A riot of purple and yellow

Ah! The sun! How good does it feel when the temperatures suddenly start to soar? Spring is finally here!

Nathan and I walked out of the house in coats and scarves and immediately broke into a sweat. Thermometers told us the headline news; it was 18 degrees and rising. Scores of people were walking up Southwood Lane towards the cemetery, all with the ambling quality of folk with nothing better to do in the world than simply wander in the sunshine. 

Gilbert and George were out and about, far away from their usual Shoreditch haunts, wearing matching tweed suits and rather silly hats. I assume they'd been to the second-hand book shop on Archway Road and were heading down the hill to ensconce themselves in a nice cafe with the Sunday papers. They wouldn't have been alone. 

We decided, on the spur of the moment, to head to Thaxted with a big bag of Sunday roast ingredients. It felt like our turn to cook for the parents. 

I made the full works; beautiful fluffy roast potatoes, five kinds of vegetables, leek cheese, a fabulous port gravy, apple pie... My Mum threw in a lentil bake and we ate like vegetarian kings! 

After literally stuffing our faces, we went for a walk across the fields behind the town. Daffodils lined the pathways, crocuses, primulas and even the beginnings of May blossom. It's so strange to see them all coming into bloom at the same time. Suddenly the British countryside has become a riot of yellow and purple. 

We walked for some time along a stream which was burbling with fast-flowing crystal-clear water. As if to gild the lily, two pure white ducks appeared from nowhere, sailing down the stream at high speed as though doing some kind of avian white water rafting stunt. 

The straw-coloured sun sank behind a wispy dark cloud on the horizon and the cornflower blue sky filled with hundreds of majestic vapour trails from aeroplanes riding those great circles to the States. 

Marvellous. Invigorating. The perfect end to a perfect spring day. 

Rain storms and cellos

There's something quintessentially British about sitting in a rain storm eating a chip butty isn't there? I found myself perched on a little wall in Muswell Hill doing just that at lunch time today with nothing but a cloth cap to keep me dry. Where was the whippet? I hear you cry! 

We were, as usual, promised a fairly decent afternoon weather-wise, so when the rain started pelting down, I was horrified - and stranded like a cow in a field.

To make matters worse, I was carrying my 'cello which isn't renowned as one of the most portable instruments. You can't make a dash for cover with that on your back, let me tell you! 

I was on my way to Llio's house where I was due to record some 'cello music for her new album.

After walking a mile to the nearest bus stop and waiting there for what seemed like hours, I eventually got on an appropriate bus. It was full of old ladies coming home from shopping and it smelt of pear drops, mouldy plastic rain hats and wee! 

The session at Lli's was somewhat hard going, largely because her music is so beautiful I wanted to do it properly, but also because we were working on a piece in a slow 12/8 time, which required the most astonishing amount of stamina. I felt incredibly exposed. 

I was recording in the upstairs bedroom with a cup of tea and a plate of Jaffa cakes whilst they were downstairs. At one point I was playing with a rainbow-coloured scarf over my nose to take away the sound of my sniffing: something I do rather a lot when I play, unfortunately.  I looked like the gayest member of Al Qaeda and Lli nearly wet herself when she saw me. 

I think I did alright, however, and once they've spliced together a few of the best takes I'm hoping they'll have something rather nice. Lli treated me to a taxi home, which was so kind of her. The driver was as perplexed about the weather as me, but he showed me a short cut around the back of Muswell Hill which I shall definitely use in the future, so that was nice. 

That's probably the lamest signing off for a blog ever, but I'm tired and really can't be bothered to think of something more profound! 

Crash!

I feel hugely uneasy about something tonight. Almost as though there's a kind of tidal wave on its way which is going to engulf us all. I can't explain my feelings in any other way. I have no idea where the emotion is coming from and I'm quite convinced it will pass. 

Today's been fairly hellish. I allowed myself a little lie-in to clear a headache from the night before, and just as I was sitting down to start work with a lovely cup of tea, I heard a wailing noise coming out of Nathan's mouth...

To cut a long story short, he'd run out of space on his computer, backed all his recent files up on a memory stick and then deleted the lot. Unfortunately, it transpired that the memory stick was corrupt, and that everything he'd put on it and then deleted from the computer was gone forever. Everything. Forever. His knitting patterns, the quiz questions, his filmed tutorials. Everything. 

He went into meltdown and I dragged him to the Mac Store in Covent Garden. I thought the clever people there would be able to reverse almost anything. I was wrong. They sent us to a data retrieval company in Tottenham Court Road, who couldn't help, but suggested a specialist company on the border of Cambridgeshire and Bedfordshire, more specifically, in the comically named village of Gamlingay, which I remember well from my childhood.

Nathan had to go to work, so the onus was on me to drive up the A1 and deliver the computer to the clever (expensive) people in Gamlingay. It was all a bit weird. I was greeted in a tiny, rather grotty vestibule, by a man who said he couldn't let me any further into the building because they were doing a "sensitive" job for the police. It all felt a little sordid; like I was depositing a computer which belonged to some kind of child killer. 

