I'm writing this blog on a plane. I don't recall ever having written a blog on a plane before. Perhaps it's an indication that my crippling fear of flying is finally subsiding.
We slept like logs in Emily and Jack's bedroom. It was an immensely cozy, toasty-warm experience. Emily had put little bottles of water on our bed and a series of magazines including one with an article about Kate Bush in it, which I read when I woke up.
We went for a bracing walk in the hills behind their house this morning. The dogs had a wonderful time jumping over fences and running into woods. The walk took us around the edge of a reservoir. On one side of the path, a bubbling stream, the colour of whiskey (or whisky as they spell it in these parts) trickled its way down hill.
There are apparently large wild cats roaming in the area, and at one point we stumbled upon the severed leg of a deer, which, we could only assume was the handy work of a panther or something of that size. I'm told the police are aware of the issue, but tend to try to keep the fuss down to a minimum to avoid terrifying people!
I felt a little sad saying goodbye to our hosts. I don't get the opportunity to see Emily nearly often enough, and this weekend has reminded me that I absolutely adore her...
The taxi back to Inverness Airport took us through Nairn, which looked a great deal more pleasant by daylight. My friend Tammy tells me it's a rather lovely part of the world, and I no longer think she's mad for saying so!
At a certain point on our journey, we officially entered The Highlands, which seemed a little odd because the terrain in these parts is less hilly than you might expect. You can, of course, see the mountains looming large on the horizon; glowing mauve and lavender, and bedecked in wisps and scarves of cloud.
On a number of occasions today we've been presented with a vista which includes a large part of the coast. Up here, it's very possible to get a sense of the geography of Scotland. You can see for miles; right up into that final little land mass of the UK, which leads an intrepid adventurer all the way up to the mystical John O'Groats. It's funny to speculate as to whether this trip would have felt any different if we were travelling into an independent Scotland.
As the afternoon melted into the clouds, the mist started rising from the fields, like giant gossamer table cloths on enormous snooker tables. In The Highlands, all the signs are bi-lingual. The English town names are written in black, and the Gaelic ones appear in Celtic green. I learned today that the Gaelic for airport is "port adhair."
Inverness airport is no bigger than a bus depot. It reminded us both of an American movie lot, with curious hangars and 1950s shacks scattered everywhere. The airport has a little cafe inside which sells homemade food and cakes. It was rather refreshing not to find the clichéd big chains crudely flashing their neon signs at us. What was somewhat less refreshing was the mayhem we encountered at security. The queues of anxious people were snaking through the airport foyer, and, by the time we'd reached our desk, the flight was due to be taking off.
There were all sorts of theories floating around. Fiona, who was travelling back from Edinburgh airport today, had had a similar issue due to some kind of security alert, and, in fact, been forced to abandon ship and make a dash for the train. People in our queue were suggesting that the infrastructure of Inverness Airport wasn't designed to handle the large numbers of flights they schedule on a Sunday evening, others suggested that a large number of fire-arms were being transported by travellers who had spent the weekend hunting in the Highlands.
Nathan was stopped by a ghastly easy-jet employee on the gate and told he wasn't allowed to get on the plane with his hand luggage AND the little man bag he'd slung over his shoulder. If he wanted to board, he'd have to stuff one inside the other, but would need to leave the queue to do so. She got quite hardcore about it in her nasty, whiny Scottish way. Meanwhile, a series of obese women walked though the gate hiding their handbags in coats and enormous rolls of fat. Sometimes I hate budget airlines!
As we boarded the plane, we were greeted by a spectacular sunset of orange, pink and red, a spume of black smoke from an industrial chimney cutting into the bands of colour like a giant silhouetted Mr Whippy!
As we flew South, the right hand side of the plane was treated to the sight of a sky which genuinely looked like it was on fire. Sometimes I'm astonished by the beauty and magic of nature.
