Sweden
Charlotte Perrelli. Possible alien/human hybrid.
We voted for the old man of Croatia.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Rai comments.
Rai comments.
I thankyou. And I'm here all week, gang - I have sunny afternoon North African music on and I might say a couple of things about it. Headline job done.
So taking a quick peek back at the ol' Lingo pages, I can see an annoyingly sunny disposition seeping through the screen pages. But on afternoons like this, it's hard not to - if you can see the sun, anyway. I concede I'm probably just getting de-mob happy leading up to time away from the studio - punchable holiday smugness seems to soak halfway across the calendar. So I apologise. ..Without being all that sorry, obviously BECAUSE I'M GOING ON SODDING HOLIDAY!!
Being irresponsible has a lot of benefits. Chief among them is the ability to walk away from your work responsibilities as a solo creative freelancer without a second thought to having any work to come back to, to help you pay off the holiday.
Well actually, the pile of work I'm putting off by typing this for five minutes would all have to go to press by the end of the month anyway, whether Momo's Creative Director was whisking away the company secretary for a dirty spin round the Amalfi coast to a 70s-chic John Barry soundtrack or not. So nice work, boss.
---
Elsewhere in Europe, the delights of a singular cultural event have put music on my mind again - though cynics might say of a less meaningful disposition than the evocative tonsil stretching of Rai. Last night was the first semi final of the Eurovision.
You know well how I/we feel about this. All I'll say in summary is that it was a relief that Norway made it through. Belgium's entry may have been so loopily creative it deserved a firm place on FIP's bonkers-eclectic playlist, but let's face it, it was never going to get voted into the final. And the singing turkey was surely only ever a piece of squawking sock-puppet comedy vandalism for a very select, and Guiness-addled audience. Class, but not to the taste of watery beer-swilling middle europeans, I had always suspected.
No, though you do quickly adjust your quality goggles when reading the worth of a Eurovision entry (so that Good only ever means Not SO Shit That Words Have Really Failed You This Time), Norway - Nil Point Norway - provided a quiet little quality blinder.
Didn't hit me between the eyes - and for that reason it wasn't inconceivable that it would escape the notice of the Baltic voters - but Hold on, be strong, performed by Maria had begun to persuade me by the end that it was possibly a little Motown classic. Really. No, I think really.
Firstly, basics. The backing singers all looked like they came as a set. They didn't look like so many Eurovision entries do, as though the lead singer had rounded up the fittest mates they could find and made them prat about behind them ill-fittingly. They matched. And they did simple little hand actions together, to reinforce the lyrics.
Secondly, the music. I can still remember it, kind of. Hum it at least. And it all seemed to belong.
So, er... I think I really rate it. In pop terms, for Eurovision. I think I might.
Norway - keep an eye on it. It will fail. But it might be the classiest thing in the final. Might be.
---
Sunshine's magic is akin to music, of course. It cleverly dulls the feel of other things. Other bad things. And bloody rotten song contests are an especially effective diversion for us all.
But yes, behind our own summery mood, there are epically difficult things in the news, across the Far East especially. Bad things beyond understanding. But I don't know how to talk about them. I can only sit and watch in silence. And thank God for the good things. For the sunshine outside my just-about-still-standing house this afternoon.
Nothing more you can say. No witty asides needed by aid agency workers. The CD's just ended.
And Caroline's just thankfully put on Kylie.
I thankyou. And I'm here all week, gang - I have sunny afternoon North African music on and I might say a couple of things about it. Headline job done.
So taking a quick peek back at the ol' Lingo pages, I can see an annoyingly sunny disposition seeping through the screen pages. But on afternoons like this, it's hard not to - if you can see the sun, anyway. I concede I'm probably just getting de-mob happy leading up to time away from the studio - punchable holiday smugness seems to soak halfway across the calendar. So I apologise. ..Without being all that sorry, obviously BECAUSE I'M GOING ON SODDING HOLIDAY!!
Being irresponsible has a lot of benefits. Chief among them is the ability to walk away from your work responsibilities as a solo creative freelancer without a second thought to having any work to come back to, to help you pay off the holiday.
Well actually, the pile of work I'm putting off by typing this for five minutes would all have to go to press by the end of the month anyway, whether Momo's Creative Director was whisking away the company secretary for a dirty spin round the Amalfi coast to a 70s-chic John Barry soundtrack or not. So nice work, boss.
---
Elsewhere in Europe, the delights of a singular cultural event have put music on my mind again - though cynics might say of a less meaningful disposition than the evocative tonsil stretching of Rai. Last night was the first semi final of the Eurovision.
You know well how I/we feel about this. All I'll say in summary is that it was a relief that Norway made it through. Belgium's entry may have been so loopily creative it deserved a firm place on FIP's bonkers-eclectic playlist, but let's face it, it was never going to get voted into the final. And the singing turkey was surely only ever a piece of squawking sock-puppet comedy vandalism for a very select, and Guiness-addled audience. Class, but not to the taste of watery beer-swilling middle europeans, I had always suspected.
No, though you do quickly adjust your quality goggles when reading the worth of a Eurovision entry (so that Good only ever means Not SO Shit That Words Have Really Failed You This Time), Norway - Nil Point Norway - provided a quiet little quality blinder.
Didn't hit me between the eyes - and for that reason it wasn't inconceivable that it would escape the notice of the Baltic voters - but Hold on, be strong, performed by Maria had begun to persuade me by the end that it was possibly a little Motown classic. Really. No, I think really.
Firstly, basics. The backing singers all looked like they came as a set. They didn't look like so many Eurovision entries do, as though the lead singer had rounded up the fittest mates they could find and made them prat about behind them ill-fittingly. They matched. And they did simple little hand actions together, to reinforce the lyrics.
Secondly, the music. I can still remember it, kind of. Hum it at least. And it all seemed to belong.
So, er... I think I really rate it. In pop terms, for Eurovision. I think I might.
Norway - keep an eye on it. It will fail. But it might be the classiest thing in the final. Might be.
---
Sunshine's magic is akin to music, of course. It cleverly dulls the feel of other things. Other bad things. And bloody rotten song contests are an especially effective diversion for us all.
But yes, behind our own summery mood, there are epically difficult things in the news, across the Far East especially. Bad things beyond understanding. But I don't know how to talk about them. I can only sit and watch in silence. And thank God for the good things. For the sunshine outside my just-about-still-standing house this afternoon.
Nothing more you can say. No witty asides needed by aid agency workers. The CD's just ended.
And Caroline's just thankfully put on Kylie.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Heat.
Heat.
Ice creams. Socked feet. Very hairy dogs. These are things that don't like heat.
I, however, am so stunned by how unusual - how genuinely weird - it feels to have had all the windows in the flat open for a week, with balmy warmth blowing through them, that I couldn't care if I melted all over the deck in the garden. And anyway, I have my socks off and my jeans rolled up, padding around the wooden studio floor like a jolly Jack Tar in a sailor's musical.
How fab is this weather? It's like a full-on, actual summer. SUMMER! Here - in the UK.
So, bliss factor is high... sort of.
Well, it's work, isn't it? Work has been more full-on since the full-on happy weather and I've had to peer out at the glorious play-time brightness from the electronic gloom of my Mac screen. Seem to have had a nasty confluence of deadlines all for about, er, now - today. But I'm still alive, even after so many late nights and work-throughs that I've had a sleep-hindering excess of adrenalin.
As Gellan said, you can kind of end up leading a double life (..triple. Triple life if you count the weekend vaudeville) - what your head's doing and what your body is doing. Momo is keeping me pretty all-round engaged and plugged in and generally enjoying the projects on the go - but body is inexplicably telling me to tone down the heat a little.
But it's all good. Hols are in the diary at last - at long last - and there are good things on all over the Momo schedule.
Had a good few meetings this morning and the monster branding work Thinking Juice and Momo are partnering on seems to be still out-working nicely. I've been nerdily developing a brand book - which is only fun if you're the particular kind of nerd that likes explaining to people why Helvetica is such a great choice for their brand comms.
Anyway, fonts, pantones, FTPs and giant EPSs aside, I've been listening to the early mixes of The Golden Age Of Exploration while my palpitating heart has been forcing me to take long walks on the beach and all this has done is get me all the more worked up and over-excited.
I'm obviously well creatively blind to the whole thing now, but I'm loving being so close to completing an album. And such a cheeky one too. ..You'll see what I mean when I force you to come to the launch party at the end of the summer.
If I don't explode in one of the many types of heat I'll be experiencing before then.
Ice creams. Socked feet. Very hairy dogs. These are things that don't like heat.
I, however, am so stunned by how unusual - how genuinely weird - it feels to have had all the windows in the flat open for a week, with balmy warmth blowing through them, that I couldn't care if I melted all over the deck in the garden. And anyway, I have my socks off and my jeans rolled up, padding around the wooden studio floor like a jolly Jack Tar in a sailor's musical.
How fab is this weather? It's like a full-on, actual summer. SUMMER! Here - in the UK.
So, bliss factor is high... sort of.
Well, it's work, isn't it? Work has been more full-on since the full-on happy weather and I've had to peer out at the glorious play-time brightness from the electronic gloom of my Mac screen. Seem to have had a nasty confluence of deadlines all for about, er, now - today. But I'm still alive, even after so many late nights and work-throughs that I've had a sleep-hindering excess of adrenalin.
As Gellan said, you can kind of end up leading a double life (..triple. Triple life if you count the weekend vaudeville) - what your head's doing and what your body is doing. Momo is keeping me pretty all-round engaged and plugged in and generally enjoying the projects on the go - but body is inexplicably telling me to tone down the heat a little.
