forest Hill

At 4.30pm this afternoon, I found myself stranded in Forest Hill, which is one of those places in South London which residents justify by saying “it only takes 15 minutes to get to London Bridge,” forgetting that there’s not a person on this planet who actually wants to go to London Bridge! And of course the trains are never quite as regular as residents suggest. Whilst waiting for the bi-hourly Victoria train, I was forced to sit on platform 1 for at least 25 minutes, freezing my nuts off, wishing I were somewhere a little more accessible. The man sitting next to me absolutely stank of vodka. He was plainly so profoundly pickled with the stuff that I could smell him in the open air with quite a breeze blowing.

So what was I doing in Forest Hill, bearing in mind it’s probably 8 years since my good mate, Ellie moved out of her little flat opposite the church there?

I was contacted earlier in the week by a chap called Paul who played the recorder in the Busker Symphony, a film I made for Channel 4 in 2006. We’ve exchanged the odd email since the project was aired, and I knew he was trying to break into photography. Anyway, he asked if he could do a little photo session with me, and I, having never done an official photo shoot before, decided it would be fun.

Perhaps I should have thought more about the shoot; the types of pictures that would be useful to use in the future. I should have brought a big old pad of manuscript paper, for example, but instead I brought a bowler hat. Hmm. I also decided that, for some of the pictures, I might go for a sort of 1920s Charlie Chaplin look. He was, after all, my cousin three times removed. I went into the Chemist shop opposite Highgate Station and thought it might be best to ask the woman behind the counter if she could recommend “something like kohl.” She looked at me rather horrified - “make-up you mean?”- before taking me over to a display and pulling out an eyeliner, which was described as kohl. I took it and thanked her.

As I paid, she said, “it takes all sorts!  Can I get you a handbag as well?” Now, in her defence, I was squirming somewhat about the idea of buying make-up, so she could probably tell it wasn’t a lifestyle choice. But what if it had been? What if I was trans and this was my first voyage into the world of buying make-up? I think the woman’s response would have destroyed every last piece of confidence I had, and I would have instantly melted into a pit of mortification. It’s not often you get a sense of how far we still need to travel in this country before we can call ourselves truly open-minded. The world of trans-sexuality is one we all need to learn about, particularly people who work in the sort of shops that trans people might feel the need to frequent. Chemists are surely at the top of that list.

Anyway, the shoot went well. Paul took all the pictures on old-school film camera from the 1960s, which I very much approved of. It made me a little nostalgic for my own days of taking photographs on film; the days when you actually had to understand the mechanics of photography to be able to take a decent photograph. These days it’s all about trial and error, and serendipity. Back then you really had to know your craft. The same is true of composers. Anyone can buy music writing software and fiddle around until something half-decent emerges... what they won’t realise is WHY is sounds half decent, or implicitly understand how they can make it sound even better. I thank God sometimes for my classical training.

My cold intensified in the night, not helped by the fact that I went up into the freezing cold loft and wrote music until 2 in the morning. I subsequently kept waking up in the night with the most horrific sore throat; probably more intense than any sore throat I’ve ever experienced. Still, by the morning, it had drifted down into my chest, and I’m now in that tickly-productive-cough stage. I think a lot of people are going down with colds and things at the moment, and I thank my lucky stars that the colds I get don’t tend to affect me for long. Quite a lot of my singing friends, and, in fact, my family, get these awful chest infections every time they catch a cold.

The woman opposite me on the train to Victoria was looking at me rather curiously. I almost asked her what her problem was, until I realised I’d probably still got kohl from the shoot all over my eyes. She’d no doubt have thought I was consumptive.

I hit Victoria station in the rush hour, which was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I have never seen so many people crushed into one space. The ticket area at the tube was like nothing on earth, to the extent that I immediately found myself running away. Sadly, there was nowhere to run to. Every corner I turned, I encountered another large group. It was freezing cold. The only slight positive was my happening upon a plaque in the station, marking the spot where the body of the Unknown Soldier, in 1920, had rested the night on its way to Westminster Abbey. I was rather touched that this important location had been marked.

