Don't say pardon, say Surrey

Cold still ticking along nicely, I was up with the lark in order to go to Brookwood in Surrey. This particular away day had been planned for about a month. Its purpose was for Penny, Jan and I to get together and thrash out some ideas for the films we’re making about the London Requiem later in the year. Jan happens to live in Brookwood, near Woking, which is also home to the UK’s largest cemetery, so we thought we might kill a few birds with one stone. Brookwood Cemetery is known as a little piece of London in Surrey on account of its being the resting place of thousands of Londoners, who were buried here when cemeteries in the capital became too full. The place is a mass of little roads and hedges which create pockets of graves for different religions, army regiments and London parishes. There was even a special train, the eerily named Necropolis Express, which brought coffins and mourners direct from Waterloo station as late as 1941, when its terminus was destroyed by a bomb. A special package deal included all funeral costs, along with tea and cake in the cemetery's cafe after the burial.

I took Penny and Jan to look at the former Necropolis Express station, which is now in the garden of a monastery, where four long-bearded, kindly-faced monks look after the 11^th Century remains of Edward the Martyr. There were five monks, but the fifth is currently in a rest home. I had a lovely chat with one chap, who seemed genuinely interested to hear about the Requiem. I asked him if he’d been bothered by the forest fire which ravaged a fair chunk of the cemetery’s outer wooded areas two days ago, but he said, apart from a bit of smoke, he hadn’t really noticed anything out of the ordinary.

We took a few minutes to make a pilgrimage to the enigmatically named Yasi’s grave, whose epitaph “and we laughed and laughed and laughed” has moved so many of the people who have read about the London Requiem.

This particular part of Surrey is very intriguing, and not altogether settling. As we left London, Penny explained that she’s always slightly freaked out by the trees in the area because “they hide so much.” I had no idea what she was talking about until I stepped off the train and was immediately confronted by said trees. Dark, menacing, whispering trees. It’s very curious. For mile after mile, whole winding streets of 1960s and 70s houses sit within enormous pine forests. The trees are so tall and so dense that there’s never a sense of what’s going on behind them, and the general sense is one of oppression and claustrophobia. There are no open spaces. It feels a little bit like Wisteria Lane in Desperate Housewives, and I’m sure very strange things go on within some of those houses perched within the trees...

Still, we did a good day’s work, and really started to build a sense of how the films might look. It's a hugely exciting project, really.

Tonight I went to see Nathan doing a cabaret. He sang one of my songs, which was a genuine honour because he sang it beautifully. He did a 7-song set which included a virtuoso display of yodelling, an extended period of scat and a song from Yentl. My boyfriend – totally versatile!

The end of the evening was marred by the news that my close friend Nat’s Dad had died. David Walter was a great father, a life long Liberal and a very decent bloke. We always got on very well. He was one of those very present friend's Dads and I stayed with him on a number of occasions. I took many photos of him and his family over the years and would like to end this blog with one of my favourites.

You were a good man, David Walter. You deserve a good rest.

The 30^th March, 1662 was Easter Sunday, and Pepys went to church in his newly furbished black suit with his boy Wayneman in a newly trimmed uniform, which we’re told was very handsome. There was a good shoulder of veal for lunch, nicely dressed by Jane and handsomely served, which made Pepys very happy to have her back in the fold. Good weather? Check. Evidence of social climbing? Check. Lobster for supper? Check. Life was good. For Jesus too, who was making a comeback...

I drove to Heathrow in rush hour traffic to pick Nathan up. The 20 mile drive took longer than Nathan's flight from the south of France. 

The car is also almost completely out of petrol, which is not a good thing in the present climate. Those reading this from outside the UK will be thrilled to hear that the people who drive petrol tankers are threatening to go on strike, and, as a knee-jerk reaction, the government has told everyone to fill up. One minister went as far as to suggest filling up a few billy cans as well to store in a garage. This practice has been condemned by the fire brigade as potentially dangerous, and possibly even illegal. Apparently the tanker drivers need to give a week's notice before they strike, so I can only assume the government's scaremongering tactics are either an attempt to whip up a bit of hatred for the drivers so that they can be more hard-line when it comes to negotiations, or an attempt to line the coffers before a sudden drop in fuel prices which they know about but we don't. It now costs £82 to fill our car with petrol. 

