Power walking

I met an old, very dear friend today for a power walk on Hampstead Heath. Gruelling schedules for us both meant we only had an hour to hang out, so we met at Kentish Town and powered up to the top of Parliament Hill and back down via the men's pond. We even managed a quick cuppa in the cafe. It just shows what you can achieve in an hour if you put your mind to it.

We were incredibly lucky with the weather. It rained all morning, and all evening, but for that hour, the skies cleared, the sun burst through the clouds and the rain on all the trees shimmered like rhinestones.

We talked as fast as we walked, catching up on something like twenty years of memories. She looked well. My beard, I felt, rather self-consciously, must have looked very grey to her. She told me to relax. Her hair was sponsored by Pantene: Same colour as Davina McCall, apparently. My shoes squeaked. I felt a bit odd about that as well. Funny the things that suddenly matter when you haven't seen someone for so long.

We're exact astrological twins. We were both born on August 8th, 1974, so neither of us get to whinge about getting old. We're in it together. She has two children and lives in Wellingborough. She's posh. Her son's friends tell him it's not cool to be posh in Wellingborough. Fortunately she was once spotted shopping in Aldi, which means she's not posh after all.

We talked about the music school in Northamptonshire. We were in the same choir and she told me about a lot of people I hadn't thought about in an age. There was one group of lads at the music school who were older than us. It always seemed to me that they held the world in the palm of their hands. They were startlingly cool. Brilliantly musical. The kind of lads we all assumed would just become fabulous. They'd be leading jazz musicians, or play in rock bands, or become prime ministers.

..It turns out that life was a little cruel to them all and they struggled immensely.

We talked a lot about what it means to come from Northamptonshire, with its slightly inward-looking mentality. I hear so much talk about equality these days, usually in relation to ethnic minorities, but it struck me today, after our little chat, that the most disadvantaged people in this country, aren't necessary the ones who live in sink estates in London... Actually, it's the kids who live in small towns miles away from opportunity, and more crucially, miles away from aspiration. If you live on a London Estate, there's probably a theatre within a mile. There are fancy houses you can look at and say "one day." There are clubs, and initiatives.

If you come from Northamptonshire and you're white, people will assume you're middle class. The accent there isn't easily identifiable so society will assume you're rich. And yet the nearest theatre to where I grew up was 20 miles away. The nearest cinema was five miles away. If it weren't for the music school I would have lived in a cultural vacuum.

If a kid from Northants does well at school, he or she may well get into a university, but straight away (and this definitely happened to me) will find themselves potentially hugely intimidated by what Alison today described as "London confidence." The kids from the cities always seemed to know more about everything. They'd been there, done that, tried that, had that. Their godparents were people like David Jason. Their parents were academics, painters, actors... They talked in slang about things like drugs. They oozed confidence.

The ones who'd been to public schools were even more confident, and even the ones who'd come from London estates had street smarts, which gave them a certain intimidating je ne sais quoi. It would have been extremely easy for me to have gone under and, sadly, it seems that many of my Northamptonshire contemporaries, people far more talented than me, were swallowed up by the system and spat out.

So, actually, if you're looking for people to try to encourage in life, perhaps it's worth occasionally looking to little towns and villages across the country which are sometimes more difficult to escape than any skin colour, poverty-stricken background, gender or sexuality.

Epic fail

Another epic day, which started first thing with a visit to the osteopath. It's been a while since I was last there, and in that time I've endured a fair amount of stress which has led to some serious back issues. The whole of my mid spine had gone into lock down and made a hell of a racket when subjected to some "cavitation" which I prefer to describe as a load of weirdly "popping and clicking."

The procedure had a very odd effect on me. As I walked away from the clinic I got a bit tearful and then, when I went into a local Starbucks, I started laughing hysterically. I asked the woman behind the counter if tea came in a pot and the look she gave me was so odd that it triggered uncontrollable giggles.

I worked in Borough for a few hours before heading to Camden Town to meet Nathan for lunch. I decided to go for a quick pee in the public loos opposite the station, which turned out to be a fairly bad decision. I was feeling quite jolly, so was singing merrily as I skipped down the steps into the loo. Unfortunately, I underestimated the number of steps and fell down the last two, which caused me to lose my balance and land in an ungainly heap about a metre shy of the urinals! Obviously I found the epic fail hysterically funny but the rather dodgy-looking men hanging about in the loo were not amused!

We had a final set of auditions for our mystery project this afternoon at Cecil Sharp House. They went well. I think we all feel very chuffed. I love being in that building. It has such an extraordinary atmosphere. The folk song library in there is my favourite spot to hang out. They have books and books of manuscripts, all edited and compiled by those amazing blokes on bicycles like Butterworth, Sharp and Grainger who toured the country in the early 20th century, transcribing regional folk songs which would otherwise have disappeared for ever. They're my great heroes and it's such a privilege to rifle through their work. Two of the key melodies from A Symphony For Yorkshire were discovered in this process.

