I’ve spent the day in meetings, the first of which was at the Musician Union’s head quarters in Oval. We had a good chat about the nasty court case which is fast approaching, but within two weeks the whole sorry business will have been sorted once and for all – and I can’t wait. Throughout this entire process the MU has been absolutely brilliant. I have been supported and guided through every stage of the journey. Thank God for unions, I say. Everyone should be a member of a union.
The afternoon was spent in meetings at Marylebone Police Station talking about Philip’s attack. The police have been taking us incredibly seriously since we took to the streets, and this is the second time that they’ve called me in to talk me through their investigation. I’m now satisfied that they’re working as hard as they can, although it’s like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. They showed me some of the CCTV footage that they’ve been trawling through. It’s very grainy, and irritatingly, on almost every occasion, the attack either happens when the camera is looking in another direction – or in the case of the fixed cameras – just out of shot. It was horribly eerie to see the ambulance pulling up on Coventry Street and watching the smudgy image of Philip in a stretcher being loaded into the back.
Unfortunately, as I reached the police station, I found the Inspector standing on the steps waiting to greet me. I climbed the steps, immediately tripped and landed at his feet in a sort of ungainly face-plant. In an instant, the image I’d been working on as a sort of fearless freedom fighter had been destroyed forever.
Tonight is the night that the Eurovision wagon rolls into Dusseldorf, and I’m heading to my brother’s to watch the first semi-final. He’s going to be in Germany for the second semi and the actual final and I am more than a little envious. Still, with any luck we should have ten or so people at our house on Saturday to watch it on the telly. Jim is already preparing a giant scoreboard...
Friday 10th May 1661, was a pretty ordinary day for Pepys; it involved drinking, schmoozing, scheming and money-making, but nothing that stands out as being particularly interesting or out of the ordinary.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Monday, 9 May 2011
The Necropolis Express
We went back to Woking today to visit the cemetery at Brookwood. It’s a peculiar place. It's in the deepest planes of Surrey, yet its residents are exclusively the dead of London. In the 1850s, various laws were put into place to ban people from burying their dead in the over-crowded, and un-hygienic churchyards in the City. New cemeteries were opened on the fringes of London, in places like Highgate and Stoke Newington, but the biggest of all was set up on a 2,000-acre plot, 30 miles to the West of the city. The Victorians, rather sensibly, built a trainline which went there from Waterloo station. This enabled coffins and relatives of the dead to take a train direct to the cemetery. It arrived at 10am, and left again in the mid-afternoon after the relatives had been served refreshments in the cafe, which even had a licensed bar, complete with a sign which read; “we have spirits”!
Rather poetically/ hauntingly/ bizarrely/ Victorian-like (delete as appropriate) the trainline was called the Necropolis Express or the Black Line. It was bombed in the second world war, and never rebuilt, but the dead of various London City wards continue to be buried alongside their forefathers. Brookwood was the biggest cemetery in the world, but is now simply the largest in Europe. We’re told that since 1854, over 235,000 people have been buried there.
Rather oddly, Brookwood also became the resting place of the bones of King Edward the Martyr, who was King of England until his murder in about 979AD; a ridiculously long time ago. Many consider him to be the least important King of England, but he is a Saint, and a group of four Eastern Orthodox monks still live in a quiet little corner of the cemetery, saying prayers to his memory, making candles and keeping a beautiful garden, which includes the former platform of the Necropolis Express. They were extremely friendly, and welcomed us into their monastery with open arms, showing us a little DVD about their lives and the Necropolis Express and going some way towards renewing my faith in religion.
Unlike most cemeteries, however, you’re not really encouraged to simply wander around. We had to be given permits for our visit, and were asked a great many questions in the site office. It is a working graveyard, and I don’t suppose many tourists find themselves simply passing by, so they weren't really equipped to deal with three Londoners who'd turned up with a picnic and a mean-looking camera.
There were, however, many wonderful inscriptions on the stones, three of which really stood out:
“...and we laughed, and laughed and laughed”
“To our one and only mother, who worked too hard, loved too much and died too soon”
And a tribute to a Navy man, who was photographed on the gravestone standing proudly in his uniform, which simply red:
“You weathered the storm, reached harbour safely. Horizon is peaceful. Ahoy!”
I was joined on today’s trip by Marinella and Nathan, who were perfect companions, and the weather, once again, was glorious.
Pepys spent the morning 350 years ago with his wife and the workmen in his house. Elizabeth was in agony – no doubt as a result of the tooth she’d just had ripped out, but also from her “old pain.” She had the most terrible trouble down below which reoccurred sporadically. Pepys was worried that she'd never be able to convalesce in a house filled with dust and dirt. Nevertheless, he left her to it, and went to Whitehall to meet Lord Sandwich, and do some business, which went incredibly well. He was so pleased with his handiwork that he called in on his friend, the composer William Child, whom he took to the Swan Tavern on King Street, and treated to a tankard of white wine and sugar! Euwghh! On his way home, he called in at The Wardrobe; the house where the Sandwiches were now officially residing. He found Lady Jemima all by herself and stayed for an unofficial tour of the newly refurbished house. He was impressed. He continued home, describing the final leg of his journey as “a dirty and dark walk...” No drought in 1661, then?
