The tan that tanked

For much of the day, London has been sitting underneath a rather thick mist, which is currently swirling around Highgate like smoke in a war-time pub. I read a Facebook entry from my brother, Edward, which said the mist was so thick he couldn't see the other side of the Thames from where he was standing. 

I picked Nathan up from Heathrow this morning, who arrived with hundreds of exciting tales about South Africa. He seems to have been genuinely affected and inspired by the experience. Some of the photos that he took at the top of Table Mountain, with clouds cascading down the sides of great big ravines are utterly astonishing. He's seen circular rainbows, penguins, sharks, ostriches and baboons, and performed at a massive concert in aid of one of Desmond Tutu's pet charities. 

Fiona and I met Nathan in the arrivals lounge holding a sign with his name on it which we'd made out of a paper bag. He arrived looking tanned from a distance, but peeling like a glue on a child's finger on closer inspection. The poor bloke had badly burned his face and neck at the top of Table Mountain and the damaged skin had started to go a comic shade of mahogany.  He had a bath back at home, rubbed a flannel across his face and immediately removed all traces of his ever having been in a lovely hot country!

This evening I went to listen to the Fleet Singers; a community choir based in Gospel Oak. They've asked me to write some music to help them celebrate the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, and I'm very excited at the prospect of working with them. 

Poor Nathan has spent 18 of the last 36 hours in aeroplanes and doesn't appear to have slept at all since leaving Africa. He is absolutely exhausted. He's currently trying to get our new router working, but I'm wondering how long it's going to be before the eyes close and he sinks into the deepest, most satisfying sleep...

350 years ago, and parliament voted in favour of over a million pounds being given to the king to pay off his debts. An astonishing figure! Perhaps the tradition of governments bailing out the unworthy is older than I thought! What is it they say? History never repeats itself, man always does...

Pepys purchased a copy of "Camden's Britannia" from his mate, Mr Moore and immediately took it to St Paul's churchyard to be bound by one of the many booksellers who hung out in the area. 

William Camden's Britannia was a major historical/geographical account of England, Scotland and Ireland (no mention of Wales), which was written in Queen Elizabeth I's time. It was a "must have" for any aspiring collector of books, and Pepys was very definitely one of them!!

Matchsticks in my eyes

For the past three nights I've forgotten to post this blog before midnight, which is a strong indication about how busy I've been. 

Today went by in something of a blur. Michelle stayed the night in our attic and we had breakfast together. I woke up with about two hours' sleep left in me but needed to get up with enough time to tidy the house for a day of rehearsals and prepare two enormous lasagnes for everyone to eat. 

Michelle and I had a quick sing through some of her parts and then Kurt, the tenor arrived to do some work on his.

The rest of the choir arrived at noon. We were three short of a full house. I suspect we'll never all be in the same space until Sunday, which is a shame because there's so much that I'd like to finesse - particularly when it comes to balancing the singers. 

Still, things went incredibly well and the tenor section is particularly strong. There were moments when I felt very excited, and am fairly convinced that everyone else felt the same way. 

I sort of collapsed in front of the telly  when everyone had gone before becoming engrossed in Barbara Windsor's autobiography. I'm so exhausted now that I suspect there are shopping lists and letters to Jimmy Saville that are more interesting and better written than this blog. 

Pepys went by water to Westminster first thing on this day 350 years ago. He saw the King in his glitzy royal barge on his way to open Parliament. 

I'm sorry, but my eyes just won't stay open any more...

Three Pepyses and a cheese and tomato baguette

I went to the local baker this morning to buy a sandwich for lunch and asked the girl behind the counter for "a baguette with cheese and tomato." She smiled the winsome grimace of a Pole, and immediately put something in the microwave, which I assumed was a baguette. It was a strange thing to do, but I thought perhaps she was trying to make it toasty in a damp, microwaved kind of manner. She then held out her hand for payment. "How much is that?" I asked. She looked confused, shrugged in a sort of "I can't speak English" kind of way, and pointed at the other girl behind the counter, who sauntered over and asked if she could help. I asked for a baguette with cheese and tomato and she got to work, whilst the first girl took a random pasty out of the microwave, stuck it in a paper bag and put it on the counter. "Who's that for?" I asked. She pointed at me and smiled a sarcastic Eastern European smile. "But I didn't ask for a pasty." She shrugged, put the heated pasty back on the shelf, took a different, random pasty from the display, and carried it to the microwave. "Is that for me too?" I asked, somewhat incredulously. She nodded. "But I don't want a pasty." She smiled. I left the shop.