From Camden, we headed West to Turnham Green to the hallowed corridors of the Arts Educational School, where a group of recent graduates from the drama school were kind enough to read through the latest draft of our script so that we could hear it in the mouths of actors. It was a hugely worthwhile experience, particularly when, at the end of everything, we were able to get their feedback and find out what they they liked and what they weren't perhaps so sure about. We've not nailed the ending yet. That's for certain. But everything else feels in pretty good shape.

We went to the pub for a debrief after the reading and discussed what we're all going to be doing next week which is a sort of workshop week for the project which we're all getting very excited about. There is, however, a frightening amount of stuff to do between now and then. The difference is, I no longer think it's impossible!

Conveyor belt

We had the lovely pianist, Katharine up in our loft again this morning. That sounds rude doesn't it? I assure you that we were merely working our way through a huge amount of musical material. It was like a production line. I sat to Katharine's right, feeding manuscripts onto the piano's music stand, she played the first few bars, and if it was no good, we'd move onto the next piece... We imagined a little conveyor belt dropping the music into a mini-furnace if it wasn't of a high enough standard. Remember the conveyor belt on the Generation Game? When you look back on the rubbish little things that used to troll along between those curtains, you wonder how on earth we've reached an age where game show contestants can win a million pounds... "A Kenwood Chef... A teas-maid... Crystal champagne glasses... A cuddly toy..." 

I think I'm right in saying that rules were introduced in the seventies and eighties to cap the sorts of prizes people could win on British TV game shows. "Let's have a look at what you could have won!" A Blankety Blank cheque book and pen, that's what!

I got immense cabin fever this evening and took myself down to Kentish Town for a swim in the soon-to-be-dismantled pool at the gym. The mists were swirling rather violently. In fact, I could see so little that I had to unwind all the windows and the fog actually started creeping into the car. I kept seeing long feathery fingers drifting past my face. It was weird. Of course the mist was nothing like as bad down the hill. The weather in Highgate always seems to be a little more extreme than it is in the rest of the city.

Driving down Southwood Lane was like being in a scene from Close Encounters. Periodically a set of headlights from a car heading in the opposite direction would turn a pedestrian into a strangely-shaped silhouette surrounded by fuzzy white halo. Highgate Village looked a little "Jack The Ripper" and the Heath was bathed in the most bizarre blueish light.

I go to bed tonight thinking, for the first time in an age, that things might be going to be okay. We had a good chat about our contracts. We surged forward with the script. I did some good arranging in the evening, and I think I might actually manage a good night's sleep tonight, although, at 10.30pm, we've only just sat down to eat our tea, so I might have a bit of a full stomach when my head hits the pillow.

Swirling mists

It's been an epically long day. We did at least have a lie-in, which was a proper treat. We also had breakfast in bed whilst watching last night's Strictly Come Dancing on an iPad with a bowl of cornflakes on our laps.

From noon today, until midnight, we sat at the kitchen table working on the script for the secret project. It's been utterly gruelling and not at all how I'd like to have spent my Sunday, but needs must. I was desperate to go outside all day. A really magical light was pouring through the window. The sun was defiantly shining but at the same time the mist appeared to be really thick and shining like sheets of silver behind the trees. It was most unusual, like something from an episode of Robin of Sherwood. I swear I could hear Clannad music! I was hoping Herne the Hunter would rise out from behind next door's bicycle shed.

We went for a late night walk through Queen's Wood, the little piece of Highgate which looks like Narnia, with its Victorian lampposts and curiously gnarled trees. The mist was extraordinary and wrapped itself around us like a million tiny feathers. It smelt like chlorine and made everything sound muffled and muted. A little like the acoustics you get on a snowy day. I bloody love autumn!

We came home from our walk and watched the results show from Strictly, horrified once again to see Jamelia being saved in the dance off. My only consolation is that every time she ends up in the bottom two, she receives the message more loudly that no one out there likes her very much, and after a while that's got to start grinding you down. As she said today in her faltering little "pity me" voice; "I've come to the conclusion that the public don't like me..." That's 'cus you're an unrepentant homophobe.

Don't worry, love, when the judges finally see sense and vote your sorry little tush out of the competition, you can go back to your coven of witches on the Loose Women panel and blame the gays for your downfall.

Lake Garda

I worked all day today whilst Nathan was doing a shift at the box office of the Shaftesbury theatre. It's the last night of Memphis today, which is being replaced by a show called The Illusionists.

I badly banged my knee on the corner of a table last night and have been in discomfort all day. I hit myself on the knee-like equivalent of the funny bone, and if I weren't such a hairy old bear, I reckon I'd be able to see a big old bruise there.

I watched a programme about Lake Garda on the telly earlier on. Was it just the camera work, or is that place stunningly beautiful? Has anyone reading this been there? Is it to be recommended? Are there better lakes? Is it a tourist hot spot and therefore crowded and ludicrously expensive?