But it's all good. Hols are in the diary at last - at long last - and there are good things on all over the Momo schedule.
Had a good few meetings this morning and the monster branding work Thinking Juice and Momo are partnering on seems to be still out-working nicely. I've been nerdily developing a brand book - which is only fun if you're the particular kind of nerd that likes explaining to people why Helvetica is such a great choice for their brand comms.
Anyway, fonts, pantones, FTPs and giant EPSs aside, I've been listening to the early mixes of The Golden Age Of Exploration while my palpitating heart has been forcing me to take long walks on the beach and all this has done is get me all the more worked up and over-excited.
I'm obviously well creatively blind to the whole thing now, but I'm loving being so close to completing an album. And such a cheeky one too. ..You'll see what I mean when I force you to come to the launch party at the end of the summer.
If I don't explode in one of the many types of heat I'll be experiencing before then.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Bonkers Bankers.
Bonkers Bankers.
No, I'm not talking about twitchy city types. I'm referring to my work/life balance and how desperately out of skew it is these days.
I'm at the Mac, listening to Annie Mac. Thing is, her groovy Radio One show is now over and it's Dave Pearce's Circuits Class Classics, or whatever he calls it... and I'm STILL here. Gone 11.00 on a bank holiday Friday evening, and I've been writing reports on websites and scamping up housing association newsletters. Actually, I feel like a guest on a magic show; I've been spinning so many project plates today, I feel dizzy.
Though some of that dizzyness might be the heady whiff of summer. 1st of May, Caroline found herself post-epic-deadline free - enough at least to plunge into the luxuriantly hirsute back garden lawn with the pitifully-armed pushy mower, to find the shed. In which, is the little table and chairs that Dad bought us last year for the decking. Summer's here officially. Thanks, Dad.
So I used it all today. Sun was out proper today and I've been on a bit of a meetings marathon this week. One quick deadline after another, with not much time to prepare Actual Stuff for them, and this morning was no exception. So, by the time I got back from somewhere up the M3 this afternoon, I was fair determined to find a bagette and a packet of Kettle Chips and a nice length of deck for twenty minutes. Well, jeepers - I may be busy, but I work for myself, for Pete's sake. And I knew, at 3.00pm, I'd be pushing on until 11.00 tonight. Woop. Lucky me - and here I am.
So I stole a few quick zeds on the deck. Have you ever stared at a blank blue sky long enough to see the sample slide bacterial weird things floating across your eyeballs? They try to float away as you focus on them, but they're there - and they do look like weird chains of microscopic life.
I love working from home.
Anyway, snoozing deck/eyeball madness aside, I have a hell of a list of things to do here beside me for May, summer or not. Great having work on, of course. But I'll be spending most of the Bank Holiday weekend at the Mac again.
Bonkers?
---
It's actually been a very jolly week, so I'm not on the moan tonight. Found myself at the Arts Institute Bournemouth twice this week, trying desperately to not look too old. It's twenty years since I studied there, which is longer than some of the students-who-didn't-know-when-to-laugh- at-my-jokes have been alive. It just doesn't make sense. But I'm not sure I did to them. Still, I awoke from a desperate snooze in the studio last Sunday afternoon to scribble down some vaguely brilliant looking diagram about creativity, hand of God style, which I inflicted on them, telling them I wasn't sure if it was, in fact, helpful brilliance, or deranged bollocks.
The point is, it was nice of Sarah to invite me in to talk to her class. I wish I'd had some chap come into one of my lessons there and say "Crikey, none of us know what the hell we're doing, don't worry. You can still have fun and just about pay the bills.."
Nice too then, of Gellan to invite back to the Enterprise Pavillion to meet some more students on Wednesday night, as they presented their design suggestions for the logo of his co-operative idea, the Dorset Design Forum. I think I may have inadvertantly been roped in to promote greater harmony across the creative industries in the sunny south. And why not - as a work-at-home deck-hugger, I've tarted around with lots of agencies in the area. Mind you, I found myself amazingly talking to local ad legend, Matt Flemming. After he diffidently mentioned Aylesworth Flemming's turnover and current business outlook, I did well to maintain my engaging professional air, but I was sweating at the thought of him asking me what Momo is currently up to.
"Emailing Radio One and kipping in the garden during working hours, mate."
Why do I imagine students can't relate to me?
No, I'm not talking about twitchy city types. I'm referring to my work/life balance and how desperately out of skew it is these days.
I'm at the Mac, listening to Annie Mac. Thing is, her groovy Radio One show is now over and it's Dave Pearce's Circuits Class Classics, or whatever he calls it... and I'm STILL here. Gone 11.00 on a bank holiday Friday evening, and I've been writing reports on websites and scamping up housing association newsletters. Actually, I feel like a guest on a magic show; I've been spinning so many project plates today, I feel dizzy.
Though some of that dizzyness might be the heady whiff of summer. 1st of May, Caroline found herself post-epic-deadline free - enough at least to plunge into the luxuriantly hirsute back garden lawn with the pitifully-armed pushy mower, to find the shed. In which, is the little table and chairs that Dad bought us last year for the decking. Summer's here officially. Thanks, Dad.
So I used it all today. Sun was out proper today and I've been on a bit of a meetings marathon this week. One quick deadline after another, with not much time to prepare Actual Stuff for them, and this morning was no exception. So, by the time I got back from somewhere up the M3 this afternoon, I was fair determined to find a bagette and a packet of Kettle Chips and a nice length of deck for twenty minutes. Well, jeepers - I may be busy, but I work for myself, for Pete's sake. And I knew, at 3.00pm, I'd be pushing on until 11.00 tonight. Woop. Lucky me - and here I am.
So I stole a few quick zeds on the deck. Have you ever stared at a blank blue sky long enough to see the sample slide bacterial weird things floating across your eyeballs? They try to float away as you focus on them, but they're there - and they do look like weird chains of microscopic life.
I love working from home.
Anyway, snoozing deck/eyeball madness aside, I have a hell of a list of things to do here beside me for May, summer or not. Great having work on, of course. But I'll be spending most of the Bank Holiday weekend at the Mac again.
Bonkers?
---
It's actually been a very jolly week, so I'm not on the moan tonight. Found myself at the Arts Institute Bournemouth twice this week, trying desperately to not look too old. It's twenty years since I studied there, which is longer than some of the students-who-didn't-know-when-to-laugh- at-my-jokes have been alive. It just doesn't make sense. But I'm not sure I did to them. Still, I awoke from a desperate snooze in the studio last Sunday afternoon to scribble down some vaguely brilliant looking diagram about creativity, hand of God style, which I inflicted on them, telling them I wasn't sure if it was, in fact, helpful brilliance, or deranged bollocks.
The point is, it was nice of Sarah to invite me in to talk to her class. I wish I'd had some chap come into one of my lessons there and say "Crikey, none of us know what the hell we're doing, don't worry. You can still have fun and just about pay the bills.."
Nice too then, of Gellan to invite back to the Enterprise Pavillion to meet some more students on Wednesday night, as they presented their design suggestions for the logo of his co-operative idea, the Dorset Design Forum. I think I may have inadvertantly been roped in to promote greater harmony across the creative industries in the sunny south. And why not - as a work-at-home deck-hugger, I've tarted around with lots of agencies in the area. Mind you, I found myself amazingly talking to local ad legend, Matt Flemming. After he diffidently mentioned Aylesworth Flemming's turnover and current business outlook, I did well to maintain my engaging professional air, but I was sweating at the thought of him asking me what Momo is currently up to.
"Emailing Radio One and kipping in the garden during working hours, mate."
Why do I imagine students can't relate to me?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Humph.
Humph.
Sad news. On Thursday I had a little email from the BBC's audience people to say that the new series of I'm sorry, I haven't a clue, which we'd been hoping to finally make it to see, had had to be postponed, because much-loved host, Humphrey Lyttelton, had been taken into hospital. Saturday morning, it was announced that the 86-year-old had died.
He'd been hosting the self-styled antidote to panel games for some 36 years, but he'd been presenting his legendary jazz show for over forty. It was only last month, after four decades of being the UK's foremost jazz voice, he finally retired from the programme. Fundamental changes like that do seem to have a funny effect on people, which is why I'd wondered how retirement would suit him - but I suspect he'd say that the thing that really had a funny effect on him was an aortic aneurysm.
And he was funny. Obituaries are famously humourless things, so I won't try to describe him - it would sound far too respectful. Comedy is like sex, I think - describing it always sounds like you're rather missing the point. Anyone who listened to ISIHAC will have Humph's style clearly in mind - he was a dry, hilarious warmth. He kind of made it the favourite radio feature in our house. Though, to be fair, I have no idea what he was like in bed.
Weirdly, if you listen to early recordings of the show, it sounds just the same. One or two bereavements aside, it's the same cast. Listening again to an episode from 1975 a little while ago, I found it hard to believe that the intervening years had seen such fundamental changes to British society as humourless Thatcherism, Alternative Comedy and digital broadcasting; the gags were that old. Humph himself was the only thing to have noticeably aged in voice over the years - but this just made him all the funnier. The more he sounded like a venerable elder statesman, the more jolly effective were his sudden filthy double entendres.
The thing is, all this is enough to mourn the chap and when you hear friends' testimonies of him, the man was clearly a rare joy. But it's only in more recent times it's been dawning on me what a giant talent he was.
He was considered one of the greatest UK jazz musicians of all time. But he wasn't 'just' a horn player - was a prolific composer and a fantastic bandleader, performed with his group until mere weeks before he died. And as if jazz musician, composer, performer and broadcaster weren't enough accolades, he was also a writer and cartoonist. And, of course, raconteur and bon viveur.