Rather poetically/ hauntingly/ bizarrely/ Victorian-like (delete as appropriate) the trainline was called the Necropolis Express or the Black Line. It was bombed in the second world war, and never rebuilt, but the dead of various London City wards continue to be buried alongside their forefathers. Brookwood was the biggest cemetery in the world, but is now simply the largest in Europe. We’re told that since 1854, over 235,000 people have been buried there.
Rather oddly, Brookwood also became the resting place of the bones of King Edward the Martyr, who was King of England until his murder in about 979AD; a ridiculously long time ago. Many consider him to be the least important King of England, but he is a Saint, and a group of four Eastern Orthodox monks still live in a quiet little corner of the cemetery, saying prayers to his memory, making candles and keeping a beautiful garden, which includes the former platform of the Necropolis Express. They were extremely friendly, and welcomed us into their monastery with open arms, showing us a little DVD about their lives and the Necropolis Express and going some way towards renewing my faith in religion.
Unlike most cemeteries, however, you’re not really encouraged to simply wander around. We had to be given permits for our visit, and were asked a great many questions in the site office. It is a working graveyard, and I don’t suppose many tourists find themselves simply passing by, so they weren't really equipped to deal with three Londoners who'd turned up with a picnic and a mean-looking camera.
There were, however, many wonderful inscriptions on the stones, three of which really stood out:
“...and we laughed, and laughed and laughed”
“To our one and only mother, who worked too hard, loved too much and died too soon”
And a tribute to a Navy man, who was photographed on the gravestone standing proudly in his uniform, which simply red:
“You weathered the storm, reached harbour safely. Horizon is peaceful. Ahoy!”
I was joined on today’s trip by Marinella and Nathan, who were perfect companions, and the weather, once again, was glorious.
Nathan and Marinella picnic in a glade
Pepys spent the morning 350 years ago with his wife and the workmen in his house. Elizabeth was in agony – no doubt as a result of the tooth she’d just had ripped out, but also from her “old pain.” She had the most terrible trouble down below which reoccurred sporadically. Pepys was worried that she'd never be able to convalesce in a house filled with dust and dirt. Nevertheless, he left her to it, and went to Whitehall to meet Lord Sandwich, and do some business, which went incredibly well. He was so pleased with his handiwork that he called in on his friend, the composer William Child, whom he took to the Swan Tavern on King Street, and treated to a tankard of white wine and sugar! Euwghh! On his way home, he called in at The Wardrobe; the house where the Sandwiches were now officially residing. He found Lady Jemima all by herself and stayed for an unofficial tour of the newly refurbished house. He was impressed. He continued home, describing the final leg of his journey as “a dirty and dark walk...” No drought in 1661, then?
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Weird hillocks
We're in the car heading back from Woking, where we've been to a barbecue with some of Nathan's friends. They have to be amongst the campest straight men I've ever met, referring to each other repeatedly as "she", which I thought was strange to say the least. It’s amazing what a life in theatre will do to you! The plan was to eat in the late afternoon, but I got over-hungry and subsequently gorged myself on table snacks. I now have that horrid feeling you get when you've eaten too many crisps; a sore tongue and a funny tummy. Every time I eat crisps, I’m reminded how bad they are for us.
The weather's turned. It's much colder now, and I think it must have rained a fair amount in the night. That said, on its way down, the sun suddenly dropped below the clouds, and a brilliant orange light made everything look very magical for a brief half hour period.
We stopped at those weird hillocks by the side of the M40 at Greenford. I’d never thought to visit them before, but they looked so wonderful against the bruised sky, that we doubled back on ourselves, dumped the car, and climbed to the top to look at the amazing views across London. I was very pleased we’d made the decision to stop. The hills are part of a beautifully landscaped park, which you can't see from the motorway but I would recommend anyone to visit. The hills are the perfect spot from which to view the sun setting.
350 years ago, Pepys' brother, John called in on his way to Cambridge. I assume he was heading back to the university for the summer term. Pepys gave him 20s.
He sat with his workmen all day, watching the work progressing with great excitement. Elizabeth appeared unexpectedly. She'd had a foretooth removed. Not a fun operation by any stretch, and Pepys was furious with her for coming in such a state to such a dirty house. No doubt she was simply after a bit of sympathy and compassion.
Pepys received a letter from his Uncle Robert, asking if he could spare one of his old fiddles. It seemed Pepys' cousin, Frank, a miller-cum-violinist, had recently lost his mill in high winds. As a result he’d been reduced to scraping a living as a violinist, but didn't seem to have a violin, and needed one to accompany the country girls in a Witsun parade.
Pepys was incensed that his (wealthy) uncle would ask him to help when he was more than capable himself of buying a brand new violin for Frank. Pepys nevertheless decided to send one the following day.
The weather's turned. It's much colder now, and I think it must have rained a fair amount in the night. That said, on its way down, the sun suddenly dropped below the clouds, and a brilliant orange light made everything look very magical for a brief half hour period.
We stopped at those weird hillocks by the side of the M40 at Greenford. I’d never thought to visit them before, but they looked so wonderful against the bruised sky, that we doubled back on ourselves, dumped the car, and climbed to the top to look at the amazing views across London. I was very pleased we’d made the decision to stop. The hills are part of a beautifully landscaped park, which you can't see from the motorway but I would recommend anyone to visit. The hills are the perfect spot from which to view the sun setting.