We went to a music quiz in Bishop’s Stortford tonight; me, Philippa, Dylan, my parents and Michelle from the choir. We travelled to Thaxted beforehand, but got stuck in dreadful jams on the A12 somewhere near Stratford. Yet again, London’s infrastructure finds itself creaking under the weight of so-called improvements. We sat in stationary traffic for 30 minutes because they’d closed an underpass for what seemed like no reason. There were certainly no workmen present... just lots of red and white flashing cones.

When we finally reached Thaxted, my mother had created the most astonishing spread of food. The only thing missing was my parents' customary open fire. Apparently the last time they “lit up”, an entire room of people had to be evacuated, because the whole thing started smoking so badly. The chimney sweep can’t fir them in for a full month, so we’re all keeping our fingers crossed there’s not a cold snap before Christmas this year! I think, perhaps, in Thaxted there's an opening for another chimney sweep, although my Mum swears that no one in the village would ever turn their back on the one they already have.  

The quiz was excellent. We came second, but lost to a team who can only have got about five questions wrong in the whole evening. Perhaps they were autistic... or robots. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that they’d had one person more on their team, so if you divide the end scores by the number of players, we beat them hands down! We sang all the way home. ELO mostly. My whooping cough still gives me a bit of gip, but it's so lovely to be able to sing again!

Back at the ranch, our mad rat, Pol has just bitten Michelle in an incident which has got to rank as one of the more embarrassing pet experiences of my life. We had a mad dog when I was a child who used to bite joggers. She was a bit embarrassing – especially when she started to bite children’s faces as well.

350 years ago, Pepys returned home from work to find his wife in an upstairs chamber alone with his friend John Hunt. He was initially troubled, but his mind was somewhat eased by the fact that it was washing day, very cold and that the upstairs chamber was only place where Elizabeth could entertain in front of an open fire. Pepys then went to the christening of his cousin Judith’s child. Rather confusingly, Pepys had been chosen as a godfather along with his cousin Samuel Pepys of Ireland. In those days, a godfather was often allowed to chose the name of the child, and Pepys picked the name... Samuel. Three Samuel Pepyses in one room!

Them and us

I've just been to BAFTA on Piccadilly to see a reading of the first episode of Carol's new TV drama series. The purpose of the reading was to bring the collective attention of a large number of industry types both to Carol's wonderful writing and the fact that there are way too few British dramas being authored by black writers.

The head of drama commissioning for the BBC was part of the panel and I very much liked him. I thought he coped admirably with the slight "them and us" situation that developed in the room. He gave Carol some very useful constructive criticism, but unfortunately, the first person from the audience to put their hand up, came across as rather aggressively defensive. Worse than that, she gave the impression she was an over-zealous friend of Carol’s, who was talking slightly out of turn. The subtext of what she said seemed to be something along the lines of, "don't you white bullying people criticise my black friend." Perhaps she didn't realise that the entertainment industry thrives on constructive criticism, which is usually considerably harsher than what we'd heard! She didn't exactly win any supporters by admitting she'd been late for the reading and missed the first half of it, particularly as much of the criticism was about the first part of the screenplay. Off the soap box, lady! That's not how to win the war! Sometimes it’s important to acknowledge that everyone’s on the same side and that not all white people are racist.

Slightly uncomfortable moments aside, the intended point of the evening came across loud and clear. We need to invest in television which allows black people to be seen as more than stereotypes, and in order to do this, we need to invest in black writers. I was very proud of Carol. She handled herself brilliantly and her work was terrific.

Over the course of the next month, my diary is going to go bananas and I’ll need to start managing my time with a form of military precision which sort of started today. In amongst sending out music for the concert to all the players, I found the time to start practising my own parts and also to make two lasagnes for Sunday's rehearsal. I kept splitting the roux, however, which I don't understand. I wondered if the flour I used was a bit old. It's rare for me to muck up a white sauce.

When I returned home this evening I found a set of brownies on the kitchen table which Fiona had made and left for me tied up with a little red bow. They were high quality brownies and I ate four. Who cares? I've been running every day this week, I deserve a treat.

And what of Pepys? Well, 350 years ago, he went to St Paul’s to watch the choristers doing their thing. He was sad to see how few people had bothered to turn up to watch them - just a cluster of street boys and vagrants. He then borrowed 100l off a colleague and had dinner with a  young parson who got drunk. Pepys thought the show very unpleasant.