I sat and wrote in Highgate Woods today, and the place was rammed. Heaven knows where all the people had come from, and why none of them were at work. 

There were braces of yummy mummies with ghastly middle class children running riot. One of them kept throwing a ball at me. It hit me three times, on my knee, my shoulder and then right in the balls.  Every time it happened, my smile became a little bit more forced as I threw it back. I kept looking over at his Mum in the hope she'd bring a halt to the game, but she merely smiled inanely, feeling that special rush of maternal adrenaline because he'd learnt to throw the friggin' ball. Clever Tarquin. You know he's brighter than any of the other children in the NTC? The health worker says he's a miracle. He's actually in the 112th percentile. They invented 12 extra points just for him. You can hear her words floating over the heads of all the other yummy mummies because they're so deeply engrossed in their own worlds, wondering if Mopsy and Froo are eating more than the recommended daily amount of sugar and hoping their breast milk tastes nicer than anyone else's. They try to talk about something else but their previously brilliant minds have turned to  mush. They've  wanted their babies for so long, and love them so much that they can't possibly comprehend that Tarquin might not be the centre of everyone else's existence. It's understandable, but what these obsessive mothers sometimes forget is that there are women out there, desperate for children of their own, some of whom have lost babies, others of whom have sacrificed having children for the sake of their careers, and they have friends who want to talk about their own achievements outside the field of child-rearing! I have the same issue with brides - but at least that's just for one day! 

What I don't understand is that many women manage perfectly well to exist both as fabulous mothers and fabulous human beings. Many of my friends seem to get the balance just right. I blame books. We can't all be super hero mothers as prescribed by American women who seem to find the time to make quilts and four course dinners for their fat moustachioed, red-faced husbands alongside rearing 5 children. I think the first step towards fabulousness is realising that no one's perfect and the second step is realising that no one actually cares! 

Friday 28th March, 1662, was good Friday, and Pepys stayed at home all day, singing and eating by all accounts. I wonder if the sun went behind a cloud at 11am? Or is it 2pm? Does anyone else know this particular old wive's tale? Something to do with Jesus, I think. The sun disappears to commemorate his death. Of course, the one time I thought to check, it vanished right on cue! 

Being a tit

I woke up this morning with a full-on cold again, which I assume is some kind of continuation of the illness I had last week. I am relieved in a way, that something has manifested, as I didn’t like the random glandy thing that was going on before. I assume I've begun to resemble a hamster and daren’t look in the mirror.

Nathan is in the South of France, and I am wildly jealous – although he seems to be in Toulouse, which can’t be the nicest place in the world to visit at the moment, following those terrible shootings.

The weather is now ridiculously hot; completely insane for this time of year. They had the hottest ever March day in Scotland yesterday, which I’m surprised to hear reached well into the 20s. I took myself to Highgate Woods for an hour or so and sat on a bench writing music.

The blissful moment was rather spoilt by some argy bargy with someone at the BBC in Manchester. There were a few niggling issues hanging about (some of which appeared rather major on the face of things), and the conversation reached a speedy impasse, which tends to be the way of things when a freelancer talks to someone in an institution! There are ways, I'm told, of dealing with issues, which countless "away days" and courses can help you to understand. Unfortunately, I saw red and immediately shot from the hip, firing rounds of unnecessary sarcasm at the person I was talking to. It’s actually one of the aspects I hate most about myself, but I suppose I’ve learnt over the years that the nicely-nicely approach tends to get ignored. I’m sad to report that it was only after I’d had my little barny today that a perfectly polite email sent a week ago on the same subject was finally answered. I certainly don’t enjoy playing the Wickedest Witch of the West, but it's a role which seems to come rather easily when my face starts to get a little hot.