350 years ago, Pepys' brother, John called in on his way to Cambridge. I assume he was heading back to the university for the summer term. Pepys gave him 20s.
He sat with his workmen all day, watching the work progressing with great excitement. Elizabeth appeared unexpectedly. She'd had a foretooth removed. Not a fun operation by any stretch, and Pepys was furious with her for coming in such a state to such a dirty house. No doubt she was simply after a bit of sympathy and compassion.
Pepys received a letter from his Uncle Robert, asking if he could spare one of his old fiddles. It seemed Pepys' cousin, Frank, a miller-cum-violinist, had recently lost his mill in high winds. As a result he’d been reduced to scraping a living as a violinist, but didn't seem to have a violin, and needed one to accompany the country girls in a Witsun parade.
Pepys was incensed that his (wealthy) uncle would ask him to help when he was more than capable himself of buying a brand new violin for Frank. Pepys nevertheless decided to send one the following day.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
The Visistors
Today’s been a particularly surreal day. We had to wake up at 1.45am this morning British time to make it to the airport on time, and I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep ever since. Revellers were still singing in the hotel reception when we got in the taxi. I vaguely remember sitting and listening to a group of people singing A Day In the Life whilst wondering what my name was!
I don’t remember a great deal about the plane journey. Unfortunately, as my dear friend Fiona has experienced several times, whenever I fall asleep on an aeroplane, I tend to wake up again almost immediately in a slight panic; a process which often involves an involuntary hand movement. Today, poor Alison got smacked across the chest at least three times, which must have been just hell for her, because she was also trying to sleep.
I travelled back to London from Luton airport in a haze, and arrived back in Highgate at about 9am. Nathan was still asleep, and it was lovely to get into bed with him for a cuddle. We subsequently slept until 1pm. Nathan is still jet-lagged from his trip to the US, so we’ve done very little all day. The hot weather has sort of broken. It’s muggy, and slightly rainy, so I feel like a wet dog.
I’m watching telly and suffering slightly from a jippy tummy, which I think has been caused by a combination of awful food and brown hotel water. I now long to get back into a regime of early starts and plenty of exercise. It is tempting to immediately start writing the Requiem for London, but I think there’s still a great deal of research to be done before I can get on with that.
I forget to mention yesterday that one of the women on the conference yesterday suddenly announced that her father had photographed ABBA back in the early 1980s! She threw it in rather casually; almost as though she were slightly embarrassed by the fact. I obviously immediately swamped her with questions and discovered that, not only had her father photographed ABBA, but he’d actually taken the album covers for Super Trouper and The Vistors; that dark, brooding, epic and haunting photograph that I’d lost myself in so many times as a child. I know every corner of that photograph. I have studied every picture on the wall behind the band. I still remember the slightly gluey smell of the inside sleeve, the sofas that I used to sit on whilst listening to it, and the sense of sadness I felt when I peered into the faces. ABBA knew the album was the end of the road, and it showed.
She revealed that the lamps in the photograph had actually come from her house, and that her brother currently owned the one which lights Agnetha on the left-hand side of the picture.
They’d apparently done another photo shoot for the album cover, which featured the band coming out of a car onto a darkened street. This was rejected. To my knowledge I’ve never seen any of these alternative photos, and wonder how much they’d be worth now. Unfortunately, after her father had died, she sold and threw away many of the photos that he’d taken. ABBA, to her, were just a slightly embarrassing pop group, of whom most Swedes felt greatly ashamed. She seemed genuinely surprised that I was so interested in her stories.
350 years ago, and Pepys went to visit Lord Sandwich. He was stopped on many occasions during his journey across London by trainebands from the City of London; groups of Militia, who wanted to make sure that people were seen to be mourning for the Duke of York’s son’s death. Many of the shops were shut. Pepys went to an ordinary; a tavern where they could eat and drink as much as they liked for a fixed fee, which in this instance was 18d. Pepys said they had “very good cheer.” The place, in his view, was very good value for money. He got very drunk with Mr Creed and his wife, who we’re told sung absolutely beautifully.
I don’t remember a great deal about the plane journey. Unfortunately, as my dear friend Fiona has experienced several times, whenever I fall asleep on an aeroplane, I tend to wake up again almost immediately in a slight panic; a process which often involves an involuntary hand movement. Today, poor Alison got smacked across the chest at least three times, which must have been just hell for her, because she was also trying to sleep.
I travelled back to London from Luton airport in a haze, and arrived back in Highgate at about 9am. Nathan was still asleep, and it was lovely to get into bed with him for a cuddle. We subsequently slept until 1pm. Nathan is still jet-lagged from his trip to the US, so we’ve done very little all day. The hot weather has sort of broken. It’s muggy, and slightly rainy, so I feel like a wet dog.
I’m watching telly and suffering slightly from a jippy tummy, which I think has been caused by a combination of awful food and brown hotel water. I now long to get back into a regime of early starts and plenty of exercise. It is tempting to immediately start writing the Requiem for London, but I think there’s still a great deal of research to be done before I can get on with that.