In short, a ruddy inspiration. Funny, talented, knowledgeable and self-deprecating.
If you're interested, here's his obit at the Beeb:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/3477089.stm
I wonder if Mrs Trellis will send in a card.
Sad news. On Thursday I had a little email from the BBC's audience people to say that the new series of I'm sorry, I haven't a clue, which we'd been hoping to finally make it to see, had had to be postponed, because much-loved host, Humphrey Lyttelton, had been taken into hospital. Saturday morning, it was announced that the 86-year-old had died.
He'd been hosting the self-styled antidote to panel games for some 36 years, but he'd been presenting his legendary jazz show for over forty. It was only last month, after four decades of being the UK's foremost jazz voice, he finally retired from the programme. Fundamental changes like that do seem to have a funny effect on people, which is why I'd wondered how retirement would suit him - but I suspect he'd say that the thing that really had a funny effect on him was an aortic aneurysm.
And he was funny. Obituaries are famously humourless things, so I won't try to describe him - it would sound far too respectful. Comedy is like sex, I think - describing it always sounds like you're rather missing the point. Anyone who listened to ISIHAC will have Humph's style clearly in mind - he was a dry, hilarious warmth. He kind of made it the favourite radio feature in our house. Though, to be fair, I have no idea what he was like in bed.
Weirdly, if you listen to early recordings of the show, it sounds just the same. One or two bereavements aside, it's the same cast. Listening again to an episode from 1975 a little while ago, I found it hard to believe that the intervening years had seen such fundamental changes to British society as humourless Thatcherism, Alternative Comedy and digital broadcasting; the gags were that old. Humph himself was the only thing to have noticeably aged in voice over the years - but this just made him all the funnier. The more he sounded like a venerable elder statesman, the more jolly effective were his sudden filthy double entendres.
The thing is, all this is enough to mourn the chap and when you hear friends' testimonies of him, the man was clearly a rare joy. But it's only in more recent times it's been dawning on me what a giant talent he was.
He was considered one of the greatest UK jazz musicians of all time. But he wasn't 'just' a horn player - was a prolific composer and a fantastic bandleader, performed with his group until mere weeks before he died. And as if jazz musician, composer, performer and broadcaster weren't enough accolades, he was also a writer and cartoonist. And, of course, raconteur and bon viveur.
In short, a ruddy inspiration. Funny, talented, knowledgeable and self-deprecating.
If you're interested, here's his obit at the Beeb:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/3477089.stm
I wonder if Mrs Trellis will send in a card.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Cheesy.
Cheesy.
This is groovy. Had an excited email from Gellan pointing me at this:
http://www.utalkmarketing.com/pages/Article.aspx?ArticleID=10122&Title=Wyke%20Farms%20ad%20wins%20People%E2%80%99s%20Choice
Thinking Juice's little TV as for Wyke Farms has won a People's Choice award, up against people with rather more budget. You can watch the ad and its rivals from the link. Nice one, G.
Why am I posting this? Rather pleasingly, Momo:timo wrote the music - a nice little tune to whistle while you're carving the Simply Gorgeous extra mature. True, it's hard to hear a note of it on YouTube, but the full thing is on the Timo website, for you dedicated cheese fans.
Doesn't help me knuckle down, this. I've spent the week trying to develop a reasonably monstrous website for one client - and now I'm at Friday morning with a half-finished website and a couple of unstarted jobs I was planning to start on Monday. And all I really want to do is get back on the album. Swing the sign round from Typo to Timo and enjoy a Friday talking silly voices through a harmoniser. Way to run a business.
But I had a slightly hefty tea-time presentation of said website lastnight, that made me miss circuits and open some wine instead - so this morning was never going to be an early starter, was it? Mind you, I had the easier time. In the same meeting, as part of the wider brand development we're partnering on for this, Gellan had to present some weighty and sometimes tricky-to-hear research. Then I got to stand up and say: 'here's your new website - as you can see, it's very pretty. Any questions?' [ finger pistol ]
Leeeetle more to it than that, obviously. But as I ponder the schedule for next week, the good thing, responsibility fans, is that Momo has an interesting spread of projects coming up.
Hopefully enough to keep us in cheese.
This is groovy. Had an excited email from Gellan pointing me at this:
Thinking Juice's little TV as for Wyke Farms has won a People's Choice award, up against people with rather more budget. You can watch the ad and its rivals from the link. Nice one, G.
Why am I posting this? Rather pleasingly, Momo:timo wrote the music - a nice little tune to whistle while you're carving the Simply Gorgeous extra mature. True, it's hard to hear a note of it on YouTube, but the full thing is on the Timo website, for you dedicated cheese fans.
Doesn't help me knuckle down, this. I've spent the week trying to develop a reasonably monstrous website for one client - and now I'm at Friday morning with a half-finished website and a couple of unstarted jobs I was planning to start on Monday. And all I really want to do is get back on the album. Swing the sign round from Typo to Timo and enjoy a Friday talking silly voices through a harmoniser. Way to run a business.
But I had a slightly hefty tea-time presentation of said website lastnight, that made me miss circuits and open some wine instead - so this morning was never going to be an early starter, was it? Mind you, I had the easier time. In the same meeting, as part of the wider brand development we're partnering on for this, Gellan had to present some weighty and sometimes tricky-to-hear research. Then I got to stand up and say: 'here's your new website - as you can see, it's very pretty. Any questions?' [ finger pistol ]
Leeeetle more to it than that, obviously. But as I ponder the schedule for next week, the good thing, responsibility fans, is that Momo has an interesting spread of projects coming up.
Hopefully enough to keep us in cheese.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Barry and George.
Barry and George.
Today is, apparently, St George's day. But my mind's on ol' Bazzer.
I may be an Englishman, but I never remember this date - 23rd April. Who knows this? And when they say that less people celebrate the nation's patron saint than celebrate Guy Fawkes night, I wonder who on earth is celebrating our basically-apocryphal dragon slayer AT ALL. And how are they doing it? We don't parade giant paper dragons down the street, or enjoy traditional dragon soup recipes, overpriced and pre-packed by Tesco, in fact we don't have ANYthing. What am I supposed to do to get all Englishy today? No one's equipped me. Who am I, someone?
And anyway, it's the big drag-on I'm thinking of. The presidential primaries in America.
So Hillers fights back again. It's a head-scratcher, isn't it? Tough bird in the one corner, gives the impression of being willing to say anything out of desperation to be nominated, but ruddy hell is tenacious. Then golden boy Obama in the other corner, all the qualifications the world is willing for a new US president, but not a sausage about how he's going to inject life into America's aimless economy. Hmm.
Lord only knows why this keeps my attention so much; I know as much about my local council elections when they come round as I do about St George's day, but the surreal race for the Democratic nomination across the Atlantic has me hooked. Or is it speared?
How did George kill the sodding dragon?
Today is, apparently, St George's day. But my mind's on ol' Bazzer.
I may be an Englishman, but I never remember this date - 23rd April. Who knows this? And when they say that less people celebrate the nation's patron saint than celebrate Guy Fawkes night, I wonder who on earth is celebrating our basically-apocryphal dragon slayer AT ALL. And how are they doing it? We don't parade giant paper dragons down the street, or enjoy traditional dragon soup recipes, overpriced and pre-packed by Tesco, in fact we don't have ANYthing. What am I supposed to do to get all Englishy today? No one's equipped me. Who am I, someone?
And anyway, it's the big drag-on I'm thinking of. The presidential primaries in America.
So Hillers fights back again. It's a head-scratcher, isn't it? Tough bird in the one corner, gives the impression of being willing to say anything out of desperation to be nominated, but ruddy hell is tenacious. Then golden boy Obama in the other corner, all the qualifications the world is willing for a new US president, but not a sausage about how he's going to inject life into America's aimless economy. Hmm.
Lord only knows why this keeps my attention so much; I know as much about my local council elections when they come round as I do about St George's day, but the surreal race for the Democratic nomination across the Atlantic has me hooked. Or is it speared?
How did George kill the sodding dragon?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Having the horn.
Having the horn.
Oh, boy, do I.
The economy may be taking a more theatrical dive than a Premier League striker, rolling around with the kind of over-acted agony clear enough to be seen from the back tiers of Wembley, but as we all know, one of the best tonics for a flagging game is a loud bit of trumpet karaoki.
So, before my business is stretchered off indefinitely, I thought I'd stir the blood with something so exciting I could barely sit down.
I'm easily pleased, obviously. And I'm definitely in that over-excited, can't-see-it-properly stage. But there's a particular track I've had cooking for a while that reeeeally needed a horn section. Thanks to Kev putting me in touch with his good, and formerly-professional trumpet player, John... I am grinning from ear to ringing ear.
I did warn the neighbours, but it was probably just as well they were out that afternoon. A trumpet is a loud thing. A LOUD thing. But I felt it was allowed.
I may calm down when I go back to the mix and find I can't in fact stop it sounding like a school band. But right now, I SO have the horn. And so does Mark, who's practicing drums for the piece, entitled Disfunkshun.
How do I concentrate on other deadlines with the horn? The horn is all I can think about.
Ah. A cold shower of client emails. Okay. Calm now.
:o)
Oh, boy, do I.
The economy may be taking a more theatrical dive than a Premier League striker, rolling around with the kind of over-acted agony clear enough to be seen from the back tiers of Wembley, but as we all know, one of the best tonics for a flagging game is a loud bit of trumpet karaoki.