Sunday, 30 November 2014
Saturday, 29 November 2014
Elgin
We're currently sitting in Emily and Jack's house, on a hillside above a very charming little Northern Scottish town called Elgin. I'm reliably informed we're in a county called Moray. Who'd've thought?!
We stayed in a lovely B and B last night which is run by two former professional figure skaters. It was an absolute delight to spend an evening chatting to them whilst sipping Scottish whiskey. We actually had a number of people in common, including Colin Retushniak, a Canadian skater who happened to work as a producer on Our Gay Wedding: The Musical.
We opened the curtains this morning and were greeted by a view of moorland, farmland, pine woods and distant glowing mountains. The area is really rather quirky because it's filled with army and RAF bases. In the dell of one of the hills, a load of aeroplanes and hangars were poking through the mist.
Today's lecture went incredibly well. Gordonstoun School is situated in stunning grounds. I was expecting a somewhat stuffy institution, possibly ostentatious, with brand-spanking new facilities like the many public schools I've previously visited, and wept over. Instead, we pulled into a rather charming, laid-back, happy kind of place which felt like a sort of wonderful 1950s holiday camp.
We delivered our lecture in a little hall to about 200 sixth formers, who were hugely polite and attentive. We spoke for about an hour without incident, but for a tiny technical mess-up which meant we had to ditch one of our film clips.
Afterwards, a group of LGBT kids from the school came and chatted to us, one of whom was a young girl from Hong Kong. She'll be a wonderful ambassador for LGBT rights when she returns to her home country. Actually, I felt that about all the kids we met today, who come from countries all around the world. Many of them will be future leaders and ambassadors, and will hopefully return home with enlightened attitudes.
Over lunch, a young Russian lad came to talk to us, wanting to take issue with us for criticising his country's anti-gay laws. "The laws" he claimed, "aren't homophobic, they are there to protect straight people from being converted." We tried to argue with him, but his eyes glazed over like a Born Again Christian. With any luck, during his time at the school, a more enlightened attitude will slowly embed itself in him, but his aloof, almost arrogant self-belief made me realise what a steep uphill climb LGBT people in other nations will have on their journey to equality.
One of the Indian students at the school told us his cousin had come out as gay, and subsequently disappeared, which was deeply chilling.
After lunch, Jack, who is the head of drama at the school, took us on a tour of the site. The high point was almost definitely the extraordinary "round square" and entirely circular 17th century building with an entirely circular courtyard within. If you stand by a stone in the very centre of the courtyard, an extraordinary acoustic effect rings out; a curious tinny echo, the like of which I've never heard. There's actually a smaller stone, which sits on the larger one, specifically so that you can strike one with the other to make a noise to test the acoustic. Brilliant.
We walked around the edge of the grounds, along the "silent walk" and to a beautiful little school chapel in a little copse. It's so odd to think that this is the school of most members of the royal family... A school of kings, and princes and dukes... And yet, humble somehow.
Jack took us back to his little farmhouse, through Elgin and past all manner of curios, like a deer farm with hundreds of the animals peering out from a hay barn.
The house is absolutely fabulous. We sat and ate cous-cous with Emily and Jack's polite, witty and highly intelligent children, in front of the wood burning stove, whilst one of their dogs ran in circles in front of us like something from a brilliant comedy drama. A perfect day.
We stayed in a lovely B and B last night which is run by two former professional figure skaters. It was an absolute delight to spend an evening chatting to them whilst sipping Scottish whiskey. We actually had a number of people in common, including Colin Retushniak, a Canadian skater who happened to work as a producer on Our Gay Wedding: The Musical.
We opened the curtains this morning and were greeted by a view of moorland, farmland, pine woods and distant glowing mountains. The area is really rather quirky because it's filled with army and RAF bases. In the dell of one of the hills, a load of aeroplanes and hangars were poking through the mist.