I went with Llio to Ravenscourt Park this evening to see a jazz singer and violinist called Alice Zawadzki, who is, without any question, a genius. She’s a remarkable vocalist, and uses her violin as a kind of support for her voice. The violin never sticks out. She doesn’t do huge epic solos, but sometimes you think one of the other band members is singing harmonies, and then realise she’s actually playing in thirds with herself; the flautando of her violin blending perfectly with her breathy jazz voice. It was an evening of daring rhythms, complex tonality and virtuoso musicianship, and I feel richly rewarded for having witnessed it.

Blue

I’m feeling a little blue today. I’m sure it’s something to do with the weather, missing Nathan, and the fact that I seem to have woken up with a nasty cold. I feel very lethargic and can’t bring myself to get particularly excited about doing anything, in fact, the only thing I want to do is sort of hibernate. I’m struggling my way through towards the end of this draft of Brass, but have lost my mojo a little. It feels like such an extraordinarily high mountain to climb and I’ve lost all objectivity.

I went to the cafe. It was bustling, but no one said anything of any great interest. I came home and spent the afternoon and evening curled up on the sofa writing, with the telly on in the background as my friend!

That is genuinely about as interesting as it gets. As the evening draws on I’m feeling worse and worse, and increasingly ratty, so it’s probably best that I make a dive for my bed and stop whinging! Bring out the hot Ribena!

Metal discs

Hail and thunder woke me up this morning. I was trying to have a little lie-in after sitting up all night writing another song for Brass. I write better late at night, so am not going to start feeling bad about shifting my hours to a slightly more nocturnal regime. It's not like you miss out on wonderful daylight hours at this time of year. Especially bitter, nasty days like today.

I struggled my way down to Hammersmith Town Hall, getting hopelessly wet on my way from Ravenscourt Park Tube, whilst the thunder rumbled in the distance. A poor man was standing outside the hall with a table filled with beautiful autumn vegetables. He was soaking wet and obviously freezing, but he was smiling bravely. I love the Brits sometimes. If there'd been money in my wallet, I'd have bought everything he had for sale.

The screening went well. A good load of people came, and many of them were weeping rather openly at the end. They stayed behind afterwards and we did a little impromptu Q and A session, and I feel I might have slightly insulted one of the council leaders, who, when I urged the group to not ignore the arts as a way of engaging people and bringing happiness to a community, suggested that she hoped I was pleased with the money they'd invested into the Lyric Theatre. Unfortunately I couldn't hold my tongue and reminded her that another well-respected arts institution in the borough, The Riverside Studios, had been condemned, largely, I'm told, because the Tories struck a deal with the Arts Council to remove its funding so that they could develop the land for housing. This, I must point out, is not a fact, but a rumour darting around the area, but it certainly makes you realise that, as Arthur Miller said, "there are wheels within wheels." Any way, I felt a little bad mentioning this to the council lady and I hope she wasn't too embarrassed. I'm sure she's a very great supporter of the Arts. She seemed like a genuinely lovely lady.

I came home via central London to buy manuscript paper, went for a jog in the filthy, freezing cold, did some work on Brass and then ventured back out in sub zero temperatures to see young Abbie and Ian for an evening of pasta and Tori Amos.

Ian brought down an enormous box of letters, belongings and photographs that his Great Grandfather had collected in the First World War, and I spent about 3 hours going through them. Such extraordinary things, the most moving of which was a wallet; the wallet he'd had with him in the trenches. Inside, a lucky rabbit's foot, a tiny badge of St Christopher and a curious circular disc of metal. The men carried their wallets in their breast pockets and the metal discs inside were said to be just enough to protect the heart from a stray bullet. So if the rabbit's foot didn't save you, the flimsy metal might!

There were also books of picture postcards created by enterprising French people, many of which demonstrated the absolute destruction of towns like Amiens. One of them showed images of Albert, the town we stayed in during our recent trip to France, and was filled with photos of the church with its curious statue of the Madonna and child perilously hanging at a 45 degree angle from the very top. It was all fascinating and more than a little moving.

I'm home now, and thought I might do half an hour of composing before bed. I'm hoping the loft isn't too cold!