So, before my business is stretchered off indefinitely, I thought I'd stir the blood with something so exciting I could barely sit down.
I'm easily pleased, obviously. And I'm definitely in that over-excited, can't-see-it-properly stage. But there's a particular track I've had cooking for a while that reeeeally needed a horn section. Thanks to Kev putting me in touch with his good, and formerly-professional trumpet player, John... I am grinning from ear to ringing ear.
I did warn the neighbours, but it was probably just as well they were out that afternoon. A trumpet is a loud thing. A LOUD thing. But I felt it was allowed.
I may calm down when I go back to the mix and find I can't in fact stop it sounding like a school band. But right now, I SO have the horn. And so does Mark, who's practicing drums for the piece, entitled Disfunkshun.
How do I concentrate on other deadlines with the horn? The horn is all I can think about.
Ah. A cold shower of client emails. Okay. Calm now.
:o)
Monday, April 14, 2008
Crash.
Crash.
Don't know if you saw any of the interview with the parents of Indira Swann, Greg and Louise. They were giving testimony to their daughter, killed along with four other young women in a tragically simple coach crash in Ecuador.
We were stopped short by their words. The couple's dedication to encouragement in the middle of such obvious agony was a kind of wisdom too heroic for words. There was a visible pause in the Channel 4 News studio, after the tape.
Seize the day. Do the best you can with how long you've got. Don't stop learning about the world. Accidents happen.
Accidents happen. Greg seemed to wring the words out of himself. The determination of conviction.
--
Getting on for a decade ago now, two young friends of our family in Sussex were killed in a car accident in Australia. Two others with them survived. I remember the morning news waking me up with the story and I just kind of suspected it was them.
I didn't know them. Met maybe once or twice, I can't remember. But they were central to Caroline's sister's family of friends, and watching everyone in the community try to come to terms with such a pointless, recreational loss was silencing. I don't know what I'd do, if one of my adopted family didn't come home from a holiday. Build a shrine, probably.
Tonight's brief interview reminded me how you never know what life can grow out of the jagged fractures of a crash. How life likes to show up where it shouldn't be. I wonder for them. But, as Stephen Lawrence's mother, Doreen, said at the opening of the centre that fights to creatively equip young people facing poverty, bearing his name in St Johns, "I'd swap it all in a heartbeat for Stephen."
Just thinking of all five families.
Don't know if you saw any of the interview with the parents of Indira Swann, Greg and Louise. They were giving testimony to their daughter, killed along with four other young women in a tragically simple coach crash in Ecuador.
We were stopped short by their words. The couple's dedication to encouragement in the middle of such obvious agony was a kind of wisdom too heroic for words. There was a visible pause in the Channel 4 News studio, after the tape.
Seize the day. Do the best you can with how long you've got. Don't stop learning about the world. Accidents happen.
Accidents happen. Greg seemed to wring the words out of himself. The determination of conviction.
--
Getting on for a decade ago now, two young friends of our family in Sussex were killed in a car accident in Australia. Two others with them survived. I remember the morning news waking me up with the story and I just kind of suspected it was them.
I didn't know them. Met maybe once or twice, I can't remember. But they were central to Caroline's sister's family of friends, and watching everyone in the community try to come to terms with such a pointless, recreational loss was silencing. I don't know what I'd do, if one of my adopted family didn't come home from a holiday. Build a shrine, probably.
Tonight's brief interview reminded me how you never know what life can grow out of the jagged fractures of a crash. How life likes to show up where it shouldn't be. I wonder for them. But, as Stephen Lawrence's mother, Doreen, said at the opening of the centre that fights to creatively equip young people facing poverty, bearing his name in St Johns, "I'd swap it all in a heartbeat for Stephen."
Just thinking of all five families.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Allsop's Fables.
Allsop's Fables.
Over the last couple of weeks, I've had a steady, delicate stream of blossom blowing past my studio window. Some years, the local trees deposit their pink cargo in one wallop overnight - dumping a burst duvet of spring petals on the road around their roots in a gusty turn of weather. This year, it's sort of strewn gently down the road like it's welcoming important business visitors to a five-star suite in a Chinese hotel. Pretty.
So I'm in a committed mood of summery optimism. This is based entirely on short-termism of the most childish kind. I just want to go on holiday - awake, this time - and tinker with bits of music and go have coffee with chums.
Yes. You're right, I can see this isn't even a shade of a different mood to normal, at Momo. But sometimes I jest about being a lazy, arty blighter to remind myself of these cherished values while working my proverbials off and talking very sensibly to people who are paying for my professional help. A sort of reality check.
Of course, in the creative business, you are terribly prey to desperately un-creative businesses - and we are having the young mother of 'reality' checks at the moment.
Housing and money and blaaahhh. So the banks were over-ambitious and complacent in their lend-some-to-make-some strategies and now they're being reactionary and petulant and mela-dramatic. Snatching away the toys. It's not like we didn't all see this coming, is it? Just like the other millions of unqualified laypeople who said that the idea of putting western tanks into the Middle East in 2002 would be a poor piece of politics and defense strategy. Yep, we may all know nothing, but we were right. And now again - what a shocker, overnight Credit Crunch.
Although much of my sensible work is connected with the property market in different ways, the debates and dramatic language quickly bore me. Don't they you? I mean, it's all a worry. But let's listen to a bastion of common sense in such times - a comfort and a no-nonsense guide - Kirsty Allsop.
She was on Today this morning, basically telling us all to get a grip and not panic. And it made me think that Relocation Relocation - despite looking ever more like a guilty pleasure - should introduce a new feature to its weekly format, to give us all succor and good cheer in these choppy waters of sudden economic panic.
Allsop's Fables. I need not elaborate further, need I. Just matronly, green-wellies-with-skirt, 'pull your pop socks up' common sense. Sponsored by ING Direct.
-------
You never know when the weather will change. Beams of sunlight through the clouds can be a welcome relief, but they can close up just as suddenly. And lounging around on the cabin top in the warmth is certainly some of what you put to sea for, but stay there too long under your sunnies and you might find yourself in a squall in your speedos.
Well, however choppy the waters ahead, I do of course know how to make a small cabin feel like home at 45°, as you know. I'm a seasoned salty old sea dog now, famously. And my oft-clung-to kids lifering of jollyness might look stupidly inadequate at sea, but it does keep my head above water.
I can think of three or four or five or six sets of circumstances around me that feel like being pitched overboard. People and things I wish I could throw a sturdy, reassuring tether to. The best I can ever do, I've come to realise, is throw a flimsy floatation aid with an inflatable duck's head attached to it - not because things around us are only bathtime deep, but because it might make a moment of funny where there shouldn't be one. And at least help buoyancy a little.
So I'm trusting that the little Momo boat will turn into the wind and ride the swell okay. And if I sprang a leak and had to jump ship to Tesco, all other hands lost, I'd hardly be able to complain. I'd have the memories of weeks like this one, where the combination things on my list of things to do may still be ignominious, unglamorous and only subtly paid - but sounds like the lifestyle of a There's No Shame In Saying It To His Face: Jammy Bastard. Believe me, I do know. And I am enjoying it like a kid, for as long as I can get away with it. Which probably won't be all that long.
What makes up this combination of JB work at Momo? Oh, sheesh, it's just the usual stuff, really; it's nothing special. I'm just a jobbing creative and it sounds like fun when you talk about it. But I think when you get to write bonkers copy for a range of organic kids snacks, you just start to feel good about the world. I don't know what passengers would have thought, had they looked over the shoulder of the sensible-suited chap in the middle carriage of the train back from London yesterday, if they'd actually read what he was studiously penning.
SPLOT! FRRRRRAAPP! SPLOOCH! CLONK!
I went out last night, still suited and sensible looking, trying hard not to punctuate everything I said with energetic, made-up verbs.
Anyway, the point is that doing this AS WELL as designing comprehensive rebrands for property companies; presenting large website projects for social sector housing associations in the morning, and recording trumpet parts with session musicians in the afternoon... all sounds like a sodding nice time in life. One that might be little more than a short-term series of distractions from the big waves of Oh Buggery piling up astern. For sure. But I have no idea how to command the waves. And I've learned this much: there's a time to strap on your oilies and bare your teeth at the perfect storm, but you'll thinking of the blossom blowing past your window at home when the mast breaks.
..I just KNOW Kirsty would tell me to get a ruddy grip and get on with my work. So I shall.
..Tinkle of chardonnay, anyone? Let's pack up early tonight...
Over the last couple of weeks, I've had a steady, delicate stream of blossom blowing past my studio window. Some years, the local trees deposit their pink cargo in one wallop overnight - dumping a burst duvet of spring petals on the road around their roots in a gusty turn of weather. This year, it's sort of strewn gently down the road like it's welcoming important business visitors to a five-star suite in a Chinese hotel. Pretty.
So I'm in a committed mood of summery optimism. This is based entirely on short-termism of the most childish kind. I just want to go on holiday - awake, this time - and tinker with bits of music and go have coffee with chums.
Yes. You're right, I can see this isn't even a shade of a different mood to normal, at Momo. But sometimes I jest about being a lazy, arty blighter to remind myself of these cherished values while working my proverbials off and talking very sensibly to people who are paying for my professional help. A sort of reality check.
Of course, in the creative business, you are terribly prey to desperately un-creative businesses - and we are having the young mother of 'reality' checks at the moment.
Housing and money and blaaahhh. So the banks were over-ambitious and complacent in their lend-some-to-make-some strategies and now they're being reactionary and petulant and mela-dramatic. Snatching away the toys. It's not like we didn't all see this coming, is it? Just like the other millions of unqualified laypeople who said that the idea of putting western tanks into the Middle East in 2002 would be a poor piece of politics and defense strategy. Yep, we may all know nothing, but we were right. And now again - what a shocker, overnight Credit Crunch.