Gamlingay itself looked as I remember it 34 years ago: sleepy, misty, boringly quaint. We once went there, at the end of the 70s, on the eve of a big thunder storm. We obviously knew the storm was on its way, so rushed home to our house in the neighbouring town of Potton. A warm, strong, circular wind was blowing in the garden, accompanied by a rather apocalyptic sepia light. I was nervous because I hated loud noises. It's funny what you remember...

I drove through Potton on my way home; past the old oak tree at the end of the estate, which was the edge of our territory, past Les' Garage and past the Hollow from whence every year on Bonfire Night, I'd have to be taken home screaming because of the loud bangs. One year my Dad put me in a pair of enormous headphones apparently to block out the noise; it did no good. I ruined yet another bonfire night for the family!

I don't know when the fear of loud bangs passed... Actually, it's still there in the form of experiencing absolute terror when rock music or club music gets too loud... But that's more because going deaf would end my career! 

I made it back home at about 4pm, fully aware of the irony that my working week had both started and ended with lost days due to computer mayhem. God I hate technology!  (And loud noises...)

False memory

An interesting question was raised this morning when we discovered that some of the original London cast of Naked Boys Singing had requested that Nathan remove their names and any images of them in the show from his website. It seems slightly odd to me. Naked Boys Singing was a well-respected and rather charming show which wasn't in any way seedy. It was simply performed in the nude! 

That said, it seems some of the actors, who very proudly stripped off in the show on a nightly basis, no longer feel comfortable with the career decision they took back in 2009. Some are even claiming that  online images of them in the show are actually affecting their current career and indeed romantic prospects, which is very sad. 

Of course, attempting to rewrite one's past is a hiding to nowhere. Google "Naked Boys Singing" and there are pictures of the cast in Time Out, The Guardian and a host of blogs. Sadly, if the cap fitted in 2009, there will always be people who remember how good it looked!

My personal belief is that we make our choices and that we must stand by them because revisionism is dangerous. If Time Out refuse (as they will) to take the pictures down, do the actors take them to court, claiming that they were duped into having the publicity shots done, or forced into doing the show? When people don't get their way, they often default to "pity me" status. There's always someone else to blame for the decisions we make and huge cans of worms are opened up as the lies and cover stories begin to roll.

Personally speaking, I believe the past can only be embraced. You hold your hand up and say, "yes, that was me," and you nip an future exposés in the bud. Deny it all you like, but someone will always have an old programme hanging around in their loft. 

On that note, there's been a recent spate of people putting programmes from humiliating student drama shows on Facebook. It was Meriel's turn to be embarrassed yesterday, for publicly thanking the writer of the Yellow Wallpaper for giving her "inspiration an hope." "How pretentious was I?" said she. I instantly remembered walking around the York University campus barefoot in a kaftan, which is obviously a great deal more horrifying - particularly in the snow.They called me King Thesp, and there was a poem about me on the cubical door in the JCR toilets. 

..."You don't know the half of it", I said to Meriel.

Mortifying, yes, but I wouldn't lose those memories under any circumstances. They're part of the fibre of my being. They swim around the back of my mind in a sort of hazy, sun-bleached orb and one day, I'm quite sure, I'll have forgotten them entirely and in the process will have lost part of the essence of me. The kaftans, and crazy hair cuts, and slightly dodgy romantic liaisons are all part of me. And trying to erase them would somehow be denying my future. 

Exhilarated

I'm exhausted, and smell of the sort of sweat that only an adrenaline-fuelled studio session can generate!

We had our first session on the Pepys Motet project today with the tenors very firmly in the spotlight. These are, of course, famous last words, but I doubt it could have gone a great deal better... I feel rather elated. Those lucky enough to be musicians who regularly work in recording studios will know that there's nothing better than the buzz you get from a good session.

The day started with a proper early morning walk, to Muswell Hill, through a misty, magical Highgate Woods. My walking partner was the lovely Meriel, and we put the world to rights several times over, before reaching our breakfast destination; a greasy spoon just off Colney Hatch Lane. We polished off a couple of vegetarian breakfasts with extra halloumi before taking the back route home, along the Parkland Walk, as the sun started to burn through the mist. 

There's a stunning view over the city from up there. Under normal circumstances you can see all the way to Canary Wharf and beyond, but today it was like looking at a piece of reflective glass; a swirling mass of misty, sunny haze which threatened to destroy our retinas!

We walked through Queen's Wood, and were home by 11, whereupon I settled down to doing some writing.

At lunchtime I received the call that all composers dread; one of my tenor's voices was shot and he was unable to sing... 

Cue the major panic as Nathan and I called every tenor we could find to absolutely no avail. In the end, Christopher very kindly agreed to come in and do as much as he could and Nathan very speedily looked through the dots in case he was suddenly asked to step in. 

