Quinoa

I worked with Philippa in a cafe in Old Street this morning. I think we could have maybe been a little more productive. I was a little distracted by the music they were playing; old school soul with those really indulgent vocals which hardly blend into the background! I was wearing headphones, and the music seemed to be creeping into them, and rolling around my ears in a boomy, echoey hell zone!

We did about an hour's work before heading back to Philippa's house where she packed a suitcase for a weekend away at her mother's in Wales. She showed me the heartbreaking little bag which her daughter Silver had packed for herself. It's amazing what kids of that age consider special: a little note pad and a pile of pretty plastic jewellery! 

I made dinner. Quinoa, celery, tomatoes, carrots and onions fried with a load of halloumi. Profoundly delicious. We then went off to Silver's nursery where the kids were doing an Easter egg hunt. We used to do Easter egg hunts in the garden of my Grannie's house. My Grannie used to create little nests out of margarine tubs and straw, which she'd fill with Cadbury's Cream Eggs. For some reason they were always more delicious than any of the other eggs we were given.

I'm still not totally sure what Easter is all about. I got very confused last year when I learned about Zombie Jesus. I'd hitherto thought that Big JC flew down to heaven on Easter Day. How was I meant to know that he'd lived amongst us in a creepy undead sort of way for all that time. It's an odd thing to want to celebrate isn't it?

I worked in the afternoon at Jackson's Lane where a number of female opera singers were obviously auditioning for something. I could hear the top notes reverberating around the building like some sort of desperate theramin. I know opera sopranos are hugely impressive creatures but they leave me as cold as ice. Massive vibrato covering up really dodgy intonation. I've never understood why people consider the sound to be so beautiful. It's just loud and high. They were all dolled up to the nines as well, in a way which hardly gave the impression that they thought acting was an important piece in the jigsaw of performance!

I worked till about 7, when I hit upon a moment in the Nene piece which felt like a good place to take a rest. I've forensically made my way through all but percussion instruments from the start until about 9 minutes into the piece. The end will take me a lot longer because everyone's going hell for leather, but I'm probably in a fairly good shape to show the piece to the commissioners next Tuesday if I work solidly on Sunday and Monday.

Local news for local people...

I had a meeting at Trinity School yesterday, which involved getting up slightly earlier than I probably would have done after a mega-day like Wednesday. I was pretty tired all day as a result, but I've realised that if life isn't about adventures and new experiences, you're utterly lost. The moment you start to fear tiredness is the moment you need to start reappraising life itself.

I reached Greenwich a bit early, so took myself down to the River Thames to see if it would inspire my Nene composition. Obviously the Thames pales into deep insignificance when compared to the Nene, but it is a sweepingly beautiful and deeply epic river, especially up towards Greenwich. It was a beautiful day, the tide was out, and a great beach on the southern bank revealed the wooden and stone foundations of long gone piers and jetties. I sat on a bench writing in the soft spring air, the smell of freshly mown grass filling my nostrils, and the sound of a trumpeter at the academy echoing in the distance.

The meeting was fine. We were talking about the mentoring project I did with the Trinity students some weeks back. Various other mentors were there, and we were all crammed around a giant table in a tiny room. It was very hot in there. As I left, I realised that there was a thin film of sweat on my forehead.

On my way home, I read a couple of articles in the Metro, somewhat amused by a new journalistic phrase which appears to be reserved for non London-centric stories. So, for example, if someone in Birmingham has been stabbed and killed, they'll talk about, "the victim, named locally, as John Smith." Named locally? It strikes me that the word "locally" is entirely irrelevant in this context. Are "local" people so profoundly stupid that they can't be relied on to tell the truth when it comes to someone's name? If it's possible to be named locally, can one also be named nationally? Or globally? Will someone's name change under different naming circumstances? If the truth is simply that some of the neighbours have suggested a name which hasn't yet been confirmed by police, a) don't name him in the bloody press and run the risk of relatives hearing devastating news in the cruelest manner or b) say "the victim, said to be John Smith..." I read two articles and both used this somewhat bizarre turn of phrase. This is local news for local people...