My touch papers often end up getting lit when the mouthpiece of an organisation refuses to take responsibility or apologise for something going wrong within the ranks. I’m afraid I went into meltdown when this particular person offered to “do me a favour” by sorting the problem. “You’re not doing me a favour” I spat, “you’re doing whoever caused this mess a favour....” And I probably should have added that by sorting the problem, they'd simply be doing their job! Obviously I wasn’t anything like as articulate as that. I spluttered like a broken oil can and, no doubt, made things a great deal worse.

Anyway, I sent an email apologising for being a tit. The person I was rude to, was thoroughly professional, and sorted the problem in a business-like manner, so with any luck we’re all square now.

March 27^th 1662 was a Thursday, and Pepys went by coach in the wind and rain to Deptford with the two Sir Williams. They took a cod and some prawns purchased at Fish Street with them, no doubt, a little snack for the journey. They went to settle the debts of a ship called The Guernsey, which were long overdue. The situation had become so bad for the sailors on board, that many had been forced to borrow what was due to them, at incredibly high rates of interest to the extent that “many of them had very little to receive at the table, which grieved me to see it.”

The return of Jane

I’m not well at the moment. I have a pain in the back of my jaw, in my throat or somewhere in that general area. I can’t really put my finger on it. It’s plainly a gland of some sort, but I’m not used to glands being so painful. It’s been hurting for a few days now, and it’s possibly getting worse, so I’ll have to keep an eye on it. I woke myself up this morning by biting the back of my tongue with my enormous brontosaurus teeth, which are so large and flat that my dentist once laughed at me. I think I only have 24 teeth compared to, I think, the 32 which most people have. I hurt myself, but I digress...

It’s been a hugely frustrating day. I’ve spent hour after hour sorting out the brass band parts for the York anthem. Every time I write for this particular ensemble, I realise how woefully inadequate all music-writing software is when it comes to the eccentricities of brass band scoring. They're like like no other ensemble; the instruments that play within brass bands are scored differently when they feature in orchestras or other type of band. The surrealist quirk (without wanting to get too technical) is that brass band tubas (of which there are two sorts) play in the treble clef, so in some instances you end up having to transpose an instrument by more than two octaves. It’s all very confusing – and a little bit ridiculous if I'm honests - but it's made infinitely worse by the music software programmes which universally refuse to acknowledge these age-old traditions.

The Hattersley films are being broadcast this week in the North West, and it feels very strange not to be up in Manchester whilst all the interviews and publicity is taking place. Apparently Jean Taylor, whose film was aired tonight, had a whale of a time in the BBC studios and came across brilliantly well on the radio.

Despite feeling a bit ropey, I took myself out for a jog this evening. It was the first fresh air I’d had all day, and it was a much-needed tonic. I jogged across the heath, and managed to time it so that, as I burst out into the first open space, the blood-red sun sank beneath a row of trees. Suddenly, it looked like everything was on fire, and I imagined I was flying – aided hugely by the stirring Icelandic Eurovision song which happened to be playing on my iPod! I suspect because we tend to gulp in more air when we’re running, I'm often acutely aware of the smells I’m jogging through. On the heath at this time of year they are particularly potent; blossoms and dust, mud, and green shoots crashing into me like enormous waves of medicince.

A funny thing just happened at my local corner shop. I walked in to buy some Ribena, and the man behind the counter pointed at me and said; "you're in the Ham and High! Are you a writer?" He rushed over to the pile of newspapers and opened one up, and, sure enough, there I was, standing in front of the Fleet Singers, being described as "A BBC composer." It's quite a nice little piece - and I'm pleased it was in the Ham and High, because that's the newspaper I used to find all my information.

Wednesday 26^th March, 1662 marked the 4^th anniversary of Pepys’ operation to have a stone the size of a ping pong ball removed from his bladder. He genuinely was very lucky to have survived the experience (as are we, for he’d not started writing his diary when it happened.) As has become something of a tradition, Pepys threw a “pretty” dinner for a group of friends who included his favourite cousin, Jane Turner. There was a brace of stewed carps, six roasted chickens, a jowl of salmon, two neats’ tongues, cheese and a “tanzy” which I think is some kind of pudding, named after the flowering herb tanacetum. They spent the afternoon singing and playing the flageolette. They even brought a chef in to do the cooking. Jane Birch was drafted in to help out, and was rewarded with a full-time job at 3l per year - a pretty hefty amount for a servant in those days.