I forget to mention yesterday that one of the women on the conference yesterday suddenly announced that her father had photographed ABBA back in the early 1980s! She threw it in rather casually; almost as though she were slightly embarrassed by the fact. I obviously immediately swamped her with questions and discovered that, not only had her father photographed ABBA, but he’d actually taken the album covers for Super Trouper and The Vistors; that dark, brooding, epic and haunting photograph that I’d lost myself in so many times as a child. I know every corner of that photograph. I have studied every picture on the wall behind the band. I still remember the slightly gluey smell of the inside sleeve, the sofas that I used to sit on whilst listening to it, and the sense of sadness I felt when I peered into the faces. ABBA knew the album was the end of the road, and it showed.
She revealed that the lamps in the photograph had actually come from her house, and that her brother currently owned the one which lights Agnetha on the left-hand side of the picture.
350 years ago, and Pepys went to visit Lord Sandwich. He was stopped on many occasions during his journey across London by trainebands from the City of London; groups of Militia, who wanted to make sure that people were seen to be mourning for the Duke of York’s son’s death. Many of the shops were shut. Pepys went to an ordinary; a tavern where they could eat and drink as much as they liked for a fixed fee, which in this instance was 18d. Pepys said they had “very good cheer.” The place, in his view, was very good value for money. He got very drunk with Mr Creed and his wife, who we’re told sung absolutely beautifully.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Prix de Circom
I am now the proud recipient of a Prix de Circom, following what has to be one of the most surreal award ceremonies ever staged. The whole thing was being broadcast live on Romanian TV, and an entire symphony orchestra had been crammed into a white marquee, which was also lined with rather chi-chi-looking tables. The place looked lovely, but the organisation of the evening left a great deal to be desired. Everything was wonderfully good-natured and a huge amount of fun, but the event was somewhat shambolic.
I don’t really know where to start. Perhaps with the presenter, who was attempting to do simultaneous translations from Romanian into English, which at one point made such little sense that everyone was forced to look at their shoes with a placid smile carved onto their faces, lest they should catch someone else’s eye and burst into uncontrollable laughter!
The first award went to a Bulgarian film-maker, a wonderful bloke, who interviews people in the back of a taxi. They played part of his show on a giant screen, but there was no sound, other than the whistling winds of shame. He went up onto the stage to collect his award, accompanied by the symphony orchestra playing the utterly portentous, Also Sprach Zarathustra, which didn’t exactly feel like the sort of celebratory music you’d expect to accompany such a joyous occasion. His award, for best newcomer, was named after one of the leading supporters of Circom, a wonderful journalist who’d very tragically died on her way to the conference a few years ago. As he collected his award, the presenter called for hush and said how marvellously poignant it was that his films were shot in a taxi. And why was this poignant? That's right, because the woman who’d given her name to the award had DIED in a taxi!
As he left the stage, the orchestra played Also Sprach Zarathustra again, as they would a further ten times that night, in fact every time someone got up to collect an award. Sadly, the section they were playing took at least 3 minutes to complete, by which point the winner of the award had triumphantly returned to his or her seat and the rest of us had been forced to sit and twiddle our thumbs.
On the table next to us, an interloper in the shape of a rather rotund Romanian lady with hair the colour of her bright red cardigan, had come in off the street and sat down to watch the awards. She kept turning to the people on her table and asking with incredulity if they’d all won awards. As the food arrived, security people carried her away. As it turned out, I’m sure everyone would have gladly donated what they were about to eat to her.
The food was hysterically awful. There were plates and plates of meat coupled with little soggy piles of indecipherable vegetables which had been boiled into mulch. Someone described the carrots as “little cubes of colourful water.” Rather hysterically, I was sitting on a table with a group of Parisian snobs, who were simply looking at the food and shaking their heads. I overheard one of them whispering; “c’est un haricot vert, non?” Or words to that effect.
Unfortunately there was a lack of a vegetarian alternative. A woman waitress tried to put a plate of meat in front of me and I said; “oh, sorry, no, I’m a vegetarian.” She responded by shrugging her shoulders, throwing the food down in front of me and walking away. According to some accounts around the table, she also let out a little grunt, as though I’d said out loud what I was thinking, which was that she looked like a fat, ugly version of 1980s singer Hazell Dean. A moment later I took the offending plate, handed it to her, and said; “now take this away... without attitude!” A few minutes later, the plate arrived again, simply with everything but the soggy vegetables taken away. I wouldn’t have minded other than that I’d been given exactly the same thing for lunch!
By this point the orchestra had gone home and been replaced by a panpipe and saxophone version of Take My Breath Away, which was going round in circles. But imagine our combined surprise when they started to de-rig the venue as we ate. First all the lights came down, and then they started to dismantle the marquee. A truck got driven into the side of the space and filled everything with the stench of exhaust smoke. By the time we’d been given our desserts, they’d removed all the flowers from the tables and left us sitting in nothing but the house lights.
With each new problem, I became increasingly hysterical. I had a very very lovely evening! Thank you Circom, but more importantly, thank you, Romania. But please don’t ever win the Eurovision Song Contest! I don't think my nerves would cope.
... By the way, why do you suppose all the water in the hotel is brown?