Positivity

I spent the morning in the cafe formatting scores. I've pages and pages of music now to print out for the players. Heaven knows how much it’s all going to cost in ink and paper! Whilst I was there, I talked to Nathan on Skype. The internet in the little guesthouse he's staying in is unreliable and seems to be sending him into something of a paddy. It's not a great deal of fun to look forward to talking to someone so much but to have them sound so horribly anxious. It's strange how we've all become so unbelievably reliant on the internet and I'm sure if he were there with someone else he wouldn't feel so cut off from the rest of the world. (He said that travelling isn't as much fun when there's no one there to share it with and I know what he means.) I'm equally sure that when he's not grappling with technology, he's having a lovely time. He was due to go to the top of Table Mountain today and I'm excited to hear how that went.

I went to visit the church where we'll be performing in ten days time, and it's a very special place. St Mary At Hill is a Wren church, situated just off Eastcheap, which is a stone's throw from where Pepys lived in Seething Lane. It had all of its pews removed following a devastating fire in the 1980s, so has a rather barn-like "puritan" vibe. Its walls are merely whitewashed and there’s a distinct lack of clutter in the shape of religious icons, probably because the space is also used as for karate once a week! It’s only drawback are the enormous curtains hanging behind the alter, which are a touch on the Laura-Ashley-circa-1986 side. They’re the sort of curtains which could pull you in and haunt you forever, like the Yellow Wallpaper... except they’re green.

What struck me most of all about the space was its positive atmosphere. I often walk into churches expecting the hackles to go up on the back of my neck, but it feels incredibly vibrant and quite electrifying; a very unexpected church atmosphere.  

I came home and went for a run on Hampstead Heath as the sun melted into a deep blue sky. I felt very privileged to be there. Everything at the moment feels a little magical. I often feel optimistic in autumn, but there’s something else going on that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s like things have come into focus. I’m intensely aware of the past, but simultaneously hopeful for the future. Perhaps it’s because I’m about to start proper work again. Perhaps I’m excited about the concert. The heath smelt incredible; a mix of wood smoke, and the dark green odour of rotting leaves and wet undergrowth.

Sunday 17^th November, 1661, and Pepys went to church - twice - but slept through the second sitting. The sermon focussed on the praise of religious music, and the preacher’s objection to men wearing hats in church. I’ve never understood why it seems perfectly acceptable for women to wear hats whilst worshipping. I can only assume it’s religious people, once again, looking on women as second –class citizens. It doesn’t matter what they do, as long as they look pretty and keep quiet. Ghastly.

I think Pepys was mortified to have slept his way through the service, but he didn’t remain embarrassed for long and was soon back at the house, eating, drinking heavily and being merry. Puritan who?

Marching penguins

The doctor finally phoned me today to tell me that I’d officially had whooping cough. He said there wasn’t much else he could do, but hoped that the information would at least put my mind at rest. I suggested that the other doctors in the surgery – primarily the one who’d told me that my inability to breathe after coughing attacks was psychosomatic – would be informed that they’d missed a corker of a diagnosis. “It’s a very rare condition” said the doctor. “Which they instantly spotted with my brother- in-law.” I said, “I just think, if it’s out there, it might be worth doctors considering it as an option when patients come into the surgery with the same symptoms in the future. After all, how many times can you tell a patient to come back in 2 weeks, before it becomes clear that something very bad is wrong?” At that instant I was reminded of my visit to the same surgery just after Christmas this year to say that I was worried about my voice because it felt gravelly. “I assume you're worrying that you have something like cancer?" Said the doctor, "you don’t look like someone with cancer.” As it happened, I had a polyp – which needed to be tested for cancer. It frightens me what GPs miss...

Anyway, the doctor I spoke to said he’d pass on my comments, and sure enough, within about 20 minutes, the doctor who'd misdiagnosed me called me up. She might as well not have bothered. Her voice bristled with passive aggression. “Thank you for letting me know about your diagnosis,” she said, through clenched teeth, trying to find a smile in her voice, “it’s so kind of you to keep me up to date.” No word of apology, of course. She waffled on for a while about how rare the disease is. “But it’s out there, isn’t it?” I said. “It looks like my partner, my brother-in-law, and possibly my father have all had the same thing. It might just be worth adding the illness to the list of things you look for when someone comes in with a bad cough.” Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get her off the line, and I think the feeling was fairly mutual.