Re-gift Autist

We're traveling along the M25, on our way back from Lewes. The moon is the merest sliver in the sky. We've been with Meriel and Hilary all day, enjoying the sunshine in East Sussex.

I felt very guilty having to wake Nathan up this morning: he's been working ridiculous hours recently, and could've done with a longer lie in. I went out and bought croissants and orange juice, in the hope that the smell of freshly-baked pastries would wake him up with a smile on his face. It didn't seem to do the trick: he's been like the walking dead all day. He also seems to have lost all filters and become a little bit autistic. At one point today, he gleefully pointed out to Hilary, that I had re-gifted one of my Christmas presents and given it to her son, Jago.
He didn't seem to notice my frantic signalling to get him to shut up! Still, it does seem to have become one of Jago's favourite toys.

We arrived at Hilary's, and immediately sat down to a delicious lunch of gnocchi with spinach and broccoli, ricotta and Parmesan cheese. Recipes at the end of the programme.

Jago seems like a very happy chap, and it was a pleasure getting to know him. He's been brought up with a lot of music in his life, and every day, his mum plays the piano and sings to him. This can only be a good thing, and will ensure happiness for the rest of his life. Today, Hilary introduced us to a song by Samuel Barber, that none of us knew, but was absolutely delightful.

We drove in convoy to Tide Mills, which is a deserted village on the south coast, that we visited last summer. It's a curiously atmospheric place, with a shingle beach slipping down to the seafront. Rabbits run around in the ruins of what was probably quite a large village. To reach the beach, you have to cross over a railway line. It's completely unspoiled: there's not an ice cream van, or a bucket and spade shop in sight. We discovered the perils of paddling in the sea in March. When your feet are frozen solid, it's almost impossible to navigate a shingle beach, because every pebble feels like a needle in the sole of your foot. We ate Jaffa cakes and drank Ribena, as the sun began to set.

We went back to Meriel's house, for tea, and ate a communal meal of lentil and carrot soup, with crushed potatoes.

As this is being typed, we're driving along the section of the A40, where all the street lights become really really short, as we pass the end of the runway at RAF Halton. I've always found this to be a rather unusual sight, particularly at night, when driving through it becomes something of an optical illusion, which could induce epilepsy!

On the 25th of March, 1662, Pepys wrote such a short and boring entry in his diary, that several editions of the work omitted it all together. In simple terms, he sat in his chambers all day, writing letters, while the two Sir Williams discussed victualling.

Side burns, nuts and dildos

I'm on the Southbank sitting in the Royal Festival Hall foyer on a sofa with a lovely cup of tea and a chocolate brownie. Fiona is sitting next to me with a mound of nuts glued together with honey in a pastry casing. The doors are open and a light breeze is blowing in from the Thames.

It's been beautiful in London today. Everyone's out on the streets. Kids in Highgate were selling toys in their front gardens for extra pocket money. Someone was setting up an impromptu pergola and decorating it with beautiful purple ribbons. I jogged over the Heath after lunch and the sun almost burned the end of my nose.

Fiona and I had a wonderful walk along the South Bank. There are 200 beautifully-decorated eggs on plinths all over town and we've had a lot of fun trying to find them. One was even hanging from the roof of the Purcell Rooms! I love London when it does this sort of thing. They did it with pianos a few years ago and then giant cows.

Fiona has just told me the funniest story about a mutual friend of ours who was in the loo back stage at the Royal Festival Hall. She heard a clutter as the woman in the next door cubical dropped something. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something rolling underneath the cubical wall, and assumed it was a roll of loo paper. Imagine, therefore, her surprise, and horror, when she looked down to find a DILDO rolling up to her feet.

The story made me howl with laughter. Our friend spent twenty minutes outside the loo waiting to see who it was who'd  been doing unspeakable things in the loo. The likelihood was that it was someone she was working with. Sadly, she never appeared. She's probably still in there, trying to get over the shame!