Today we did a workshop, where we played the making of the Symphony for Yorkshire to a group of conference attendees. It went down very well. I think sometimes that people don’t realise quite how much time, energy and love goes into these projects, and think this particular documentary shows this aspect very well.
After lunch we went for a stroll around Timisoara, which remains a deeply bizarre place. The weather was stunning, however, and after visiting a department store which had obviously not changed since the days of Ceausescu, we found a stunning spot by the river, and simply basked in the sun’s glow all day. It was wonderfully relaxing. Alison and Keith got utterly rat-arsed, which was fairly infectious and made me feel a little giddy and naughty.
We ended the day on Keith’s balcony, pouring water onto the street below in an attempt to confuse and surprise passers by.
May 6th 1661, and Pepys was up and out of his lodgings in Guildford by 4am, which is the time I have to be up tomorrow. One assumes the trip back to London was uneventful, for Pepys only talks about eating cake.
On arriving home, he was very disappointed to discover that his workmen hadn’t done a great deal more on the house. Elizabeth was dispatched to Pepys’ father’s, and Pepys went and sat with Lady Batten. Both Sir Williams were in Deptford. Pepys heard that the Duke of York’s son had died and was less than charitable. “I believe [the news] will please every body; and I hear that the Duke and his Lady themselves are not much troubled at it.” Quite why he was so unpleasant is unclear. It's maybe because it was known that The Duke, who would go on to become the next King, was a practising Catholic. His son, therefore, would very much be in line for the throne, particularly if Charles himself didn't get his act together. There was also some question as to the child’s legitimacy. I’m sure, however, the parents were not “untroubled” by the news. That would be just weird.
I don’t really know where to start. Perhaps with the presenter, who was attempting to do simultaneous translations from Romanian into English, which at one point made such little sense that everyone was forced to look at their shoes with a placid smile carved onto their faces, lest they should catch someone else’s eye and burst into uncontrollable laughter!
The first award went to a Bulgarian film-maker, a wonderful bloke, who interviews people in the back of a taxi. They played part of his show on a giant screen, but there was no sound, other than the whistling winds of shame. He went up onto the stage to collect his award, accompanied by the symphony orchestra playing the utterly portentous, Also Sprach Zarathustra, which didn’t exactly feel like the sort of celebratory music you’d expect to accompany such a joyous occasion. His award, for best newcomer, was named after one of the leading supporters of Circom, a wonderful journalist who’d very tragically died on her way to the conference a few years ago. As he collected his award, the presenter called for hush and said how marvellously poignant it was that his films were shot in a taxi. And why was this poignant? That's right, because the woman who’d given her name to the award had DIED in a taxi!
As he left the stage, the orchestra played Also Sprach Zarathustra again, as they would a further ten times that night, in fact every time someone got up to collect an award. Sadly, the section they were playing took at least 3 minutes to complete, by which point the winner of the award had triumphantly returned to his or her seat and the rest of us had been forced to sit and twiddle our thumbs.
On the table next to us, an interloper in the shape of a rather rotund Romanian lady with hair the colour of her bright red cardigan, had come in off the street and sat down to watch the awards. She kept turning to the people on her table and asking with incredulity if they’d all won awards. As the food arrived, security people carried her away. As it turned out, I’m sure everyone would have gladly donated what they were about to eat to her.
The food was hysterically awful. There were plates and plates of meat coupled with little soggy piles of indecipherable vegetables which had been boiled into mulch. Someone described the carrots as “little cubes of colourful water.” Rather hysterically, I was sitting on a table with a group of Parisian snobs, who were simply looking at the food and shaking their heads. I overheard one of them whispering; “c’est un haricot vert, non?” Or words to that effect.
Unfortunately there was a lack of a vegetarian alternative. A woman waitress tried to put a plate of meat in front of me and I said; “oh, sorry, no, I’m a vegetarian.” She responded by shrugging her shoulders, throwing the food down in front of me and walking away. According to some accounts around the table, she also let out a little grunt, as though I’d said out loud what I was thinking, which was that she looked like a fat, ugly version of 1980s singer Hazell Dean. A moment later I took the offending plate, handed it to her, and said; “now take this away... without attitude!” A few minutes later, the plate arrived again, simply with everything but the soggy vegetables taken away. I wouldn’t have minded other than that I’d been given exactly the same thing for lunch!
By this point the orchestra had gone home and been replaced by a panpipe and saxophone version of Take My Breath Away, which was going round in circles. But imagine our combined surprise when they started to de-rig the venue as we ate. First all the lights came down, and then they started to dismantle the marquee. A truck got driven into the side of the space and filled everything with the stench of exhaust smoke. By the time we’d been given our desserts, they’d removed all the flowers from the tables and left us sitting in nothing but the house lights.
With each new problem, I became increasingly hysterical. I had a very very lovely evening! Thank you Circom, but more importantly, thank you, Romania. But please don’t ever win the Eurovision Song Contest! I don't think my nerves would cope.
Benjamin and his award
... By the way, why do you suppose all the water in the hotel is brown?
Today we did a workshop, where we played the making of the Symphony for Yorkshire to a group of conference attendees. It went down very well. I think sometimes that people don’t realise quite how much time, energy and love goes into these projects, and think this particular documentary shows this aspect very well.