The programme I watched was being presented by Michael Portillo and I'll confess to being slightly perturbed by his bright cerise trousers which clashed rather terribly with the blues and earthy terracotta hues of the Italian landscape. Someone of his age might describe the trousers as "snazzy." That's an ancient word isn't it!? Like "diggy," "wally," "prannie." And "skill." A rumour went around our school that "skill" actually meant bird crap. A "twat" by the same count was a pregnant camel!

We rushed into Muswell Hill when Nathan got back from work and bought our customary pumpkins which we carved out in front of the X Factor, marvelling at how dreadful Ollie Murs sounds when he says things like "was you happy with them judges comments?"

Hallowe'en is my favourite time of the year and, for as long as I can remember, we've carved pumpkins and had hallowe'en parties. We once set fire to an out house in our garden by lighting so many candles whilst I told ghost stories!

In catholic countries it's actually tomorrow when things get exciting. About a million years ago, I was in Poland on All Soul's Day when they light thousands (and I mean thousands) of candles in cemeteries. The tradition is for entire families to visit their departed loved ones after dark, and sit with them for a few hours, eating food and chatting.

The cemeteries literally glow with candlelight. There's not a grave which isn't illuminated by at least one candle in a red, white, green or yellow jar. I found the experience of simply wandering around the grave yards intensely moving and hugely heartwarming. So if you ever find yourself in Poland (and I suspect Italy and Spain) on November 1st, head to a cemetery after dark and you're in for a treat.

Touchy

We're so tired this evening that we're not even enjoying our customary hour in front of rubbish telly before bed. Nathan tells me he's too tired to knit, which is a genuine first!

I was too busy scoring this morning to go down to Cecil Sharp House for the first audition session. I had a bit of a panic, in fact, when I woke up and realised quite how much I have to achieve in the next few months.

I got enough done in the morning to justify going down to Camden in the afternoon and arrived in a state of low-sugarness, immediately chowing down on an entire pot of Co-op hummus. It did the trick. The director of the project thought I was incredibly eccentric for having bought a jar of salt with me to sprinkle on the tomatoes I ate with the hummus. It struck me as a fairly sensible thing to do... But I guess the definition of an eccentric is one who doesn't sense his own eccentricities.

We had an interesting debate in the bar last night about sexism. As a man with very few male friends, I have always considered women as every bit my equal. There are things I acknowledge that men do better than women and vice versa. Beyond the obvious things, like the fact that, on average, men are stronger and faster and have penises, I think there are differences in the way that men and women respond to emotions. I know it's a somewhat unfashionable view...

Anyway, last night we were talking about women in the arts, and the two girls that we were with were making a very interesting point that women tend to only be allowed to excel in art forms which can be completed alone (novels, singer songwriting...) I don't know what I think of that point: it's certainly not something I recognise. The majority of my bosses have been women, but maybe I'm in one of the few industries which are more gender equal. Or maybe, as a man, I don't tend to notice gender disparity. Hmm.

Whatever the case, I asked a question, which went down like a tub of sick at a party, namely whether there are certain jobs which not many women do as a result of not many women actually wanting to do the job... Just as you don't get many gay football pundits, perhaps there are certain jobs which fewer women actually fancy. I sometimes wonder whether fewer women want to go into politics, for example. The woman I was talking to got so angry with me at that point that she immediately withdrew from the conversation and went somewhere else! Apparently just as many women as men would want to be prime minister... That was me told.

...some people are so touchy!

Fitzrovia

We've just returned from a late night drink on Charlotte Street in Central London. We were at a bar called Jerusalem, which made me feel very old indeed. As the evening progressed, the music got louder and louder, and all I wanted to do was have a sit down and a natter. I hate bars. I'd much rather sit on the street outside a cafe with a hot chocolate, watching the world go by.

We were at the bar for leaving drinks. James Hadley, who used to be in charge of musical theatre at the Arts Council, is heading on to pastures new. He's fortunately remaining in the field of musical theatre, because he is a fabulous ambassador for new writers. In fact, instead of calling it a leaving drinks do, he called it a "networking event!"

I think the area of town we were in tonight is called Fitzrovia. I don't know it well. In fact, I tend to ignore it. It's a block further north than my usual Soho hangouts and it's usually ram packed with Hooray Henrys and people who work in advertising, whatever that is. What do people in advertising actually do?

All this said, I believe my parents "courted" in Fitzrovia in the late 1960s, so it plainly hasn't always been a hang out for twats. Anyway, what I could hear of the conversation over the loud music was very interesting. It's always nice to talk to fellow writers if not just to moan about how shit things are! My voice feels hoarse from shouting, however. Nathan thinks these sorts of bars are the reason why so many people have nodules these days. He's not wrong.

We ran auditions today for our secret project. We were down at Cecil Sharp House in Camden Town, home of the British folk arts movement... Which felt a little ironic. We saw some lovely performers. And that's about all I'm allowed to say...

We've started watching series two of Catastrophe, which is every bit as funny as the last one. It's on Channel 4, and I very much recommend watching it.