I worked through the afternoon and into the evening, forcing myself to stop for a bath and my tea at 8.30pm. The forensic work on the Nene piece seems to be taking forever!

The longest day in the world

Today was very much the day that kept on giving. In the background the whole nonsense of Theresa May triggering Article 50 has been somewhat kept at bay by my being entirely unable to look at a television or even check my emails. I'm not going to dwell on it. It's too depressing a thought, largely because it's also our third wedding anniversary. What I will say is that, exactly three years ago, when I walked down the (theatre) aisle with my husband, I felt like I was living in a country which had turned the corner towards openness. Three years on, I feel like we've reversed back round it at top speed. I shall eternally hate Theresa May for choosing my wedding anniversary as the day to do her wicked deed.

Our day started at 5am. 5am! Imagine that! We jumped into the car and drove to a fancy hotel right next to Heathrow Airport. It was one of those curiously laid-out hotels where the car park is miles underground and the reception is in the middle of a shopping mall!

Nathan and I had been booked to do some work with a hugely important charity called the "Buddy Bag Foundation" who create little ruck sacks filled with gifts for young people who end up in women and children refuges across the UK. These kids often turn up in these frightening places in the middle of the night, at very short notice, in nothing but the clothes they're standing up in. The bags are filled with age and gender appropriate things which might cheer them up a little. Colouring crayons. Note pads. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A little photo frame for a special picture which might have been hastily shoved in a bag in the process of escaping a scene of domestic violence. The bags are all topped with a teddy bear, so when the kids open them, it's the first thing they see.

Delegates at the conference we were working on were helping to pack the bags, and seeing the piles of teddies and crayons on trestle tables was heart-breaking. Such simple, inexpensive little things. A smile distilled. The thought that those bags would be opened by potentially terrified children was a great deal more than I could deal with and I had to disappear for a little cry. It's such an important charity. I urge all readers to look into it.

We finished work at noon and leapt into the car. The next port of call was the New Ambassadors Theatre in Central London for the graduation showcase of third year students at Trinity School. I knew three of them: Tom and Jack from the original cast of Brass, and Emyl who was one of the writers I mentored recently. All of them did themselves proud. In fact, I was pretty impressed by the entire year. I have a strong suspicion that Trinity is on the up as a training ground for musical theatre performers. It was a well-timed, well-put-together lunchtime of entertainment which served as a great showcase for all the students. It was rather fun being back at the New Ambassadors theatre. I worked there as the stage door keeper for three years in the late 90s, and know the space like the back of my hand. The stories I can tell you about that place will be reserved for my memoirs on a day when I'm feeling particularly brave and know my parents aren't reading!

We literally ran out of the theatre, jumped into a cab (I don't think I've been in a black cab for five years) and hot-footed it to St James' Theatre in Victoria, which has been recently re-named as "The Other Palace" on account of its proximity to Buckingham Palace and its new-found association with Lord Lloyd Webber, king of musical theatre.

We were there to see a rehearsed reading of Dougal Irvine's new show, Angry Birds, which is a sort of rocky retelling of the story of the Pankhurst Women, imagining all of the suffragettes as actual birds. It shouldn't have worked but I think there's a captivating show in there which really ought to be performed by all sorts of youth groups, if for no other reason than to remind young women about the importance of using their vote.

Dougal writes such interesting music. I think perhaps it's because he's a guitarist that the sonic choices he makes can often be really daring and unusual. He's certainly one of the leading lights of the group of British writers who, like me, are fighting like mad to break through the glass ceiling on top of which Gary Barlow presently sits so smugly!

The piece was performed by highly-talented students on the Mountview Foundation course and directed with subtlety by the incomparable Hannah Chissick.