After lunch we went for a stroll around Timisoara, which remains a deeply bizarre place. The weather was stunning, however, and after visiting a department store which had obviously not changed since the days of Ceausescu, we found a stunning spot by the river, and simply basked in the sun’s glow all day. It was wonderfully relaxing. Alison and Keith got utterly rat-arsed, which was fairly infectious and made me feel a little giddy and naughty.
We ended the day on Keith’s balcony, pouring water onto the street below in an attempt to confuse and surprise passers by.
Look at the light!
May 6th 1661, and Pepys was up and out of his lodgings in Guildford by 4am, which is the time I have to be up tomorrow. One assumes the trip back to London was uneventful, for Pepys only talks about eating cake.
On arriving home, he was very disappointed to discover that his workmen hadn’t done a great deal more on the house. Elizabeth was dispatched to Pepys’ father’s, and Pepys went and sat with Lady Batten. Both Sir Williams were in Deptford. Pepys heard that the Duke of York’s son had died and was less than charitable. “I believe [the news] will please every body; and I hear that the Duke and his Lady themselves are not much troubled at it.” Quite why he was so unpleasant is unclear. It's maybe because it was known that The Duke, who would go on to become the next King, was a practising Catholic. His son, therefore, would very much be in line for the throne, particularly if Charles himself didn't get his act together. There was also some question as to the child’s legitimacy. I’m sure, however, the parents were not “untroubled” by the news. That would be just weird.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Hello London. This is Timisoara.
Hello London, this is Timisoara calling. Are you receiving me?
I am in Romania, in a very strange city near the country’s western border with Hungary. The flight here seemed to take no time at all. We went up and down so quickly that I barely had time to work myself up into a tizzy. Furthermore, I don't think I have ever been ushered through a passport control and a baggage handling system so speedily. One gets the impression that not many planes land here.
The taxi from the airport took us through dusty fields, delineated by tall pampas grasses, which reminded me of parts of the deep south of America. There were peculiar adverts on strange billboards, unfamiliar road signs, boarded-over cafes, strange shops selling weed killer and grand houses which seemed to be very slowly turning into dust. The grass by the side of the roads was already turning slightly yellow.
The outskirts of Timisoara looked very run down. This isn’t a wealthy European city. Perhaps it wants to be, but I suspect its people will always look slightly down-trodden and careworn. Men sit on benches on street corners smoking cigars, young girls walk around in the fashion of twenty years ago, huge chunks of plaster are missing from old buildings. It’s very other-worldly; almost as though the town were living in some kind of cine-film.
The hotel we’re staying in is situated right in the middle of the town. It's very swanky and posh. We’re sandwiched in an area between two incredibly impressive squares where the architecture is like nothing I’ve seen before; very definitely European, but laced with something else; something indefinable. Slightly gothic; very dark. Transylvanian, perhaps.
We’ve already been exploring, and we sat for some time in a cafe in the larger of the two squares. I mistakenly asked for a hot chocolate, which arrived in the form of an almost solid brown piping hot custard, which I didn’t enjoy in the slightest. What I DID enjoy, however, was that the square was filled with hundreds of little towels and sheets hanging out like someone had just done the mother of all wash-days. I assume it was some kind of art installation, but it was very beautiful to watch them flapping around in the breeze. I have also enjoyed finding little book sellers on the streets. I was amused to see the story of Oliver Cromwell translated into Romanian.
The Prix de Circom is awarded as part of the Circom Conference. It's wonderful to go to an award ceremony knowing that you’ve won. I don’t have to polish up my fake smile or mouth the words “thank God” when the worthy film about people with mental disability wins instead of mine! I suppose it’s also a good opportunity to network. It’s one of the only positives about being a freelancer. I genuinely could up sticks and go and do a project for a European broadcaster if there was some interest. That said, my recent issues with the England project and the Lincolnshire Poachers has meant that I've become incredibly wary of those who promise too much.
May 5th, 1661, and Pepys remained in Guildford. There was a visit to a church, followed by a lengthy discussion about religion, which lasted so long that they forgot to go to church again in the afternoon. Pepys spent some time larking about in the garden of his lodgings with Mr Creed, seeing which of the two men could jump the furthest from an old fountain. Pepys won; his prize, a quart of sack.
Pepys and Elizabeth had a terrible row over supper, bizarrely about the relative beauty of one of their acquaintances, Mrs Pierce. I can just imagine the conversation. Pepys goes overboard talking about her beauty (which in fairness, was legendary; we’re told that by her 19th child in 1678, she still only looked about 20 years old!) Elizabeth feels offended and jealous and tells Pepys that Mrs Pierce really isn’t all that. Instead of backing down, Pepys labours the point, which makes Elizabeth angry, which causes a row, which means they have to go for a walk across the fields just to calm down. I wonder if he ever learnt!
I am in Romania, in a very strange city near the country’s western border with Hungary. The flight here seemed to take no time at all. We went up and down so quickly that I barely had time to work myself up into a tizzy. Furthermore, I don't think I have ever been ushered through a passport control and a baggage handling system so speedily. One gets the impression that not many planes land here.