Today's lecture went incredibly well. Gordonstoun School is situated in stunning grounds. I was expecting a somewhat stuffy institution, possibly ostentatious, with brand-spanking new facilities like the many public schools I've previously visited, and wept over. Instead, we pulled into a rather charming, laid-back, happy kind of place which felt like a sort of wonderful 1950s holiday camp.
We delivered our lecture in a little hall to about 200 sixth formers, who were hugely polite and attentive. We spoke for about an hour without incident, but for a tiny technical mess-up which meant we had to ditch one of our film clips.
Afterwards, a group of LGBT kids from the school came and chatted to us, one of whom was a young girl from Hong Kong. She'll be a wonderful ambassador for LGBT rights when she returns to her home country. Actually, I felt that about all the kids we met today, who come from countries all around the world. Many of them will be future leaders and ambassadors, and will hopefully return home with enlightened attitudes.
Over lunch, a young Russian lad came to talk to us, wanting to take issue with us for criticising his country's anti-gay laws. "The laws" he claimed, "aren't homophobic, they are there to protect straight people from being converted." We tried to argue with him, but his eyes glazed over like a Born Again Christian. With any luck, during his time at the school, a more enlightened attitude will slowly embed itself in him, but his aloof, almost arrogant self-belief made me realise what a steep uphill climb LGBT people in other nations will have on their journey to equality.
One of the Indian students at the school told us his cousin had come out as gay, and subsequently disappeared, which was deeply chilling.
After lunch, Jack, who is the head of drama at the school, took us on a tour of the site. The high point was almost definitely the extraordinary "round square" and entirely circular 17th century building with an entirely circular courtyard within. If you stand by a stone in the very centre of the courtyard, an extraordinary acoustic effect rings out; a curious tinny echo, the like of which I've never heard. There's actually a smaller stone, which sits on the larger one, specifically so that you can strike one with the other to make a noise to test the acoustic. Brilliant.
We walked around the edge of the grounds, along the "silent walk" and to a beautiful little school chapel in a little copse. It's so odd to think that this is the school of most members of the royal family... A school of kings, and princes and dukes... And yet, humble somehow.
Jack took us back to his little farmhouse, through Elgin and past all manner of curios, like a deer farm with hundreds of the animals peering out from a hay barn.
The house is absolutely fabulous. We sat and ate cous-cous with Emily and Jack's polite, witty and highly intelligent children, in front of the wood burning stove, whilst one of their dogs ran in circles in front of us like something from a brilliant comedy drama. A perfect day.
Friday, 28 November 2014
Yesterday's blog!
Heavens! This is actually yesterday's blog, which I wrote and then forgot to post! Reading this first will make a great deal more sense of the first paragraph of tonight's installment!! Call it a double bill!
The tree outside the kitchen window was full of great tits this morning. There's genuinely no way to write that sentence without it sounding ridiculously comic, but it was a lovely sight to see them hopping about. That particular tree is always one of the last to lose its leaves in the winter, so at this time of year it's filled with wildlife.
I went to the gym at lunchtime and then sat writing in a cafe in Kentish Town whilst Nathan knitted a cowl. One of Kentish Town's nutters was on the prowl. I remember her from the days I lived on Fortess Road. She's a deeply curious character. Older; maybe 60 or 70, and black, but always with enormous red cheeks which she paints on with lipstick. She's really posh, in a completely English way, which shouldn't seem strange, but, for a black woman of her age, particularly one who's plainly not exactly had the best life, it's all rather intriguing.
Back in the day, this particular woman used to walk into all the cafés in the area, order a plate of food, eat it, and then tell the cafe owners she wasn't prepared to pay because the standards of hygiene in the cafe weren't what she expected. She'd then flounce out, with the cafe owner spitting blood in her direction!
Her only problem with flouncing out of anywhere was that she could never open a door herself, one assumes because of possible germs on the door handle. So she'd hover by the door, asking in an incredibly loud voice for one of the other cafe customers to open the door for her. All rather comic.