As it turned out, we were okay. Christopher's voice held out, probably as much to do with the fact that the style of music I write doesn't always require perfect vocals. I'm much more likely to opt for a take with a crack in it because I find it emotionally more engaging, and the Pepys is all about extended vocal technique, which hardly requires kosher singing. 

The five tenors in the piece make up a quarter of the full ensemble and they are universally red hot: Five utterly unique-sounding voices encompassing musical theatre, early music and opera styles, which for some reason blend rather wonderfully together. 

The session was lively, ran to time and everyone was as well-prepared as I could have hoped. Hurrah for them all... Although I've had too many cups of tea, so feel a bit jittery. 

I can't wait to get cracking on the next piece in the jigsaw now, which is a session with the basses in early May. We're taking small steps on this project. 

The only trouble with running sessions in South London is the ludicrously long tube journey home. Still, I guess, it's the perfect length of time for writing a blog! 

Sleep well readers. Enjoy. 

Exhausted

I'm properly cream crackered!. There's been much to do and I've steadily and bravely worked my way through the longest list in the world. 

I've been writing strings for a very nostalgic song in the White City series, and have thrown caution to the wind, allowing myself to write subtle dissonance and opening the door to experimentation and serendipity, which can sometimes be a wonderful thing. 

Nathan went off to his knitting night this evening, and instead of putting my feet up, I worked until he came home again, finessing the opening sequence of the film, which is this weird Bach/ rock fusion. It's coming together very nicely, although I couldn't find an end to the piece for love or money.

Meriel has just arrived and is staying the night with us after another London course with Gateway Women, which is the organisation for women who can't have children. We're catching up on news. Her dog, Berry, has just been adopted by new parents, and she's looking for a job and a lodger, so if anyone is looking for a room in Lewes, drop me a line.

Fiona emailed from a sunny Texas, where they're expecting enormous thunder storms. The weather here is less impressive, in fact it's rather grey and overcast, which is disappointing after such a beautiful weekend. 

I'm sorry. I'm boring myself. I promise that there will be more to say tomorrow. I have my first day of recording on the Pepys Motet tomorrow night. Exciting but scary. 

PC Hell

Today got off to a rather panicky start. My new computer was still glitchy, so I took it back to PC World at 9am. I was astonished to find an entirely empty store; not just devoid of customers, but completely without staff. There was no-one behind the tills. No-one in the "PC Know How" corner. There was a girl sitting behind the mobile phone counter - texting - who resolutely refused to acknowledge my presence, even when I started to film her! 

A man, carrying a hoover, eventually waddled over and explained that he was short of staff, and that it was company policy, in any case, for the engineers, who fix computers, not to come in until 11am "when it's busier." Sometimes the logic of the insane can be breathtaking. 

I went back at 11 and sat for an hour as they tried to find my name on the system, only to discover that there was no record of my ever having purchased the computer, or any insurance for it. After phoning my bank, it transpired that my name had been inputted into their system as Mr Benjamin and that as a result I didn't have effective insurance. To make matters worse, my broken computer couldn't be replaced because it was now out of stock. I was given a set of unsatisfactory alternatives. They could get an exact match for me in 3 days, possibly tomorrow, I could have a display version for a £10 reduction in cost, I could have a full refund (but no computer to work on) or I could have a computer with a worse spec for the same price. It was like a virtual version of Sophie's Choice.

I got desperate for the loo, but they wouldn't let me use the staff toilets so I was forced to wee behind a tree outside. 

Not good. Just not good. 

In the end I did a deal on a computer with half the memory of the one that had broken, but negotiated an extra storage unit thrown into the package, to make up for the short-fall in memory.  

I got back home, loaded all the absolutely necessary programmes onto my new computer, huffed and puffed a bit, ate some spaghetti on toast, and by the time I'd started work again, it was 3pm; a full six hours of my day wasted by ineptitude and the shambolic, disinterested  nature of PC World. 

It seems that Margaret Thatcher has died. It's a bit of an anti-climax, really. I've sort of imagined this day. I don't really like the thought of anyone dying, but she was, in my view, a desperate, ghastly, ruthless woman. I think history will view her as a unpleasant and probably impressive necessity, but I will never be able to forgive her for what she did to the miners and the teachers, and for that matter, the entertainment industry. I'm genuinely surprised that no-one, apart from the IRA ever took a proper pop at her, but then, by the end, she was just a silly old woman without any sense of the person she'd been in the 80s, so I guess there was little point in getting too worked up about her.

I am reminded of CND marches as a child, with hundreds of people screaming "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. Out Out Out." I genuinely grew up thinking she was an ogre. 

That said, I heard a priest on the radio this morning preaching forgiveness, not relating to Thatcher, but it did strike me that forgiveness is a noble thing. He also said, and this is probably the last time I'll quote a catholic priest in this blog, "we should all be aiming for the day when the power of love overcomes the love of power,"  which I thought was rather lovely. I loathed Thatcher, but respect her for having not just a vision, but the courage of her convictions to see it through. All subsequent British leaders have loved power too much to do anything other than try, at all costs, to remain in power. And that is surely worse?