The nicest folk on t'planet

Well, it's official. The Yorkshire folk are friendlier than ALL other people. All day today people have gone out of their way to help me, from the lady in Gregg's who practically walked me to the nearest Post Office this morning to the woman in the train station who just printed me out a train timetable for trips to Crossgates tomorrow. Politeness beyond the call of duty!

I am wandering the streets of Leeds this evening whilst listening to the London Requiem. It's a remarkably filmic experience. There's a bit of a gale blowing, and a light mizzle means the street lights and neon shop signs are reflecting on the dark Tarmac in a quite breathtaking manner. Like sparkling jewels in the darkness. Here a smudge of garish pink, there a deep purple ellipse. The traffic lights change and suddenly the world is green. 

My little hotel, The Discovery Inn, displays its name to the word outside the train station in beautifully illuminated letters. Sadly the first few have blown a fuse, so it would appear I'm now staying at the Overy Inn. Oh for the little "a" that would make it the Ovary Inn!!

So, this morning, I took myself to Leeds Minster to look at the plaques to the Leeds Pals in the lady chapel there. Later in the day I had a meeting with staff at BBC Yorkshire  to talk about the musical project. It reminded me of the first meeting we had about A Symphony for Yorkshire. It was even in the same room with many of the same people and the very same ratio of women to men, namely 8 to 1! 

The rest of the day has been about pottering. Reminding myself why I love Leeds and its people. 

It's so nice to hear the Requiem again and to have it blasting in headphones in my ear. It's a bloody good piece of music, you know. Obviously it's a little difficult for any composer to be objective about his or her work. We write what sounds good to our ears; what we find musically exciting or moving, however bizarre, old-fashioned, or dull it sounds to other ears. I can only say that I'm glad I wrote The London Requiem because it means I can listen to it on dark autumnal nights like tonight and feel proud! 

Barnbow

So here I am in the cheapest hotel in Leeds having had a marvellous day! The train journey was, unsurprisingly  awful. I don't know what it is with me and trains but lots of fat people got on with me at Kings Cross, and then one of them sat next to me, and properly hemmed me in. He sweated. I sweated. It was like being in a sauna. He got prayer beads out and started muttering. I didn't know where to look. The train came to a halt outside Peterborough and only dislodged itself 40 minutes later. Every announcement started "once again we apologise for the delay..." I heard every excuse from "heavy traffic on the rail diversion" to "planned engineering work lasting longer than expected..." (surely thereby making the planned engineering works unplanned engineering works?)

Anyway, we got there soon enough, I met Jeremy Walker, head of the National Youth Music Theatre, and we went to look at the Leeds Varieties Music Hall which has to be one of the most beautiful theatres I've ever seen. I instantly fell in love.

I checked into my hotel - just opposite the train station - which happens to have the most beautiful deep bath in it, thereby not just making it the cheapest hotel in Leeds but very much the answer to my prayers! Until the Internet, which cost £8 for 24 hours refused to work! 

A lovely lady called Carole picked me up from the train station at about 4pm and we drove out to the fields around Crossgates, which once housed an enormous munitions factory called Barnbow, where the infamous Barnbow Lassies hung out.  The weather threw everything at us; torrential rain, heavy wind, brooding purple and brown clouds and then beautiful sunshine as we got out of the car.

The Barnbow factory site was demolished in the 1920s and has slowly returned to nature. It's really very pretty. Rolling farmland for miles. A photographer from the Yorkshire Evening Post met us to take our photograph. The hope is that the good folk of Leeds will get behind my search for information about the Leeds Pals and the Barnbow Lassies. 

As we drove away from the site, I saw my first ever hare lolloping along the side of the road. It had unexpectedly large ears and didn't seem to be at all frightened of the car! 

We went back to Carole's house. She cooked me a wonderful omelette and a mushroom soup and I raided her mind for every piece of information I thought I might need. She also had maps and all sorts of things about the site itself. I liked her enormously.

I came back to my hotel, had a hot bath and am now exhausted. Time for bed.

Chip butties

We spent the day in Catford crafting and caking, with a HUGE emphasis on the caking! Julie produced an enormous caramel and orange thing which looked like the Cookie Monster until it collapsed under the weight of its own decadence! 

We chatted about ping pong, allotments, pear tarts, Russian homophobes, cabarets and jam. We ate incredibly tart blackberries and I tried not to pull my famous lemon face. Nathan span some wool, Julie's friend Cathy made a tapestry kneeler for church and the rest knitted waistcoats, blankets, cardies, phone socks and shawls. I watched on, smiling like my Grandmother in the early stages of Alzheimer's. 