Today she was on a tirade against internet porn. Her friend was looking at porn on his phone without any sense of irony or embarrassment. For some reason she felt the need to tell the entire cafe what he was doing, and yet he continued to do so. It was all rather surreal. Particularly when the woman asked if she could then make a phone call on the offending handset!
We went to buy some bits and bobs in the Sainsbury's Local on Kentish Town High Street, and it suddenly struck me that whenever I visit a Sainsbury's store, regardless of its size, I feel bitterly disappointed at its selection of vegetarian food. There's always meat and fish hanging from the rafters, but you'll be lucky to find a Linda McCartney sausage, let alone something like a vegetable pie or a nut roast!
When I last complained to Sainsbury's via twitter, some ghastly woman from Tufnell Park spotted my tweet and mocked me for having "First World problems," to which I responded, "if considerably more of the First World turned vegetarian, there would be considerably fewer THIRD world problems!"
Still, as we exited Sainsbury's clutching my tragic little box of veggie sausages, the Christmas tree in the window filled me with a little, rather tragic rush of joy.
I came home and worked, worked, worked, delivering the final bars of music to the Fleet Singers at 10.30pm, which means I can go up to Scotland with a clear head, and start properly planning the Brass and Oranges and Lemons recording sessions first thing Monday.
The tree outside the kitchen window was full of great tits this morning. There's genuinely no way to write that sentence without it sounding ridiculously comic, but it was a lovely sight to see them hopping about. That particular tree is always one of the last to lose its leaves in the winter, so at this time of year it's filled with wildlife.
I went to the gym at lunchtime and then sat writing in a cafe in Kentish Town whilst Nathan knitted a cowl. One of Kentish Town's nutters was on the prowl. I remember her from the days I lived on Fortess Road. She's a deeply curious character. Older; maybe 60 or 70, and black, but always with enormous red cheeks which she paints on with lipstick. She's really posh, in a completely English way, which shouldn't seem strange, but, for a black woman of her age, particularly one who's plainly not exactly had the best life, it's all rather intriguing.
Back in the day, this particular woman used to walk into all the cafés in the area, order a plate of food, eat it, and then tell the cafe owners she wasn't prepared to pay because the standards of hygiene in the cafe weren't what she expected. She'd then flounce out, with the cafe owner spitting blood in her direction!
Her only problem with flouncing out of anywhere was that she could never open a door herself, one assumes because of possible germs on the door handle. So she'd hover by the door, asking in an incredibly loud voice for one of the other cafe customers to open the door for her. All rather comic.
Today she was on a tirade against internet porn. Her friend was looking at porn on his phone without any sense of irony or embarrassment. For some reason she felt the need to tell the entire cafe what he was doing, and yet he continued to do so. It was all rather surreal. Particularly when the woman asked if she could then make a phone call on the offending handset!
We went to buy some bits and bobs in the Sainsbury's Local on Kentish Town High Street, and it suddenly struck me that whenever I visit a Sainsbury's store, regardless of its size, I feel bitterly disappointed at its selection of vegetarian food. There's always meat and fish hanging from the rafters, but you'll be lucky to find a Linda McCartney sausage, let alone something like a vegetable pie or a nut roast!
When I last complained to Sainsbury's via twitter, some ghastly woman from Tufnell Park spotted my tweet and mocked me for having "First World problems," to which I responded, "if considerably more of the First World turned vegetarian, there would be considerably fewer THIRD world problems!"
Still, as we exited Sainsbury's clutching my tragic little box of veggie sausages, the Christmas tree in the window filled me with a little, rather tragic rush of joy.
I came home and worked, worked, worked, delivering the final bars of music to the Fleet Singers at 10.30pm, which means I can go up to Scotland with a clear head, and start properly planning the Brass and Oranges and Lemons recording sessions first thing Monday.