Although much of my sensible work is connected with the property market in different ways, the debates and dramatic language quickly bore me. Don't they you? I mean, it's all a worry. But let's listen to a bastion of common sense in such times - a comfort and a no-nonsense guide - Kirsty Allsop.
She was on Today this morning, basically telling us all to get a grip and not panic. And it made me think that Relocation Relocation - despite looking ever more like a guilty pleasure - should introduce a new feature to its weekly format, to give us all succor and good cheer in these choppy waters of sudden economic panic.
Allsop's Fables. I need not elaborate further, need I. Just matronly, green-wellies-with-skirt, 'pull your pop socks up' common sense. Sponsored by ING Direct.
-------
You never know when the weather will change. Beams of sunlight through the clouds can be a welcome relief, but they can close up just as suddenly. And lounging around on the cabin top in the warmth is certainly some of what you put to sea for, but stay there too long under your sunnies and you might find yourself in a squall in your speedos.
Well, however choppy the waters ahead, I do of course know how to make a small cabin feel like home at 45°, as you know. I'm a seasoned salty old sea dog now, famously. And my oft-clung-to kids lifering of jollyness might look stupidly inadequate at sea, but it does keep my head above water.
I can think of three or four or five or six sets of circumstances around me that feel like being pitched overboard. People and things I wish I could throw a sturdy, reassuring tether to. The best I can ever do, I've come to realise, is throw a flimsy floatation aid with an inflatable duck's head attached to it - not because things around us are only bathtime deep, but because it might make a moment of funny where there shouldn't be one. And at least help buoyancy a little.
So I'm trusting that the little Momo boat will turn into the wind and ride the swell okay. And if I sprang a leak and had to jump ship to Tesco, all other hands lost, I'd hardly be able to complain. I'd have the memories of weeks like this one, where the combination things on my list of things to do may still be ignominious, unglamorous and only subtly paid - but sounds like the lifestyle of a There's No Shame In Saying It To His Face: Jammy Bastard. Believe me, I do know. And I am enjoying it like a kid, for as long as I can get away with it. Which probably won't be all that long.
What makes up this combination of JB work at Momo? Oh, sheesh, it's just the usual stuff, really; it's nothing special. I'm just a jobbing creative and it sounds like fun when you talk about it. But I think when you get to write bonkers copy for a range of organic kids snacks, you just start to feel good about the world. I don't know what passengers would have thought, had they looked over the shoulder of the sensible-suited chap in the middle carriage of the train back from London yesterday, if they'd actually read what he was studiously penning.
SPLOT! FRRRRRAAPP! SPLOOCH! CLONK!
I went out last night, still suited and sensible looking, trying hard not to punctuate everything I said with energetic, made-up verbs.
Anyway, the point is that doing this AS WELL as designing comprehensive rebrands for property companies; presenting large website projects for social sector housing associations in the morning, and recording trumpet parts with session musicians in the afternoon... all sounds like a sodding nice time in life. One that might be little more than a short-term series of distractions from the big waves of Oh Buggery piling up astern. For sure. But I have no idea how to command the waves. And I've learned this much: there's a time to strap on your oilies and bare your teeth at the perfect storm, but you'll thinking of the blossom blowing past your window at home when the mast breaks.
..I just KNOW Kirsty would tell me to get a ruddy grip and get on with my work. So I shall.
..Tinkle of chardonnay, anyone? Let's pack up early tonight...
Monday, April 07, 2008
BST
WHAT was going on at the weekend? Drove away on Friday in balmly sunshine to a sweaty Ibiza soundtrack - woke up on Sunday to a winter blummen' wonderland with snowmen and carols. Moose in the streets. Dickensian children running with hoops. An overnight shortage on carrots.
We're in British Summer Time, aren't we?
So, er - SNOW?
WHAT was going on at the weekend? Drove away on Friday in balmly sunshine to a sweaty Ibiza soundtrack - woke up on Sunday to a winter blummen' wonderland with snowmen and carols. Moose in the streets. Dickensian children running with hoops. An overnight shortage on carrots.
We're in British Summer Time, aren't we?
So, er - SNOW?
Friday, April 04, 2008
Salt.
Salt.
I have it in my ears. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if I still do, one week on. It's another gorgeously summer-hinting morning this morning, but seven days back was a different story. In fact, that wet, windy, chilly Friday as we stood on the pontoon at Hamble Marina, we were all a little indignant that the scene was such a different story from the DAY before; Thursday last had been glorious. Still, at my sensible, can-do age you do rather look rotten weather in the teeth with a grin. Felt like a school trip.
As foolish a sense as this may turn out to be in future, it's hard to imagine putting to sea as a relative new-comer in a safer pair of hands than those of our skipper for the weekend, Steve King. Something pastoral must kick in for him at the helm - along with a competitive imperative to have the best boat and crew in the Solent, I suspect. Whatever, it works. We felt safe, and acted safe. Which, ah... turned out to be a good thing.
Now, I've not earned my sea legs. A lifetime living on the coast has put me on the water strangely few times. Stranger too is the inexplicable thing that I spent five long years of my life on the UK's biggest selling boating magazine; Valsheda may look beautiful in thirties sepier on my kitchen wall, but the kitchen floor doesn't officially move. So I did feel that the ninth member of the crew might turn out to be the good Cardinal - Chunder, I mean of course. But thankfully, he didn't actually visit - cast his shadow, but didn't bunk down with us. Despite the very best efforts of Skipper and First Mate to serve us elaborately creamy, cheesy, sea-foody, Tesco Finest entrés and luncheons washed down with beer the whole weekend, while in the odd Force 8 squall, I enjoyed my food only the once. Just.
And yes, I did say Force 8. Bit blowy for the odd moment. The thing is, we may have spent Saturday setting our faces like flint to windward, beating up the Solent from Portsmouth to Yarmouth on our ear for much of it, but the UK's favourite stretch of maritime playground is fairly forgiving in the chop department. I'm not saying we weren't all terribly manly about the whole thing, but a real salty old dog would laugh quietly at our tales and nod knowingly into his pipe. ..Which, I've come to believe quite firmly, is also the universal Experienced Skipper's sign for Oh Shit, We're Really In Trouble Now. So you never know.
Thing is, I love the especially-British will to make yourself at home wherever you are. My theory, long-cherrished, that pizza is the ultimate universal food was borne out magnificently, somewhere off Cowes at 45°. I'd kept some from the meal the night before in Portsmouth and someone suggested we distribute it among the men. So, image to take to my grave, there we were passing around flapping slices of the stone-baked blessing, ice-cold in a wet headwind, like we were at a picnic. Morning, noon, night; hot, cold, luke warm; dry or wet - there is NEVER a wrong time for pizza.
Nope, it may have been a fun bit of blowing to sail in, producing the odd bruised shin, but it wasn't proper scary. If we'd have forged out into the Channel that morning, and aimed to make for Yarmouth via the Horn of Ventnor, I think we might have had some interesting swell to contend with as well. Probably, machismo aside, the Solent's weather was baptism enough for the first weekenders. Plus, we'd not have made it into the harbour with enough time for real ale in the rustic warmth of the local pub, shining its chunky-knit cosy reassurance out through the stormy night. Or for the Five Star Michelin experience in the cabin, prepared as little short of loving art by Mr Green and Mr King. Or for hoisting Robbie up the tallest mast in the harbour to retrieve a flailing halliard, hours into the fifth bottle of oaky red...
Actually, if you could have seen us round the table on board that night - and you were a girl - you'd have laughed. Just the right music, just the right wine, just the right combinations of flavours... I tried to picture our selection of other halves in the same situation and came to the instantaneous conclusion that the scene wouldn't have been half so delicate and atmospheric. Steve was, I kid not, genuinely annoyed he'd 'left the candles in Andy's car'.
I was so proud of the boys that night.
In the event, we woke up to an unexpectedly stunning morning. Calm. Flat. Blue. Disappointed though we were to have erected a goose-wing sail configuration, with the express purpose of creaming downhill at warm nine, only to find we were more sort of adrift with a pretty work of canvas art overhead, the sunshine was a welcome warmth.
Three days wasn't long enough. It comes down to who you share these things with, of course - a boat can be a miserable place very easily, and I felt lucky to have who I had around me. But, perhaps all weird experiences - such as working on a boating magazine without getting your feet wet - lead somewhere after all. Maybe.
As soon as I got in that Sunday evening, I emailed PBO to ask about a good RYA Competent Crew course...
I have it in my ears. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if I still do, one week on. It's another gorgeously summer-hinting morning this morning, but seven days back was a different story. In fact, that wet, windy, chilly Friday as we stood on the pontoon at Hamble Marina, we were all a little indignant that the scene was such a different story from the DAY before; Thursday last had been glorious. Still, at my sensible, can-do age you do rather look rotten weather in the teeth with a grin. Felt like a school trip.
As foolish a sense as this may turn out to be in future, it's hard to imagine putting to sea as a relative new-comer in a safer pair of hands than those of our skipper for the weekend, Steve King. Something pastoral must kick in for him at the helm - along with a competitive imperative to have the best boat and crew in the Solent, I suspect. Whatever, it works. We felt safe, and acted safe. Which, ah... turned out to be a good thing.