On route to Catford, we stopped off in Hackney at the Tesco store where I'd had my bothersome incident a few weeks ago. I was met by the store manager, a bubbly Brummie called Stuart, who gave me a little envelope with a "gesture of good will" inside. I now consider the matter to be closed. Tesco's customer service department have been highly organised and polite throughout and I was hugely impressed by the friendliness of staff in the Morning Lane branch today. Hats off to a lovely girl in the bakery department, who, not knowing I was the shirty bugger who'd complained about their store, went out of her way to find me a lovely hot baguette, straight out of the oven, because I'd asked if there was any fresh bread. She very much brightened my day. The difference between good and bad customer service is minuscule and often merely comes down to a smile, as the charming lass on the checkouts comprehensively proved. 

Today's divine laziness ended with chip butties in front of the X Factor. Piles of chips were stuffed between slabs of buttered sliced white bread. Sometimes, as Tina tweeted, there's very little better than sharing chips with good friends. 

Epic

Today feels like it's lasted longer than any other day in my life. My feet ache, I'm soaking wet, but I feel very happy.

I was up with the lark and on the tube heading south before I'd worked out why I was awake at such a time. I was heading into town to meet my parents and we were going to the Pompeii and Herculanium exhibit at the British Museum, and what a sensational exhibition it is. Everything was decked out in the shape of a Roman villa and filled to the rafters with the most extraordinary artefacts which had been discovered in those tragic towns. Intricate glass vases, items of gold jewellery which shone like the sun, highly-coloured mosaics, extraordinarily erotic wall paintings. Everything took my breath away, in fact, I got rather tired of having to look so carefully at everything!

Of course, close up, it's the bodies which are the most moving things of all. Perhaps it's the knowledge that they are actually plaster casts of the space in earth where bodies had once been made them quite so distressing. Some hold their hands to their faces to protect themselves from the noxious gases and scorching air which killed them.  Those in Herculaneum literally evaporated as the hot air hit them. All died in agony. An entire family was found cowering in an alcove. There are no words.

So, from the British Museum, we went for chips and then wandered around the shops in Covent Garden. I found a jacket I liked. It cost £900. I put the jacket back. 

At 2pm we went to see Nathan in a workshop performance of a new musical, written by the guy who wrote the iconic theme tune to Rainbow. How glorious to be able to say that was you! 

The show was very well performed by the five cast members and very professionally presented, but something of a rough sketch which will need an overhaul if it's to go further. It was great to see Nathan sinking his teeth into a bit of serious acting though, and the 13-year old who played his daughter was remarkable. That's right! My boyfriend now plays fathers! 

We darted away from Covent Garden and hot-footed it, in ghastly rain, to White City for the premier of my film, which had been so beautifully organised by the team at BBC Outreach. There was a red carpet, a fire-eater, canopies, lovely trays of drinks, and the film's contributors were treated like the stars they are. 

The film went down incredibly well. Lots of cheering and clapping and laughter. My family came with Mo... and Philippa. Dear Nathan popped in on his way to his show tonight, which touched me hugely. Helen was there from Newcastle and people in the higher echelons of the BBC said lovely things about my work. Tick. Tick. Tick. I felt proud.

The deafening Thames

I did a long morning's work today, which found me putting finishing touches to this draft of the Pepys Motet, and writing a couple of the linking sequences which will go between the six movements. It struck me, when I listened back to the rather frenetic fourth movement, that I needed a few moments of static contemplation in the piece; a few solo sequences which sit in a very calm, simplistic space, both musically and in terms of focussing on one single, extended passage of writing. The key to these sequences  is stripping back, something for which I'm not exactly renowned. Today I wrote an entire sequence for two singers simply singing in thirds and fourths. I added a third voice to fill out the harmonies but something was wrong and I realised that I'd said everything I needed to say with just two of the 20 voices at my disposal. I saw this as evidence of maturity in my writing! 

To celebrate achieving everything I was hoping to achieve in half the time I expected to achieve it in, I decided to find my parents who were already in London to celebrate my brother's birthday this evening. 

I found them by the Cutty Sark in Greenwich and we strolled around the market together. It's a nice place to wander, if a little expensive, but I was horrified to find that my favourite cafe had been turned into one of the now ubiquitous Jamie's Italian restaurants. We ended up drinking a pot of tea in a pub in the absence of anything which looked like a decent cafe, which felt rather criminal for a place as pretty as Greenwich. I suspect it's the trouble with being south of the river. They're a distinctly rougher bunch down there, with less interest in noble pursuits like tea drinking. 

We walked through the acoustically surreal Greenwich foot tunnel under the Thames, before wending our way up the Isle of Dogs to Canary Wharf, which is where brother Edward both works and lives.