A town called Nairn
I woke up this morning to discover that almost every leaf had fallen off the tree outside our kitchen window in the night. It was the most surreal sight. Yesterday, it was a playground for little birds, today it looked like a giant piece of tumbleweed! A sad-looking magpie sat on one of its branches, no doubt wondering where his supper had gone!
I was like a machine today. I had a twenty-point list of things to do, which included a large amount of admin, booking studios, tidying the house, paying in cheques, writing thank you emails and a visit to the gym. And I ticked them all off one by one. I felt an enormous sense of achievement. Once an hour, I stopped to run through tomorrow's lecture. I'm afraid I'm one of those people who can leave nothing to chance. If I'm unprepared, and there's any elements of performance involved, I will instantly and completely fall apart when confronted with an audience. I don't know what it is that makes me entirely freak out in front of large groups of people. I often have to pretend to be someone else to overcome my acute shyness. No one ever believes me when I say that!
I stood waiting for Nathan at Victoria Station in the middle of rush hour. Trains were coming in and out of the station like a badly written fugue. At one stage two electronic announcements sounded simultaneously - and I was standing directly in the middle - they were advertising different trains, but the information was otherwise the same. They phased like an early Reich composition.
I'm currently in Scotland, in a taxi heading on the A96 from the minuscule Inverness Airport through the moors to Gordonstoun School. At least, I assume we're heading through moors, largely because we're in Scotland. It's pitch black outside but for the odd transport cafe and an eerily-lit bus shelter or hay barn.
We've just passed through a town called Nairn, which seemed to be a giant council estate with a garage in the middle, and, of course a ubiquitous Co-op. There's always a Co-op in a council estate, and it never seems to stock fresh fruit or vegetables!
The flight here felt completely unnecessary. I hate flying, and to make matters worse, the woman sitting behind me was totally freaking out whilst smoking an electronic cigarette! It was all a bit random, particularly when we realised it was actually her children who were trying to calm her down.
To make things more surreal, because we've just got off a plane, my subconscious is telling me I'm in a foreign country, which, in a funny sort of way, I guess I am. The very North of Scotland is so remote that it feels unlike the rest of the UK, somehow. Quite how, I've not yet worked out. Perhaps when it's light tomorrow, I'll have a better idea.
I was like a machine today. I had a twenty-point list of things to do, which included a large amount of admin, booking studios, tidying the house, paying in cheques, writing thank you emails and a visit to the gym. And I ticked them all off one by one. I felt an enormous sense of achievement. Once an hour, I stopped to run through tomorrow's lecture. I'm afraid I'm one of those people who can leave nothing to chance. If I'm unprepared, and there's any elements of performance involved, I will instantly and completely fall apart when confronted with an audience. I don't know what it is that makes me entirely freak out in front of large groups of people. I often have to pretend to be someone else to overcome my acute shyness. No one ever believes me when I say that!
I stood waiting for Nathan at Victoria Station in the middle of rush hour. Trains were coming in and out of the station like a badly written fugue. At one stage two electronic announcements sounded simultaneously - and I was standing directly in the middle - they were advertising different trains, but the information was otherwise the same. They phased like an early Reich composition.
I'm currently in Scotland, in a taxi heading on the A96 from the minuscule Inverness Airport through the moors to Gordonstoun School. At least, I assume we're heading through moors, largely because we're in Scotland. It's pitch black outside but for the odd transport cafe and an eerily-lit bus shelter or hay barn.
We've just passed through a town called Nairn, which seemed to be a giant council estate with a garage in the middle, and, of course a ubiquitous Co-op. There's always a Co-op in a council estate, and it never seems to stock fresh fruit or vegetables!
The flight here felt completely unnecessary. I hate flying, and to make matters worse, the woman sitting behind me was totally freaking out whilst smoking an electronic cigarette! It was all a bit random, particularly when we realised it was actually her children who were trying to calm her down.