The taxi from the airport took us through dusty fields, delineated by tall pampas grasses, which reminded me of parts of the deep south of America. There were peculiar adverts on strange billboards, unfamiliar road signs, boarded-over cafes, strange shops selling weed killer and grand houses which seemed to be very slowly turning into dust. The grass by the side of the roads was already turning slightly yellow.
The outskirts of Timisoara looked very run down. This isn’t a wealthy European city. Perhaps it wants to be, but I suspect its people will always look slightly down-trodden and careworn. Men sit on benches on street corners smoking cigars, young girls walk around in the fashion of twenty years ago, huge chunks of plaster are missing from old buildings. It’s very other-worldly; almost as though the town were living in some kind of cine-film.
Keith and Alison in the city centre
We’ve already been exploring, and we sat for some time in a cafe in the larger of the two squares. I mistakenly asked for a hot chocolate, which arrived in the form of an almost solid brown piping hot custard, which I didn’t enjoy in the slightest. What I DID enjoy, however, was that the square was filled with hundreds of little towels and sheets hanging out like someone had just done the mother of all wash-days. I assume it was some kind of art installation, but it was very beautiful to watch them flapping around in the breeze. I have also enjoyed finding little book sellers on the streets. I was amused to see the story of Oliver Cromwell translated into Romanian.
The Prix de Circom is awarded as part of the Circom Conference. It's wonderful to go to an award ceremony knowing that you’ve won. I don’t have to polish up my fake smile or mouth the words “thank God” when the worthy film about people with mental disability wins instead of mine! I suppose it’s also a good opportunity to network. It’s one of the only positives about being a freelancer. I genuinely could up sticks and go and do a project for a European broadcaster if there was some interest. That said, my recent issues with the England project and the Lincolnshire Poachers has meant that I've become incredibly wary of those who promise too much.
May 5th, 1661, and Pepys remained in Guildford. There was a visit to a church, followed by a lengthy discussion about religion, which lasted so long that they forgot to go to church again in the afternoon. Pepys spent some time larking about in the garden of his lodgings with Mr Creed, seeing which of the two men could jump the furthest from an old fountain. Pepys won; his prize, a quart of sack.
Pepys and Elizabeth had a terrible row over supper, bizarrely about the relative beauty of one of their acquaintances, Mrs Pierce. I can just imagine the conversation. Pepys goes overboard talking about her beauty (which in fairness, was legendary; we’re told that by her 19th child in 1678, she still only looked about 20 years old!) Elizabeth feels offended and jealous and tells Pepys that Mrs Pierce really isn’t all that. Instead of backing down, Pepys labours the point, which makes Elizabeth angry, which causes a row, which means they have to go for a walk across the fields just to calm down. I wonder if he ever learnt!
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Chavtastic
May the Fourth be with each and every one of you! I’ve always wanted to crack that joke legitimately.
I’m on my way to Romania. Or rather, I’m on my way to Luton, where I’ll be staying tonight on my way to Romania. I have that very strong suspicion that I've left something vitally important at home. Passport? Check. Wallet? Check. £7 worth of Romanian currency that my brother dug out of a drawer? Check. All present and correct, Sir, but I guarantee that there'll be something missing.
I feel all sun-kissed and warm. I've been in Kensal Green Cemetery, and, for the umpteenth day on the trot, it's been beautifully sunny. Farmers are now panicking. Their fields are dying. There's a real threat of drought, which I refuse to believe. Do they have hosepipe bans in Texas? Of course they don’t! We just don’t know how to manage rain water in this country... or snow... or sunshine for that matter...
My companion today was the lovely Rebecca, an actress who performed in the Pepys Motet. When she's not acting, she does historical research, so she was the perfect person to have at my side. She's also great fun to be around, and looked like something from Elvira Madigan with all her ABBA-blonde locks glowing like white straw in the sunlight.
We realised today that there is a great deal of humour to be found in Graveyards. It is utterly astounding what people think it’s appropriate to write on graves. There was a lengthy "apology" from one dead person, which rambled on for about ten rhyming couplets-worth of nonsense, which went something along the lines of... “I’m sorry I left so suddenly. You see, I'd been called by God, and he said there wasn't time for me to say goodbye..." As if you'd assume that this was going through your loved-one's head!
But I think it was the naff four-line poems that got me most of all. So many dreadful rhymes, with the verbs contorted and twisted at the end of lines. "For to do" poems, with terrible scantion; the sorts of things you find on Countdown, or on the inside of Clinton Cards. The same poem was often written on countless graves. In one instance, the very same thing was on two graves next to each other. Imagine the horror of choosing a verse in a funeral parlour and finding it on the grave next door. An eternity of the sort of shame I'm told women feel when they turn up to a party in the same dress as someone else!
One corner of the cemetery was Chav-tastic. Now, obviously Barry and Garry were their mother's pride and joy until both were ripped from her in an untimely chavvy accident... But why chose the shot of Gary in a Puma track suit and Barry in a Burberry baseball cap and a gold chain to have etched into their gravestone?
We were also astonished to see one particular gravestone, marking the spot where the father of a well-known character from a well-known English pop group is buried. For the sake of this blog I’ll refer to said “pop star” to as Naffy from M-subz. Now, surely it’s not necessary to sign your father's grave "your son, Dappy... Sorry... Naffy from M-subz?” Like your father would think it was from someone else! How about using your actual name? Or is this just an attempt to show your fans what a caring man you are?