As we walked around the shiny, plastic-coated underground shopping malls, I found myself feeling a little panicky. I've never really liked that part of town. It feels soulless and more than a little over-crowded. When I worked there making corporate films, I always felt over-looked and over-heard. If I wanted to make a call to Nathan, for example, or have a row with a fellow film maker, there was always someone within earshot; someone who felt different to my tribe, someone who somehow wouldn't understand my need to run across Hampstead Heath, or swear, or refuse to wear a tie, or behave in an un-corporate manner. 

All these feelings came back to me as I wondered how far I'd be able to skid across the over-polished floor of one of esplanades. Yes, this place was not designed for the likes of me...

Still, on arriving at Edward and Sascha's house over-looking the beautiful Thames, I realised there was a very large up side to life on the Isle of Dogs. When the traders and bankers and the insurance specialists go home, a silence descends, and the sound of the river lapping against the Thames wall becomes almost deafeningly romantic. 

Sascha cooked a three course meal of exquisite beauty; halloumi wrapped in filo pastry with figs, a Thai curry and a blueberry soufflé. Decadent in the extreme! Perfect fodder. Happy Birthday Ted! 

Chips with everything

I've just had a lovely dinner with Ellie in Soho, after an equally lovely pot of tea for two followed by a walk with Fiona. The two over-lapped briefly as we picked Ellie up from Old Broadcasting House. Fiona was heading off to a rehearsal with Placebo. We ate in an Italian in restaurant on Old Compton Street. Ellie had pizza, I had pasta, and we shared a bowl of chips, a salad and a lemon tart!

It's raining and my feet are soaking wet. It seems I must embrace the concept of always having soggy feet, as I don't possess a pair of shoes without holes. I don't think I ever will, as it seems no matter how much money I spend on footwear, I've trashed whatever I buy within days. I walk funny and have wide, flat feet: what more can I say?

I got up even earlier than normal today, determined to do a full morning's work on the Pepys Motet. The mornings are cold at the moment, however, and the boiler had stopped working, which meant there was no hot water. On the bright side, I found a tenner in my dressing gown, so felt fairly pleased with myself as my gnashers chattered! 

I'm taking a few days away from researching the musical so that what I've learned so far can begin to sink and thoughts about the show itself can start to surface. These thoughts  might lead me in a specific direction for the last few days of information gathering. I feel I have a firm grounding in the subject, however, and will be more than ready to start the writing process in early October when I'm back from the trenches. 

Our war against the moths continues. Nathan, in a fit of pique, has now boiled all of his socks. Sadly some of the colours have run, but there's not going to be eggs or nasty larvae anywhere in sight. He's made little pockets for the drawers, soaked in a blend of lavender, cedar and rosemary oils - which we're told the moths hate - and his stash of yarn has been stuck in bags and put in the freezer. Boil em. Freeze em. Drown em. Suffocate em. Smoke em out. These moths must die!

Wood Shame

I’ve worked excessively hard all day today and can’t wait to sit down in front of the Great British Bake Off on iPlayer. I had a very interesting chat with my friend Shannon about this particular show at Jem’s party yesterday. She isn’t enjoying this series as much, because she claims it’s already “left her behind.” She reckons in the first few weeks of the last series everything that they gave the contestants to do was achievable by any amateur baker across the country. We enjoyed watching the early stages because we could imagine being able to do what they were doing ourselves. This year they went in with weird egg-shaped meringues, floating in god-knows what and covered in towers of spun sugar and she simply threw her hands in the air and went “as if!” I kind of see her point, although nothing would stop me from enjoying that brilliant show, and I wouldn’t know how to bake even a basic sponge, so I watch the contestants in awe whatever they’re making.

I drove Nathan to Wood Green this afternoon to deliver something to the council office there, and had a bit of a nostalgia fest walking through the Morrison’s, which was our cut-through from the tube to Mountview Drama School. I was there for a year in the mid-90s, which seems like a phenomenally long time ago. I wonder if people look at me yet and think I look like an old man.

Anyway, Wood Green is absolutely horrific these days; really rough around the edges and filled with sad-faced, angry-looking people who shuffle around the shops miserably.

I’m rather relieved to discover that Michael Le Vell has been found innocent of child sex offenses  because I think it will make people think twice before jumping on this “a celebrity abused me when I was 12” band wagon. I think it’s got to a stage now when anyone who can prove they were alone with a famous person at some point in their youth is eligible to have a go at getting a bit of compensation. It makes it very complicated for children who genuinely have been abused by adults, but we must not enter a world where the stories that young people tell are believed as a matter of course, or because somebody thinks it’s inappropriate for them to be cross-questioned. I also feel that the identities of those who are accused of these sorts of crimes should be protected until a verdict is reached. Michael Le Vell’s private life was smeared all over the media and ripped apart in court, and this is simply not fair.