To make things more surreal, because we've just got off a plane, my subconscious is telling me I'm in a foreign country, which, in a funny sort of way, I guess I am. The very North of Scotland is so remote that it feels unlike the rest of the UK, somehow. Quite how, I've not yet worked out. Perhaps when it's light tomorrow, I'll have a better idea.
Wednesday, 26 November 2014
Foh pas
I woke up this morning and looked out the window to see epic blue mists swirling around the trees above the tube. The street lights were still on. Everything looked a little surreal and somewhat magical. But after a few minutes I started to feel sad. I'm not sure I like the winter very much.
My mood was lifted when I went downstairs to find two letters on the doormat, one with a generous "Brass for Brass" cheque inside from Llio's Mum, Silvia, and the other with a cheque in it which will basically pay for the mixing of "Oranges and Lemons," which the Rebel Chorus are going to record on January 11th. The latter came from Michael Smith, whose generosity to the Rebel Chorus has been beyond extraordinary. This particular cheque means I can relax, and we're now just one fundraising event short of being able to release our Pepys Motet CD! Hurrah! How lucky do I feel to have people like Silvia and Michael in my life? And how lucky do I feel to be recording two albums in January?!
...I dunno, you wait years for a recording and then two come along at the same time!
I worked through the morning, before heading to Paddington to meet Fiona off a train from Bristol. I know, right? Paddington! Old School! It's a horrible place as well. We had to leave the station to find anything to decent to eat, heading out onto whichever high street Paddington Station is on, finding a lovely little cafe where the staff did their best to make us feel like complete and utter freaks. By the time we left, we'd decided a lot of stuff was getting lost in translation, because when you ask for the bill in a cafe, you don't necessarily expect them to look at you like you've just asked them to remove all their clothes!
I met Nathan for a second lunch in Soho. I've decided to experiment with eating four small meals a day to try and ride my tendency to go up and down like a yoyo depending on the levels of sugar in my system, so I had two salads... (And a cheeky bowl of chips with Fiona.)
I had my hair cut on Old Compton Street by an Italian bear. Having one's hair cut is a bizarre experience because it gives you the opportunity to really examine yourself. What else are you going to do when faced with an enormous mirror, even if you're someone like me who tends to avoid mirrors whenever possible? Anyway, I had a good gander at myself, and deduced that my skin looked alright but that I wasn't too impressed by the double chin, or the grey streaks of hair in my fringe, which I initially mistook for dandruff! Ageing is a funny old process. I watched another hairdresser, an Italian, I think, and thought how my hair used to look like his; all thick, black, lustrous and curly. These days my hair is almost entirely straight and thin. What I wouldn't have given to have straight hair as a teenager. What I wouldn't give right now to have my curls back! At one point, my Spanish bear stuck a brush into my scalp and started blowing it with a hot hairdryer. It suddenly struck me what he was doing... Trying to get some volume into my hair! I died a quiet death!
Nathan returned from work armed with an amusing anecdote. They have a new front of house staff member at the theatre who works on the merchandise stall. She happens to be of South East Asian extraction and is, by all accounts, charming. So charming, in fact, that a member of the public went up to the theatre manager to say what wonderful service she'd had from "that lovely girl, Foh." The theatre manager was perplexed. "Foh?" "Yes," said the woman "Foh. The little Asian girl on the merchandise stall. Her surname is Staff... Foh Staff. It says so on her badge." The name badge was actually the same one that all the other ushers were wearing. FOH Staff. Front of house staff!
My mood was lifted when I went downstairs to find two letters on the doormat, one with a generous "Brass for Brass" cheque inside from Llio's Mum, Silvia, and the other with a cheque in it which will basically pay for the mixing of "Oranges and Lemons," which the Rebel Chorus are going to record on January 11th. The latter came from Michael Smith, whose generosity to the Rebel Chorus has been beyond extraordinary. This particular cheque means I can relax, and we're now just one fundraising event short of being able to release our Pepys Motet CD! Hurrah! How lucky do I feel to have people like Silvia and Michael in my life? And how lucky do I feel to be recording two albums in January?!