Now, I've not earned my sea legs. A lifetime living on the coast has put me on the water strangely few times. Stranger too is the inexplicable thing that I spent five long years of my life on the UK's biggest selling boating magazine; Valsheda may look beautiful in thirties sepier on my kitchen wall, but the kitchen floor doesn't officially move. So I did feel that the ninth member of the crew might turn out to be the good Cardinal - Chunder, I mean of course. But thankfully, he didn't actually visit - cast his shadow, but didn't bunk down with us. Despite the very best efforts of Skipper and First Mate to serve us elaborately creamy, cheesy, sea-foody, Tesco Finest entrés and luncheons washed down with beer the whole weekend, while in the odd Force 8 squall, I enjoyed my food only the once. Just.
And yes, I did say Force 8. Bit blowy for the odd moment. The thing is, we may have spent Saturday setting our faces like flint to windward, beating up the Solent from Portsmouth to Yarmouth on our ear for much of it, but the UK's favourite stretch of maritime playground is fairly forgiving in the chop department. I'm not saying we weren't all terribly manly about the whole thing, but a real salty old dog would laugh quietly at our tales and nod knowingly into his pipe. ..Which, I've come to believe quite firmly, is also the universal Experienced Skipper's sign for Oh Shit, We're Really In Trouble Now. So you never know.
Thing is, I love the especially-British will to make yourself at home wherever you are. My theory, long-cherrished, that pizza is the ultimate universal food was borne out magnificently, somewhere off Cowes at 45°. I'd kept some from the meal the night before in Portsmouth and someone suggested we distribute it among the men. So, image to take to my grave, there we were passing around flapping slices of the stone-baked blessing, ice-cold in a wet headwind, like we were at a picnic. Morning, noon, night; hot, cold, luke warm; dry or wet - there is NEVER a wrong time for pizza.
Nope, it may have been a fun bit of blowing to sail in, producing the odd bruised shin, but it wasn't proper scary. If we'd have forged out into the Channel that morning, and aimed to make for Yarmouth via the Horn of Ventnor, I think we might have had some interesting swell to contend with as well. Probably, machismo aside, the Solent's weather was baptism enough for the first weekenders. Plus, we'd not have made it into the harbour with enough time for real ale in the rustic warmth of the local pub, shining its chunky-knit cosy reassurance out through the stormy night. Or for the Five Star Michelin experience in the cabin, prepared as little short of loving art by Mr Green and Mr King. Or for hoisting Robbie up the tallest mast in the harbour to retrieve a flailing halliard, hours into the fifth bottle of oaky red...
Actually, if you could have seen us round the table on board that night - and you were a girl - you'd have laughed. Just the right music, just the right wine, just the right combinations of flavours... I tried to picture our selection of other halves in the same situation and came to the instantaneous conclusion that the scene wouldn't have been half so delicate and atmospheric. Steve was, I kid not, genuinely annoyed he'd 'left the candles in Andy's car'.
I was so proud of the boys that night.
In the event, we woke up to an unexpectedly stunning morning. Calm. Flat. Blue. Disappointed though we were to have erected a goose-wing sail configuration, with the express purpose of creaming downhill at warm nine, only to find we were more sort of adrift with a pretty work of canvas art overhead, the sunshine was a welcome warmth.
Three days wasn't long enough. It comes down to who you share these things with, of course - a boat can be a miserable place very easily, and I felt lucky to have who I had around me. But, perhaps all weird experiences - such as working on a boating magazine without getting your feet wet - lead somewhere after all. Maybe.
As soon as I got in that Sunday evening, I emailed PBO to ask about a good RYA Competent Crew course...
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Rong radio.
Rong radio.
Loved this. Scooched over a precariously ambitious serving of curry after circuits tonight, cloyed sweat still matted to me like mango chutney to a naan, FourDocs played out an award-winning Three Minute Wonder. Hip poet Benjamin Zephaniah doing a sterling performance to a cam in a cab:
http://www.channel4.com/fourdocs/film/film-detail.jsp?id=65565
Great stuff. We've all been listening to the Rong Radio, Benjy. We've known it for years, of course, but we don't seem to be doing much with the knowledge. In fact, I do rather think I'm getting comfortable with my status anxiety. After twenty years of idly enjoying myself, I still have no idea how to make much of a difference to anything, of course, and am still clinging to the vain hope that something, some day, will make its mind up to happen for me. So I won't have the on going agony of having to choose.
Attaboy - make a difference. It's rather beginning to seem that my values are degrading as I get older; too much rong radio. Fatness grows in the head, as well as the tee shirt, I think.
But, while I'm killing time in my thickening womb tank of apathy, if there's one immaturity I am fairly stubbornly happy to have carried from the beginning, it's weirdly introspective joy of making music and daydreaming about the Next Album Project. And, by jingo, it's happening. After six years.
Had an impromptu dinner at the revamped Spyglass the other night, to celebrate Caroline's handing in of the latest epic installment of diploma work. Mark and Sarah joined us round the table, as part of their Real Blummen' Actual Week Off celebrations and as the evening lengthened we found our table rounded by a whole number of folk.
Tim Colthup and I spent the whole night talking music. He's back into it - finishing a long-awaited album in the same freakin' apartment we locked ourselves into twenty summers ago to go music creative mad. We're both as excited now as we were then. Nothing's moved on and I couldn't have been happier than right then, jabbering with grins in the old Ocean. Why do we lose ourselves in it so?
All thirteen tracks I've decided on for my own new collection are up and spinning together here in the studio - around Actual Paid Work - and I'm just loving being in the right place again. That's just what it still feels like. However stupendously pointless that right place has always always appeared to be.
No, don't be nice. You've not heard the rubbish I'm recording yet.
It's never going to get on the radio, that's for damn sure.
Loved this. Scooched over a precariously ambitious serving of curry after circuits tonight, cloyed sweat still matted to me like mango chutney to a naan, FourDocs played out an award-winning Three Minute Wonder. Hip poet Benjamin Zephaniah doing a sterling performance to a cam in a cab:
http://www.channel4.com/fourdocs/film/film-detail.jsp?id=65565
Great stuff. We've all been listening to the Rong Radio, Benjy. We've known it for years, of course, but we don't seem to be doing much with the knowledge. In fact, I do rather think I'm getting comfortable with my status anxiety. After twenty years of idly enjoying myself, I still have no idea how to make much of a difference to anything, of course, and am still clinging to the vain hope that something, some day, will make its mind up to happen for me. So I won't have the on going agony of having to choose.
Attaboy - make a difference. It's rather beginning to seem that my values are degrading as I get older; too much rong radio. Fatness grows in the head, as well as the tee shirt, I think.
But, while I'm killing time in my thickening womb tank of apathy, if there's one immaturity I am fairly stubbornly happy to have carried from the beginning, it's weirdly introspective joy of making music and daydreaming about the Next Album Project. And, by jingo, it's happening. After six years.
Had an impromptu dinner at the revamped Spyglass the other night, to celebrate Caroline's handing in of the latest epic installment of diploma work. Mark and Sarah joined us round the table, as part of their Real Blummen' Actual Week Off celebrations and as the evening lengthened we found our table rounded by a whole number of folk.
Tim Colthup and I spent the whole night talking music. He's back into it - finishing a long-awaited album in the same freakin' apartment we locked ourselves into twenty summers ago to go music creative mad. We're both as excited now as we were then. Nothing's moved on and I couldn't have been happier than right then, jabbering with grins in the old Ocean. Why do we lose ourselves in it so?
All thirteen tracks I've decided on for my own new collection are up and spinning together here in the studio - around Actual Paid Work - and I'm just loving being in the right place again. That's just what it still feels like. However stupendously pointless that right place has always always appeared to be.
No, don't be nice. You've not heard the rubbish I'm recording yet.
It's never going to get on the radio, that's for damn sure.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Gay.
Gay.
Interesting that, in a week where the word 'gay' was polled by UK teachers as by far the most used term of casual abuse in the playgrounds of Britain in 2008, I found a rather interesting comment on a BBC web article.
I couldn't sleep lastnight for some reason. Ended up getting up to write down some ideas that came to mind, unhindered by the normal daytime crap. Haven't looked back this morning to see if they will turn out to be the usual night time crap. But before the ol' bean turned to creative matters, I had been randomly thinking about this little post, left by someone called 'Sam, a Brit abroad', in answer to a piece about the Bible's attitude to homosexuality. It was a neat summation of the two views held by believers on the subject - a subject otherwise seen as absurdly moot by most people in the country.
This morning, in a not-surprising late starter for us, we were listening to the Radio 4 joy that is In Our Time and they were discussing the philosopher, Kierkegaard. And jeepers, we even understood it. More than that, it even appeared to make sense to us. But this 'father of existentialism' actually had a very personal view of Christianity... no, I'm not about to reveal he was gay. He saw the need to sometimes embrace opposing ideas if we are to attempt to understand things beyond ourselves. A necessary tension.
Trying not to behave like too much of a smug arse because, after all, I have no study to back this up at all, it did make me think how much I've thought over the years that faith is a long succession of impossible balances. That, if you feel impelled to make a declaration of faith in something - atheist or believer - the road you'll have to walk is a daily one of tension. Of holding a long series of impossible balances in tension. If you care. In simple terms, could be desire/duty. Fulfillment/sacrifice. Certainty/Open-mindedness. Hope/Reality. Responsibility/Submission to events. Trust/likelyhood. That's the high-wire act of faith. ..It rather comes down to what you're choosing to put your faith in, but when that distinctly un-impirical idea starts to make a bonkers kind of sense, you're beginning to get it. I think.