There was a lovely bunch of characters in the theatre bar afterwards including producers Danielle Taranto and Katie Lipson, Jezza from NYMT, Han, Chris and Maeve (who have variously performed material from Em), Ben from the pop group A1 and the actor Mike Jibson. We sat around for so long that we realised it would only be polite to stay in the theatre and watch their evening show, namely The Wild Party. That would be our third show of the day!

And what a show! I was blown away by its energy and sexual voracity. Drew McOnie's choreography is world class. In fact, it felt somewhat appropriate to be watching his handiwork on the anniversary of our wedding, which he also choreographed.

The cast were superb. It was almost as though Drew had said "your previous ten is our new one and you have to build your characters from there up." Frances Ruffelle was extreme, brave, majestic and actually really moving as Queenie, but the entire cast was hugely committed to the loucheness and decadence of the era. The entire piece felt incredibly authentic and I was really proud to see former NYMT-er Gloria Obianyo delivering a virtuoso performance as Phil. It's a great, great show which I heartily recommend.

As though our day hadn't lasted long enough, we returned to Highgate via the tube, jumped in the car and drove up to Alexandra Palace. It's a little ritual we've developed over the years.

It's such a bizarre place at night. I've written about it in this blog before, but tonight has convinced me that it's a hot-bed for dogging. We pulled up in front of a car which was entirely steamed over and behind a car which had no-one in the front seat but the headlights on. As we walked away from our car, we heard a thud, which turned out to be said car gently rolling into the car in front. A minute or so later, two flush-faced people got out of the back of the car to survey the damage! One assumes that a certain type of activity in the back seat caused the car to start rolling!

Speaking of rolling, as we stood in front of the rose window to pose for our customary anniversary selfie, we were almost engulfed by clouds of dope! Ah! The young people of North London!

We walked back to the car via the road, revelling in the rich, dusty smell of blossom trees. They were in similar full bloom this time three years ago, but for the past two years bad weather has delayed their appearance.

A long, beautiful day! Largely because I've avoided the news!

Brexit vs Legsit

I worked most of the morning and early afternoon in Costa Coffee. I'm now doing forensic work on the Nene composition, which involves diving into the piece and looking at it section by section, part by part. It's the sort of work you can sit and do for long periods of time without coming up for breath, and it was 3pm before I realised I had to stop for lunch.

At a certain point I found my eyes drifting over to the rack of newspapers they have in the cafe and saw, to my great disgust and horror, the Daily Mail's lead story. It showed a picture of Nicola Sturgeon and Theresa May, photographed from below with their legs on display. The headline read "never mind Brexit, who won Legs-it?" The article, one assumes, discusses the merits of each woman's legs. I don't even understand the pun.

It is offensive for so many reasons. Aside from being hideously sexist in a Bernard Manning kind of way, what the paper singularly fails to recognise by publishing that piece is the pain that Brexit has caused our country and continues to cause, regardless of which side we're on. Denigrating and trivialising it like this hugely belittles the collective feelings of the nation. I immediately ripped the front cover off the paper and threw it in the bin. Someone I know has removed all the copies of the newspaper from her shop. I went up to the poor (Spanish) bloke behind the counter at Costa and asked whose choice the newspapers were. He looked worried: "Mine. Have I done something wrong?" My heart melted slightly: "What criteria do you use for buying them?" "I buy the two most popular. If you tell me which one to buy, I'll buy that next time." I couldn't bring myself to be the cliche and say "The Guardian." I don't even read the Guardian and although I suspect the good folk of Highgate are more likely to read the Guardian than the Mail, it's not the sort of comic-like paper you want to dip into whilst you sip. The barista's willingness to help had been so disarming that I simply said, "anything but that paper." And that's really how I feel, if I'm honest...

Only the Mail would publish something so offensive on the eve of the day that Theresa May triggers Article 50, which could mean the break up of, not just the European Union but the precious Union of of United Kingdom.