...I dunno, you wait years for a recording and then two come along at the same time!
I worked through the morning, before heading to Paddington to meet Fiona off a train from Bristol. I know, right? Paddington! Old School! It's a horrible place as well. We had to leave the station to find anything to decent to eat, heading out onto whichever high street Paddington Station is on, finding a lovely little cafe where the staff did their best to make us feel like complete and utter freaks. By the time we left, we'd decided a lot of stuff was getting lost in translation, because when you ask for the bill in a cafe, you don't necessarily expect them to look at you like you've just asked them to remove all their clothes!
I met Nathan for a second lunch in Soho. I've decided to experiment with eating four small meals a day to try and ride my tendency to go up and down like a yoyo depending on the levels of sugar in my system, so I had two salads... (And a cheeky bowl of chips with Fiona.)
I had my hair cut on Old Compton Street by an Italian bear. Having one's hair cut is a bizarre experience because it gives you the opportunity to really examine yourself. What else are you going to do when faced with an enormous mirror, even if you're someone like me who tends to avoid mirrors whenever possible? Anyway, I had a good gander at myself, and deduced that my skin looked alright but that I wasn't too impressed by the double chin, or the grey streaks of hair in my fringe, which I initially mistook for dandruff! Ageing is a funny old process. I watched another hairdresser, an Italian, I think, and thought how my hair used to look like his; all thick, black, lustrous and curly. These days my hair is almost entirely straight and thin. What I wouldn't have given to have straight hair as a teenager. What I wouldn't give right now to have my curls back! At one point, my Spanish bear stuck a brush into my scalp and started blowing it with a hot hairdryer. It suddenly struck me what he was doing... Trying to get some volume into my hair! I died a quiet death!
Nathan returned from work armed with an amusing anecdote. They have a new front of house staff member at the theatre who works on the merchandise stall. She happens to be of South East Asian extraction and is, by all accounts, charming. So charming, in fact, that a member of the public went up to the theatre manager to say what wonderful service she'd had from "that lovely girl, Foh." The theatre manager was perplexed. "Foh?" "Yes," said the woman "Foh. The little Asian girl on the merchandise stall. Her surname is Staff... Foh Staff. It says so on her badge." The name badge was actually the same one that all the other ushers were wearing. FOH Staff. Front of house staff!
Tuesday, 25 November 2014
Lethargy
I woke up this morning feeling an almost complete lack of motivation, and had to give myself a stern talking to at about 10am when I'd achieved nothing but watching two episodes of the Big Bang Theory!
I spent the morning working on The Man In the Straw Hat, and then the afternoon and evening writing my lecture for the kids at Gordonstoun School. We're calling it: "Should real people sing - the journey to Our Gay Wedding." It feels rather remarkable to be going into a top private school, which will no doubt be filled with future prime ministers and business leaders, to talk openly about a gay wedding. When I was at school, Clause 28 meant that homosexuality couldn't even be discussed by teachers. What an astonishing amount of progress we've made in just 25 years. I feel very proud to be British. If Nathan and I went into a school in Russia and delivered the same lecture, we would instantly be arrested...
A woman on the television appears to be cooking a lobster at the moment. She's repeatedly hitting a claw with hammer and the claw is shattering into thousands of pieces. I genuinely can't understand how this can be considered as food. I have never eaten shell-fish. I can't really imagine how it must taste. I last ate meat at the age of seven, and think I can remember the texture and possible taste of chicken, bacon, sausages, fish fingers and tins of mince meat. I get some of those flavours muddled up with halloumi cheese nowadays, which I've always insisted tastes just like bacon, much to Nathan's great annoyance.