I can only measure to the end of my nose. Beyond it, I need to accept things may sometimes look contradictory in plebby human language, that aren't in the bigger cosmos. We surely have to keep measuring what we can, to enlarge the world of certainty as wisely as possible - Duh. I want to know what the hell a graviton really is, baby; we might finally get proper flying cars and stuff. But accepting that even a long-awaited Theory Of Everything, will in no way tell us everything, is just honest. What we choose to think beyond the nose ruler is another, very personal, matter... Oop - there I go again, holding my impossible philosophical tensions with casual diffidence.
..Yep, I agree. Impressively deep stuff. I think I thought a lot of other deep stuff at three AM too, about how the spectrum of sexuality is not simply about desire but identity, of course. Interesting how our desires can be our labels, outwardly and inwardly. "Hi, I'm Bob. I'm a transexual Star Trekker. That's me. What I want is who I am. And it demands a LOT of wardrobe space, let me tell you..."
I think I also came up with some clever analogy about how that sexual spectrum could be seen as a circular colour wheel - but a cylinder of brightness as well as a flat rotation of inclination.
See? Smart-sounding at three in the morning. I suspect it's as helpful to daily life as a pair of men's jeans three sizes too small - all bollocks - but there we are. Not about to devote a lifetime of study to it. But I did go back to this comment here and think, after reading the usual cartoon like responses to a religious article, this one somehow had the tone of voice of someone who in some way actually got what a God attitude might be to being gay:
"I'm 37 years old, an evangelical Christian(the kind who that believe you can "know" God personally/for real), and a struggling celibate. I knew for sure I was gay at 13. Unmistakable gay feelings etc when still a pre-pubescent junior. I became a Christian at uni, and then two very real worlds collided. No doubts about the person or reality of God. Nor of his love for me. Nor of my sexuality. My spirit (and mind)has always leaned towards my staying celibate - but my heart and emotions want what most do, a settled, loving relationship. I read the Bible several times - all of it,and as a student too - none of the points raised are new to me. Following that collision c20 yrs ago, daily I try to work through the reality of my own personal 'collateral damage'." Sam, Brit abroad.
You might have no idea where Sam is coming from here, but to my mind, there's nothing playground gay about it.
Interesting that, in a week where the word 'gay' was polled by UK teachers as by far the most used term of casual abuse in the playgrounds of Britain in 2008, I found a rather interesting comment on a BBC web article.
I couldn't sleep lastnight for some reason. Ended up getting up to write down some ideas that came to mind, unhindered by the normal daytime crap. Haven't looked back this morning to see if they will turn out to be the usual night time crap. But before the ol' bean turned to creative matters, I had been randomly thinking about this little post, left by someone called 'Sam, a Brit abroad', in answer to a piece about the Bible's attitude to homosexuality. It was a neat summation of the two views held by believers on the subject - a subject otherwise seen as absurdly moot by most people in the country.
This morning, in a not-surprising late starter for us, we were listening to the Radio 4 joy that is In Our Time and they were discussing the philosopher, Kierkegaard. And jeepers, we even understood it. More than that, it even appeared to make sense to us. But this 'father of existentialism' actually had a very personal view of Christianity... no, I'm not about to reveal he was gay. He saw the need to sometimes embrace opposing ideas if we are to attempt to understand things beyond ourselves. A necessary tension.
Trying not to behave like too much of a smug arse because, after all, I have no study to back this up at all, it did make me think how much I've thought over the years that faith is a long succession of impossible balances. That, if you feel impelled to make a declaration of faith in something - atheist or believer - the road you'll have to walk is a daily one of tension. Of holding a long series of impossible balances in tension. If you care. In simple terms, could be desire/duty. Fulfillment/sacrifice. Certainty/Open-mindedness. Hope/Reality. Responsibility/Submission to events. Trust/likelyhood. That's the high-wire act of faith. ..It rather comes down to what you're choosing to put your faith in, but when that distinctly un-impirical idea starts to make a bonkers kind of sense, you're beginning to get it. I think.
I can only measure to the end of my nose. Beyond it, I need to accept things may sometimes look contradictory in plebby human language, that aren't in the bigger cosmos. We surely have to keep measuring what we can, to enlarge the world of certainty as wisely as possible - Duh. I want to know what the hell a graviton really is, baby; we might finally get proper flying cars and stuff. But accepting that even a long-awaited Theory Of Everything, will in no way tell us everything, is just honest. What we choose to think beyond the nose ruler is another, very personal, matter... Oop - there I go again, holding my impossible philosophical tensions with casual diffidence.
..Yep, I agree. Impressively deep stuff. I think I thought a lot of other deep stuff at three AM too, about how the spectrum of sexuality is not simply about desire but identity, of course. Interesting how our desires can be our labels, outwardly and inwardly. "Hi, I'm Bob. I'm a transexual Star Trekker. That's me. What I want is who I am. And it demands a LOT of wardrobe space, let me tell you..."
I think I also came up with some clever analogy about how that sexual spectrum could be seen as a circular colour wheel - but a cylinder of brightness as well as a flat rotation of inclination.
See? Smart-sounding at three in the morning. I suspect it's as helpful to daily life as a pair of men's jeans three sizes too small - all bollocks - but there we are. Not about to devote a lifetime of study to it. But I did go back to this comment here and think, after reading the usual cartoon like responses to a religious article, this one somehow had the tone of voice of someone who in some way actually got what a God attitude might be to being gay:
"I'm 37 years old, an evangelical Christian(the kind who that believe you can "know" God personally/for real), and a struggling celibate. I knew for sure I was gay at 13. Unmistakable gay feelings etc when still a pre-pubescent junior. I became a Christian at uni, and then two very real worlds collided. No doubts about the person or reality of God. Nor of his love for me. Nor of my sexuality. My spirit (and mind)has always leaned towards my staying celibate - but my heart and emotions want what most do, a settled, loving relationship. I read the Bible several times - all of it,and as a student too - none of the points raised are new to me. Following that collision c20 yrs ago, daily I try to work through the reality of my own personal 'collateral damage'." Sam, Brit abroad.
You might have no idea where Sam is coming from here, but to my mind, there's nothing playground gay about it.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
News travels fast.
News travels fast.
So many giant things seem to vie for attention if you ever have the misfortune to turn on the news, but it's often the small things - or the individuals - that seem to really affect you. Or you feel able to respond to meaningfully.
I wanted to chew over the situation in Gaza one more time; find a way to shake the tree of it. Throttle the frigging life out of it. But somehow the will seeped out of me.
I wanted to explore why I'm so instinctively hoping for Obama - despite his conspicuously vague Actual Policies - for the indefensibly trivial, worldly, dreadfully politicianal reason that he's such a natural orator. He's black, and he's funny. Aparently. But is it enough? Why does it feel like enough? Please let it be enough.
I wanted to cry for little Shannon when they actually found her alive. But there's nothing more to say there, is there.
I wondered too about the untimely - call it early - loss of Anthony Minghella. He surely had so much creative work still ahead of him. Someone who championed British film and British creative talent - what a sudden loss. What a fabulous selection of films to leave mankind in your wake. Makes you think too.
And, considering I've just sent another shipment of artwork to Shanghai, I'm sure I could certainly be exploring the growing challenge of China - Tibet and Ten Downing Street's moral vaguery, or the world's new favourite trading buddy's backdoor to Burmese oppression. It's a tickler, isn't it?
Hey, and where would anyone even start with the state of the economy in America, or Still President Bush's declaration that the war was worth it, or... or a thousand other stories. Big and impossible.
Nope, much as you may wish higher things for yourself - a nobler application of one's self - your brain will always tell you what's really important to you. The ol' subconscious lets you know, you know? Makes clear what you're really giving a fig for.
Lastnight I dreamt I was offered a lift by Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson, on the lookout for a new presenter for... oh, shite. I'll just leave it there; you get the point.
I need to get OUT...
So many giant things seem to vie for attention if you ever have the misfortune to turn on the news, but it's often the small things - or the individuals - that seem to really affect you. Or you feel able to respond to meaningfully.
I wanted to chew over the situation in Gaza one more time; find a way to shake the tree of it. Throttle the frigging life out of it. But somehow the will seeped out of me.
I wanted to explore why I'm so instinctively hoping for Obama - despite his conspicuously vague Actual Policies - for the indefensibly trivial, worldly, dreadfully politicianal reason that he's such a natural orator. He's black, and he's funny. Aparently. But is it enough? Why does it feel like enough? Please let it be enough.
I wanted to cry for little Shannon when they actually found her alive. But there's nothing more to say there, is there.
I wondered too about the untimely - call it early - loss of Anthony Minghella. He surely had so much creative work still ahead of him. Someone who championed British film and British creative talent - what a sudden loss. What a fabulous selection of films to leave mankind in your wake. Makes you think too.
And, considering I've just sent another shipment of artwork to Shanghai, I'm sure I could certainly be exploring the growing challenge of China - Tibet and Ten Downing Street's moral vaguery, or the world's new favourite trading buddy's backdoor to Burmese oppression. It's a tickler, isn't it?
Hey, and where would anyone even start with the state of the economy in America, or Still President Bush's declaration that the war was worth it, or... or a thousand other stories. Big and impossible.
Nope, much as you may wish higher things for yourself - a nobler application of one's self - your brain will always tell you what's really important to you. The ol' subconscious lets you know, you know? Makes clear what you're really giving a fig for.
Lastnight I dreamt I was offered a lift by Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson, on the lookout for a new presenter for... oh, shite. I'll just leave it there; you get the point.
I need to get OUT...
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Beer.
Beer.