Fiona and I went to the colourless business park at the bottom of Colney Hatch Lane this afternoon. It was a fairly revolting experience. Fiona said it reminded her of countless out-of-town malls in Texas, and we laughed at how little we could think of to buy there. I went essentially to buy a new bulb for the rear light of our car and a very nice gentleman even fitted it for me for a ludicrously low fee of £3. The bulbs themselves were only £2. I thought the whole thing was going to set me back at least £30!

We took the opportunity to look around Currys and various electrical appliances stores, which made me feel weirdly claustrophobic. I loathe looking at rows and rows of things made in China. I hate that our entire world is cluttered up with cheap items of tat made in a country with such a grotesque human rights record. I bought an iron to replace the one that exploded a few weeks ago and was horrified at the level of customer service. I waited about five minutes to be served, and then, just as I reached the front of the queue, another member of staff interrupted, and without apologising, asked the bloke serving me if he could help her with another transaction. He duly obliged, I twiddled my thumbs for another two minutes, and then, just as the man started serving me again, he was interrupted once more by the same (plainly incompetent) member of staff. Still no apology. He eventually returned and started some spiel about a special offer. I rudely snapped at him, telling him I felt like walking out without paying. My comments were neither witty nor charming, and Fiona immediately told me she was horrified at my rudeness, which rightly made me feel ashamed. I’m just on a bit of a soap box at the moment. I think, with so many people out of work at the moment, those of us with jobs, should be polite, hardworking and above all, effective. Readers will be unsurprised to know that all of this happened in Comet, which is currently losing most of its branches. Good riddence to them, I say...

The highlight of my day was undoubtedly a Skype call from Nathan in South Africa. I was even able to see his face on my camera phone, and he showed me the room he’s staying in, with its little twin beds and red cushions with pretty African ladies drawn all over them. He went out onto the balcony and a glorious orange sun immediately lit his face. It is, of course, the height of summer over there. I wonder what he’ll think of the stars. Everyone says that the southern hemisphere stars are the most extraordinary things.

The 16^th November, 1661, yielded a three sentence entry from Mr Pepys. He worked at the office in the morning, had lunch at home, and then went to the Temple to do some business. Nothing like as interesting as the penguins I’m watching on telly!!

Beaten and whipped

Nathan left London this evening for a week's work in the sun of South Africa. The poor lamb is flying with Emirates, so has to go via Dubai, which will add eight hours to his journey time. A visit to the Middle East is fine, I assume, if you can have a bit of time to explore the place, but if you’re just sitting in a departure lounge at shit o'clock in the morning feeling exhausted, the idea becomes considerably less appealing.

I dropped him off at Heathrow. I say dropped him off; I mean that I battled through broken London's appalling traffic chaos for 3 hours and nearly got us killed on the M25. To add insult to injury, we were even stopped by police, because one of our car’s back lights wasn’t working. It was a horrifying journey which has left me feeling both shaken and stirred.  Our goodbyes to one another were fairly fraught as a result, and the whole experience has left a rather bad taste in my mouth.

I came home, feeling dejected and missing Nathan, but fortunately Fiona was on hand with baked potatoes, and we had a good natter.

My blood test results came back today. I was passing the surgery, so popped my head in on the off chance. Quite how long they'd have left it before telling me I’d tested positive for Pertussis (Whooping cough) I don't know, and the receptionist couldn't make any sense of the report that had been sent, so merely printed it out and handed it over. Frankly, I could have been anyone! She didn’t ask for any identification. Still, I’m very pleased to officially know what's been so dreadfully wrong with me, but slightly angry at the same time that it took the doctors so long to spot it. It’s doesn't bode well for future diagnoses!

350 years ago, Pepys and Elizabeth called in on Lady Sandwich to show her the very handsome handkerchief that had been made out of the lace she insisted Pepys bought for his wife. In the afternoon they went to the theatre to see the second act of Davenant’s, The Siege of Rhodes. The journey home was something of an adventure, which I’ll leave Pepys himself to describe:

"The coach driving down the hill through Thames Street, which I think never any coach did before from that place to the bridge- foot, but going up Fish Street Hill, his horses were so tired, that they could not be got to go up the hill, though all the street boys and men did beat and whip them. At last I was fain to send my boy for a link, and so light out of the coach till we got to another at the corner of Fenchurch Street Fenchurch Street, and so home, and to bed."