We're now watching Sue Perkins travelling up the Mekong River, in what's shaping up to be a rather enjoyable documentary. She's incredibly charming. In fact, I think she's fast becoming a national treasure. She is, however, having to eat lots of fish with the people she's meeting. I'd be useless doing her job...
I spent the morning working on The Man In the Straw Hat, and then the afternoon and evening writing my lecture for the kids at Gordonstoun School. We're calling it: "Should real people sing - the journey to Our Gay Wedding." It feels rather remarkable to be going into a top private school, which will no doubt be filled with future prime ministers and business leaders, to talk openly about a gay wedding. When I was at school, Clause 28 meant that homosexuality couldn't even be discussed by teachers. What an astonishing amount of progress we've made in just 25 years. I feel very proud to be British. If Nathan and I went into a school in Russia and delivered the same lecture, we would instantly be arrested...
A woman on the television appears to be cooking a lobster at the moment. She's repeatedly hitting a claw with hammer and the claw is shattering into thousands of pieces. I genuinely can't understand how this can be considered as food. I have never eaten shell-fish. I can't really imagine how it must taste. I last ate meat at the age of seven, and think I can remember the texture and possible taste of chicken, bacon, sausages, fish fingers and tins of mince meat. I get some of those flavours muddled up with halloumi cheese nowadays, which I've always insisted tastes just like bacon, much to Nathan's great annoyance.
We're now watching Sue Perkins travelling up the Mekong River, in what's shaping up to be a rather enjoyable documentary. She's incredibly charming. In fact, I think she's fast becoming a national treasure. She is, however, having to eat lots of fish with the people she's meeting. I'd be useless doing her job...
Editing films
We've spent most of this evening editing together clips from the various films I've made over the past ten or so years. We're taking them to Scotland on Friday night. Nathan and I are delivering a lecture at the prestigious Gordonstoun School, which is tucked so far away in the wilds of next-to-nowhere that we have to get there via plane, train and taxi.
Someone from my junior school has posted a class photograph on Facebook. It comes from the fourth year, when we were mostly 10 years old and it's lead to pages of memories about trips, and school songs and kids who could turn their eyelids inside out. I've learned some interesting facts about my former class mates. One of them, for example, is a pro darts player, ranked 50th in the world, which I consider to be really rather impressive. He has a darts player's nick-name and everything! And a page on Wikipedia!
We continue to try and organise everyone's diaries for the cast recording of Brass. It's becoming an absolute nightmare trying to get players and singers to commit to a series of dates. I got so stressed thinking about it earlier that Nathan had to drag me for a walk around the block.
It was freezing outside. We walked down Wood Lane and through Queen's Wood, along the path which looks like something from Narnia. The pavement was covered in a thick layer of brown and orange autumn leaves, which had been rained on, so under lamp light they looked shiny, like tiles of polished brass and copper.
Most of the parked cars we passed were covered in frost, the first frost of the season. Heaven knows how cold it's going to be in Scotland!
Someone from my junior school has posted a class photograph on Facebook. It comes from the fourth year, when we were mostly 10 years old and it's lead to pages of memories about trips, and school songs and kids who could turn their eyelids inside out. I've learned some interesting facts about my former class mates. One of them, for example, is a pro darts player, ranked 50th in the world, which I consider to be really rather impressive. He has a darts player's nick-name and everything! And a page on Wikipedia!
We continue to try and organise everyone's diaries for the cast recording of Brass. It's becoming an absolute nightmare trying to get players and singers to commit to a series of dates. I got so stressed thinking about it earlier that Nathan had to drag me for a walk around the block.
It was freezing outside. We walked down Wood Lane and through Queen's Wood, along the path which looks like something from Narnia. The pavement was covered in a thick layer of brown and orange autumn leaves, which had been rained on, so under lamp light they looked shiny, like tiles of polished brass and copper.
Most of the parked cars we passed were covered in frost, the first frost of the season. Heaven knows how cold it's going to be in Scotland!
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