On the tube home from the cemetery, I finally solved a mystery which has been bugging me for some time. A few months ago, I was in Soho, when a man walked past me and into a Sushi cafe. He was startlingly handsome, he had a proud gait, and he was wearing a chalk striped suit, but instead of hair, had a sort of swimmer’s cap made of sparkly sequins. I was incredibly impressed. He’d managed to get away with the look without seeming camp or strange. He reminded me of a modern-day Leigh Bowery. I think about him every time I walk past the Sushi place and often wonder who he was and why he was dressed so arrestingly. Today, I saw a poster which featured a cartoon image of the same man. I discover that his name is Philip Levine, and that’s he’s the self-proclaimed world's first "head artist". He displays art on his head. It's nothing that Philip, George or Leigh Bowery weren't doing in the 1980s, but it IS impressive!
Look, here he is now...
Saturday May 4th, 1661, and Pepys and co. took a coach from Petersfield to Guildford, where they stayed at the Red Lyon, the best Inn in the town, and the place where the King had stayed recently. They did a bit of sightseeing; a hospital and a free school, where they were treated very well by the headmaster, John Graile. Pepys chatted into the night with the waiters and bar staff at his lodgings who were mercilessly taking the mickey out of a local dignitary, which Pepys thought was great fun.
I’m on my way to Romania. Or rather, I’m on my way to Luton, where I’ll be staying tonight on my way to Romania. I have that very strong suspicion that I've left something vitally important at home. Passport? Check. Wallet? Check. £7 worth of Romanian currency that my brother dug out of a drawer? Check. All present and correct, Sir, but I guarantee that there'll be something missing.
I feel all sun-kissed and warm. I've been in Kensal Green Cemetery, and, for the umpteenth day on the trot, it's been beautifully sunny. Farmers are now panicking. Their fields are dying. There's a real threat of drought, which I refuse to believe. Do they have hosepipe bans in Texas? Of course they don’t! We just don’t know how to manage rain water in this country... or snow... or sunshine for that matter...
My companion today was the lovely Rebecca, an actress who performed in the Pepys Motet. When she's not acting, she does historical research, so she was the perfect person to have at my side. She's also great fun to be around, and looked like something from Elvira Madigan with all her ABBA-blonde locks glowing like white straw in the sunlight.
We realised today that there is a great deal of humour to be found in Graveyards. It is utterly astounding what people think it’s appropriate to write on graves. There was a lengthy "apology" from one dead person, which rambled on for about ten rhyming couplets-worth of nonsense, which went something along the lines of... “I’m sorry I left so suddenly. You see, I'd been called by God, and he said there wasn't time for me to say goodbye..." As if you'd assume that this was going through your loved-one's head!
But I think it was the naff four-line poems that got me most of all. So many dreadful rhymes, with the verbs contorted and twisted at the end of lines. "For to do" poems, with terrible scantion; the sorts of things you find on Countdown, or on the inside of Clinton Cards. The same poem was often written on countless graves. In one instance, the very same thing was on two graves next to each other. Imagine the horror of choosing a verse in a funeral parlour and finding it on the grave next door. An eternity of the sort of shame I'm told women feel when they turn up to a party in the same dress as someone else!
One corner of the cemetery was Chav-tastic. Now, obviously Barry and Garry were their mother's pride and joy until both were ripped from her in an untimely chavvy accident... But why chose the shot of Gary in a Puma track suit and Barry in a Burberry baseball cap and a gold chain to have etched into their gravestone?
We were also astonished to see one particular gravestone, marking the spot where the father of a well-known character from a well-known English pop group is buried. For the sake of this blog I’ll refer to said “pop star” to as Naffy from M-subz. Now, surely it’s not necessary to sign your father's grave "your son, Dappy... Sorry... Naffy from M-subz?” Like your father would think it was from someone else! How about using your actual name? Or is this just an attempt to show your fans what a caring man you are?
On the tube home from the cemetery, I finally solved a mystery which has been bugging me for some time. A few months ago, I was in Soho, when a man walked past me and into a Sushi cafe. He was startlingly handsome, he had a proud gait, and he was wearing a chalk striped suit, but instead of hair, had a sort of swimmer’s cap made of sparkly sequins. I was incredibly impressed. He’d managed to get away with the look without seeming camp or strange. He reminded me of a modern-day Leigh Bowery. I think about him every time I walk past the Sushi place and often wonder who he was and why he was dressed so arrestingly. Today, I saw a poster which featured a cartoon image of the same man. I discover that his name is Philip Levine, and that’s he’s the self-proclaimed world's first "head artist". He displays art on his head. It's nothing that Philip, George or Leigh Bowery weren't doing in the 1980s, but it IS impressive!
Look, here he is now...
Saturday May 4th, 1661, and Pepys and co. took a coach from Petersfield to Guildford, where they stayed at the Red Lyon, the best Inn in the town, and the place where the King had stayed recently. They did a bit of sightseeing; a hospital and a free school, where they were treated very well by the headmaster, John Graile. Pepys chatted into the night with the waiters and bar staff at his lodgings who were mercilessly taking the mickey out of a local dignitary, which Pepys thought was great fun.
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