Another one of Fiona's friends saw a dildo going round and round on a baggage carousel in an airport. Apparently no one commented. One assumes it was never claimed!

The clocks go back tonight, so we lose a precious hour of sleep. Apparently they went back last week in the US, so Fiona has lost two hours in as many weeks!!

350 years ago, Pepys wrote an incredibly entertaining diary entry, which is probably worth reading in full at some point.

Former servant girl, Jane Birch reappeared from the country and Pepys vowed to "have her again", which often meant he wanted a bit of how's your father, but in this particular instance it probably meant he wanted her back in his employ.

Elizabeth Pearce "La Belle Pearce" called in at Pepys Tower with a pair of "perouques", or artificial curly sideburns, which were becoming the fashion du jour. In later years it became fashionable to wear blonde curls even if the wearer was brunette; the cause of many arguments between Pepys, who thought his wife looked ridiculous when she started wearing them. Pepys wasn't a big fan of the look and only agreed to allow his wife to wear them because they'd been fashioned out of her own hair.

Pepys and both Elizabeths travelled into town via the river and got into an awful pickle in the rapids under London Bridge. There was an unexpected change in the tide just as their boat approached the famous land mark and the two women were traumatised by the experience.

Chocolate digestives

They've changed the lay out of King's Cross Station. You emerge from the tube, and all sorts of people wearing black, white and yellow, looking every bit like they work for charities, start ushering you to a brand new, and rather fancy entrance round the side. I'm sure it will be very attractive, but when you're running late for your train, and have planned - to the very last detail - how you're going to pick up your tickets and jump like an Olympiad onto the train, it all becomes a tad stressful. I ran around like Anneka Rice asking anyone who would listen where the ticket office was...

The newly refurbished East Coast trains now have a priority seat. A sign attached to the window reads, "please offer these seats to a disabled person." I was confused to note that the seat in question had been reserved from Peterborough. So here's the question. If you reserve yourself a ticket, and the powers that be decide to place you in a priority seat, are you meant to stand up if a disabled person hovers? Do they only reserve these particular seats for people with special needs? Answers on a post card...

Actually, I decided to ask the train guard, who told me if the seat is booked in your name, you don't have to stand up for anyone. Which raises an important question. Why have the seat in the first place?

I came to York today to do a media call for the Ebor Vox project, which involved a few photographs in a beautiful room overlooking St Helen's Square, better known as the home of Betty's Tea Shop. 

The photographer went a bit arty, and instead of looking at the camera, asked us to look out of the window, which I'm expecting will make us look like we're in some kind of 1960s film about zombies. On the bright side there were chocolate half-covered digestives!

I got to meet Gary today, whose words I've been setting to music for the past four weeks. He's actually from Durham, which rather proves my theory that an outsider will often shine a brighter light on a location. Like me, he came to York to study. His poem is sensual. My favourite line relates to the smell of chocolate on the breeze, which I remember experiencing for the first time just after I'd arrived in the city. It was a curiously romantic aroma. The smell of Easter Sunday. I think someone born in York wouldn't necessarily think to mention the phenomenon. It would just be something they simply grew up with, like the smell of beer in Biggleswade, or the cloying stench of offal trucks in my home town in Northamptonshire. 

We played Gary and his charming girlfriend the anthem on my computer. I sincerely hope they both enjoyed what they heard. 

It's been a day of playing the anthem to people. I have a splitter for headphones which means multiple people can gather around my computer whilst watching the manuscript floating past. It seemed to be very well-received, which was a massive relief, although not entirely unexpected as I'm very proud of the music I've written. 

York, as always at this time of year, looked beautiful in the sunshine. The city walls were a mass of daffodils and many of the trees in Museum Gardens were covered in pink and white blossom. 

350 years ago, Pepys went from church to Sir William Batten's house where he ate a number of "boiled great oysters." Eugh! Perhaps unsurprisingly they didn't agree with him and he was "forced to vomit" them up again before lunch. There are no words... 

That night the poor maid Sarah's ague continued with a period of fitting, which Sam and Elizabeth were forced to deal with before bed.