I know they do it for effect. In this respect the Mail is no different to Katie Hopkins or Milo Yiannopoulis. Even talking about the horror I'm feeling is playing right into their hands. But I can't help it. I hate sexism and I feel sad: Losing Europe makes me feel illegitimate. It takes away a huge part of my identity. It's a very bleak day.

Listen to ABBA

It's been a rather frustrating day. Every time I sat down to do some work, something else happened to prevent me from doing it. Phone calls. Emails. A whole heap of washing up. Things I had to attend to. By the time I left the house this evening I'd achieved nothing that I actually wanted to achieve and was a hideous sweaty mess.

This is going to be a deeply pointless blog post as I haven't got enough time to construct a set of views about anything important and I can't write anything about what I was doing tonight because it's all top secret. This itself sounds far more interesting than it actually is. Don't worry; I'm not about to get married in another TV musical or write a composition for Sky Arts using only computer technology. I've simply been on a judging panel. I can't say what I was judging, but I can say that the rest of the panel were lovely people and that I had a very entertaining night. 

I returned to Highgate this evening to find thick, swirling mists rolling up and down the A1. There had been clear skies in Central London, so I actually initially wondered if it was smoke that I was seeing. I even found myself sniffing the air to discover whether Archway Road was ablaze! It turns out that Autumn has returned to these parts, which is strange because I thought the weather was meant to be rather spring-like for the next few days. The fact that I'm attempting to discuss the weather means that it's really time for this blog post to end! Pleasant dreams, blogger pals, and if you're reading this over breakfast, your mission today (should you chose to accept it) is to smile at everyone you pass on your journey to work, to drink a pint of water before you leave the house and to listen to at least one ABBA song. All three things will make you feel much happier.

Mothering Sunday

We woke up rather early this morning after losing an hour with the clocks going forward. I've managed to get to the ripe old age of 42 without ever really knowing whether the clocks go forward or back at this time of year, or even what the concept of going forward does to the actual time. Sometimes I think I must be really rather stupid.

We were on the road by ten, I guess. Quite early on in our journey, we hit a rather large piece of metal which had been deposited in the outside lane on the M1. It was about the size of a bumper. We didn't have time to swerve to avoid it, so made the choice to go straight over the top of it. It made a terrible crunching noise on the bottom of our car which forced us to pull over onto the hard shoulder to check for damage. Fortunately we could see none, but an ever-growing number of people were hitting the obstruction and instantly grinding to a halt. I made the decision to call the police and dialled the non-emergency police number. A pre-recorded voice informed me that there would be a five-minute wait before I'd be able to talk to anyone, so I decided to call the big boys on 999.

Calling 999 is always a bit of a weird experience. There's always a palpable sense that you're wasting someone's time, or that you're somehow tarnishing yourself by being pulled into the murky, dirty world of crime. I was astounded to find myself in a queue for this service as well. A recorded message might as well have informed me that my call was important to them and that they'd answer as soon as a member of staff became available. It took almost five minutes for someone to answer. I imagined how I'd feel if my life was in danger. If I was choking. If someone was in the process of breaking into my house. If I was a woman being followed by someone down an empty street. It's quite horrifying to think that there aren't enough staff to answer these vitally important calls.

I was sent a very charming video today of a group of young children from West Yorkshire singing my "Sing a Song of Yorkshire" composition as part of a medley of songs from that part of the world which included Scarborough Fair and, of course, Ilkley Moor Bar T'at. It's perhaps interesting, and a little sad, to note that none of these deeply patriotic songs were actually written by card-carrying Yorkshire folk. Ilkley Moor, for example, was written by a shoe-maker from Canterbury. I think, having lived in the county for three years, I probably come closest to being legitimate! Anyway, the performance was stunning, the kids were bang on in tune, and my heart broke when one of them pulled out a giant Yorkshire flag at the end and started waving it in the style of Les Miserables. I blinking love everything about Yorkshire!