Zot. Brugge Zot - that's the stuff. Zot means 'fool' in Flemmish Dutch, apparently, so I took to it instantly. Though, I should confess straight up that I only took a couple of sips; we may have just spent the weekend in a beer Mecca of sorts, but I clung to a series of trusty stems of vino while we were there. I didn't even make myself sick on chocolates - though they are in fact currency in Bruges.
Yes, we made it. Spent the whole time wandering around cobbled streets, gazing at gables and cornices and public spaces. I think I should basically be doing Caroline's Urban Design diploma with her, I so obviously know so much. When we weren't ambling, we were sleeping the said of the undead in room.
Nothing more interesting than that to say. Everyone with a vaguely Dutch disposition seems to be unambiguously friendly and effortlessly tri-lingual. But I couldn't even be bothered to do my bad accent comedy routine.
Traveling by train is kind of cute and St Pancras is a joy, especially compared to Bruxelles Midi, which is a sort of apocalyptic bunker.
And now we're back. Planning ways to spend money we just don't have on going on holiday for the rest of the year.
Zot. Brugge Zot - that's the stuff. Zot means 'fool' in Flemmish Dutch, apparently, so I took to it instantly. Though, I should confess straight up that I only took a couple of sips; we may have just spent the weekend in a beer Mecca of sorts, but I clung to a series of trusty stems of vino while we were there. I didn't even make myself sick on chocolates - though they are in fact currency in Bruges.
Yes, we made it. Spent the whole time wandering around cobbled streets, gazing at gables and cornices and public spaces. I think I should basically be doing Caroline's Urban Design diploma with her, I so obviously know so much. When we weren't ambling, we were sleeping the said of the undead in room.
Nothing more interesting than that to say. Everyone with a vaguely Dutch disposition seems to be unambiguously friendly and effortlessly tri-lingual. But I couldn't even be bothered to do my bad accent comedy routine.
Traveling by train is kind of cute and St Pancras is a joy, especially compared to Bruxelles Midi, which is a sort of apocalyptic bunker.
And now we're back. Planning ways to spend money we just don't have on going on holiday for the rest of the year.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Bugger.
Bugger.
Won't go into it. Just won't. Silliest, most inexplicable bloody thing. But we didn't go to Belgium. Or bed.
Went to Boscombe.
(see title.)
Won't go into it. Just won't. Silliest, most inexplicable bloody thing. But we didn't go to Belgium. Or bed.
Went to Boscombe.
(see title.)
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Pantsman pax 'em out.
Pantsman pax 'em out.
I'm just trying out my ability with tabloid headlines. Not a bad one there, maybe. The reason I think of the gussett troubles of the Beeb's biggest news anchor is twofold:
1, we were remarking only moments before we heard the news of Jeremy's already-infamous letter to the hitherto-be-shining-armoured Sir Stuart Rose – branding smarty-pants – that my recent purchases from the M&S Symmetrical & Only Vaguely-Defined Men's department were worryingly thin of fibre. Soft, I mark you. But disturbingly opaque. Bad timing to have tried white ones for the first time in twenty years…
2, my energy levels are pants. And thin. And worn-through.
A deadline-buried weekend just about floored me by the time Caroline and I were driving up to Horsham yesterday. The road was a blur. I found no reserves of personality to offer loved ones as we entered the crowded church in the old town. And as the funeral of another member of our wider family rolled past us in the pews, I wondered how to contribute anything to those we were standing with. I could barely stand for sudden fatigue.
David was an inspiration. A big smile of wisdom. To be there felt like a great privilege – but I felt only there in body.
Now, back so soon with another deadline to battle through before tomorrow morning, I am dreaming of time off. Time free. Time to think. Time to regenerate some creativity. Because I can sense things to be done coming our way – perhaps good things. But I just want to crawl under a rock at the moment.
Just a few days of french cafés and sketching. No deadlines. No schedule. That's all it might take. Because I still feel a little overwhelmed by the people around me; their care and love.
So I guess, after all, I'm saying that I don't think I'm in need of any extra support – I just don't want to be quite so on show for a little while.
I'm just trying out my ability with tabloid headlines. Not a bad one there, maybe. The reason I think of the gussett troubles of the Beeb's biggest news anchor is twofold:
1, we were remarking only moments before we heard the news of Jeremy's already-infamous letter to the hitherto-be-shining-armoured Sir Stuart Rose – branding smarty-pants – that my recent purchases from the M&S Symmetrical & Only Vaguely-Defined Men's department were worryingly thin of fibre. Soft, I mark you. But disturbingly opaque. Bad timing to have tried white ones for the first time in twenty years…
2, my energy levels are pants. And thin. And worn-through.
A deadline-buried weekend just about floored me by the time Caroline and I were driving up to Horsham yesterday. The road was a blur. I found no reserves of personality to offer loved ones as we entered the crowded church in the old town. And as the funeral of another member of our wider family rolled past us in the pews, I wondered how to contribute anything to those we were standing with. I could barely stand for sudden fatigue.
David was an inspiration. A big smile of wisdom. To be there felt like a great privilege – but I felt only there in body.
Now, back so soon with another deadline to battle through before tomorrow morning, I am dreaming of time off. Time free. Time to think. Time to regenerate some creativity. Because I can sense things to be done coming our way – perhaps good things. But I just want to crawl under a rock at the moment.
Just a few days of french cafés and sketching. No deadlines. No schedule. That's all it might take. Because I still feel a little overwhelmed by the people around me; their care and love.
So I guess, after all, I'm saying that I don't think I'm in need of any extra support – I just don't want to be quite so on show for a little while.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Back to normal.
Back to normal.
Are we? Don't know, really. Momo's ramped up to speed this week, which is good, I guess. And Caroline's back at college; the upshot of both being that we locked ourselves into the studio again lastnight with Pete, Annie and a fruity Rioja to try and Stay On It. Or perhaps, Get Down On It. All very nice; very funky and productive even, but we had to draw the line at Kissy Sell Out, who kept shouting at us how much the tunes he was playing from only about a year ago reminded him of school… Yep, I'll concede you can only listen to Radio One for so long, even on a Friday night.
So we're knackered. And feeling a bit old. And in need of time away; I've found myself trying not to cry at episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine this week – emotion that should not speak its name but be simply bundled off to Brugge for a recouperative weekend, I think. Working on it.
But right now, we're having to work all weekend, despite pained eyes. Umpteen deadlines all at once.
Still, two nice things to wake up to: my first ever collection of Django Reinhardt plopped through the door this morning, and Fi Gawdblesser Glover made a joke to a cultural hero of mine on my behalf – "Nitin Sawhney is our studio guest star this week and listener Tim Peach tells us that someone once said it is easier to list the things you can't do than those you can. He'd like me to ask you what they both are, respectfully…" He chuckled and said simply: "Cooking and driving."
Hah! Knew there had to be something.
Hmm. But he also feels no need to write into radio shows and then blog the results.
..Don't care, Fi Glover spoke my name to Nitin Sawhney while I lounged in bed. An auspicious start to Saturday…
Are we? Don't know, really. Momo's ramped up to speed this week, which is good, I guess. And Caroline's back at college; the upshot of both being that we locked ourselves into the studio again lastnight with Pete, Annie and a fruity Rioja to try and Stay On It. Or perhaps, Get Down On It. All very nice; very funky and productive even, but we had to draw the line at Kissy Sell Out, who kept shouting at us how much the tunes he was playing from only about a year ago reminded him of school… Yep, I'll concede you can only listen to Radio One for so long, even on a Friday night.
So we're knackered. And feeling a bit old. And in need of time away; I've found myself trying not to cry at episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine this week – emotion that should not speak its name but be simply bundled off to Brugge for a recouperative weekend, I think. Working on it.
But right now, we're having to work all weekend, despite pained eyes. Umpteen deadlines all at once.
Still, two nice things to wake up to: my first ever collection of Django Reinhardt plopped through the door this morning, and Fi Gawdblesser Glover made a joke to a cultural hero of mine on my behalf – "Nitin Sawhney is our studio guest star this week and listener Tim Peach tells us that someone once said it is easier to list the things you can't do than those you can. He'd like me to ask you what they both are, respectfully…" He chuckled and said simply: "Cooking and driving."
Hah! Knew there had to be something.
Hmm. But he also feels no need to write into radio shows and then blog the results.
..Don't care, Fi Glover spoke my name to Nitin Sawhney while I lounged in bed. An auspicious start to Saturday…
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
New Year.
New Year.
Amazon have declared our weird Christmas finally over, with two new CDs arriving in the post. New music helps to make a new chapter – but while I fug around to Herbie Hancock and swashbuckle Momo's inbox, I think of last Wednesday and what a bizarrely good thing it was.
Dad would, I feel sure, have been bursting with pride. I was. Our family of friends were fantastic – thankyou for helping to give us a love-fest that was the best send-off we could have managed. The stories and the smiles around the sadness filled us up. Just thankyou.
Mum is in okay shape, and so is Melly. We're all doing okay. But we could have talked for days to describe Dad properly.
Thinking of you, Dad. We all have been, very very fondly.
x
Amazon have declared our weird Christmas finally over, with two new CDs arriving in the post. New music helps to make a new chapter – but while I fug around to Herbie Hancock and swashbuckle Momo's inbox, I think of last Wednesday and what a bizarrely good thing it was.
Dad would, I feel sure, have been bursting with pride. I was. Our family of friends were fantastic – thankyou for helping to give us a love-fest that was the best send-off we could have managed. The stories and the smiles around the sadness filled us up. Just thankyou.
Mum is in okay shape, and so is Melly. We're all doing okay. But we could have talked for days to describe Dad properly.
Thinking of you, Dad. We all have been, very very fondly.
x
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