It's Mothering Sunday today. I refuse to acknowledge the term "Mother's Day" as it feels somewhat American. We drove up to Nathan's Mum for a glorious lunch with his close family. I'm thrilled to report that Nathan's four-year old great niece is developing a glorious Lancashire accent. A northern accent is the best gift you can give to a child, after music and a second language! We crammed ourselves around the kitchen table to eat. I think I was sitting on an occasional table. Poor Ron was forced to sit on his own, on a stool against the side board. It felt like we were ostracising him. I was instantly reminded of the tales my Mum tells of the days when she was courting my dad. My Welsh Nana didn't approve of my Mum in the slightest, so, whilst she, my Grandad and my Dad ate their food in the dining room by the patio windows, my mother was forced to sit in the garden on a little bench eating sandwiches she'd brought from home with her! It's one of the most tragic stories I've ever heard!

Facebook was filled today with my terribly conscientious friends attempting to wish each other a happy Mothering Sunday whilst being deeply inclusive to those without children or mothers. It all got a little bit ludicrous if you ask me. It's not as though Mothering Sunday was invented to deliberately exclude people. I realise that it's a very sad day for some people, and my heart absolutely goes out to anyone reading this who has recently lost a child or a mother, but at the same time, if we're hell-bent on investing energy in celebrating these peculiarly manufactured days, I do think we ought to be able to celebrate the positive without worrying about causing offence. I enjoy celebrating my birthday without feeling the need to wish everyone else a happy unbirthday. Humpty Dumpty I am not!

Before we left Shropshire, I was introduced to a word I'd never heard before. Seersucker. It's a type of slightly-ruched fabric which was popular in the 1950s for dresses and tablecloths. Nathan's Mum showed me a table cloth made from seersucker which had once belonged to her Mam.

We went home via Thaxted. My Mum sounded very glum on the phone when I called her after lunch, so we thought a little surprise visit was called-for. It actually only added about an hour onto our journey time and it was so nice to see the parents and have a few cheese crackers for the road.

Waves of dust

Fiona has one of the most comfortable beds I've ever slept in. Her bedroom in Hove has enormous windows and the rising sun pours in in waves of dusty light. We always sleep with the curtains firmly closed at home, in a South West-facing room, so it's a while since I've been awoken by a rising sun. Actually, because the clocks went forward last night, it strikes me that it will also be a while before the sun rises at such an early hour again. I lay for some time in the glorious shaft of light wondering whether to get up or fall asleep again. I fell asleep again...

Before returning to London, I took a final walk along the seafront from Hove to Brighton. It was a glorious day: Blue skies and fluffy white vapour trails thrusting vertically towards the heavens. The sun was reflecting on the surface of the sea so dazzlingly that it burned into my retinas.

I had breakfast behind a giant wind break at one of the little cafes on the seafront. Full vegetarian. Orange juice. Nice cup of tea. I didn't rate the tomatoes, which were served them raw. I like cooked tomatoes at breakfast time, so I gave mine to a passing seagull. I watched the doggies jumping excitedly on the heaped pebbles of the beach, and children stumbling barefooted down to the water's edge.

I got to the train station only to learn that a rail replacement bus was randomly going to be taking me to Three Bridges, where I'd need to catch my train to London. I genuinely don't know how anyone lives on the god forsaken Southeastern train line without experiencing depression on a daily basis.

This evening we went down to Limehouse to a party at Nathan's friend's Francine's house. It was a fabulous occasion. I met a potter from Hastings and a fabulous woman who's turned her recidivist tendency to write letters of complaint into a book.

We always have to remember to call the host Francine with a soft c. The registrar at our wedding was also Francine, but she pronounced it with a harsher "ch" sound. I'm reminded of the story of a friend of mine called Marc, who went into a Starbucks where they write your name on the paper coffee cups and told them that his name was "Marc with a c." Imagine his horror, therefore, when the cup came back with the word "Cark" scrawled across it!

I learned today that UKIPs only MP, Douglas Carswell, has now left the party. Twat. That piece of information cheered me up almost as much as Donald Trump's recent political catastrophes.