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.

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.

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?

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)

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.

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...

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?

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...

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.)

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.

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…

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

Arrangements

As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.

For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome.

All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.

Happy New Year, Dad.

x

Arrangements.

Arrangements.

As you might imagine, it's been a weird Christmas. Large helpings of lots to do and nothing to do. And an uncomfortable amount of Normal – none of us know how to stay under a black shroud for long, it seems.

For info, Dad's funeral will be Wednesday 9th January 2008, 11.30am at Richmond Hill URC, with a short time at the crem at 12.30 and a social time at Highcliffe Golf Club afterwards. It's an open door all round, in keeping with Dad's life – all welcome, if you knew him.

All is odd. But okay, I think. I just think of this: we've unearthed a ton of photos from the length and breadth of Dad's life for the memorial and it's hard to find one that doesn't make you smile.

Happy New Year, Dad.

x

Dad. And Dad.

Dad. And Dad.

He had been making remarkable progress. They had taken most of the lines out of him and were daring to contemplate life at home for him. Mum had finally been let out of hospital and had a few days at home at long last, ready to start thinking about the future of care for my Dad. But in the end, he'd fought for long enough.

We had a call at 4.00am this morning. Dad died soon afterwards.

We're okay. We're all kind of okay. Wish I could say more – there's much I could, but it's only twelve hours in and this is just a blog. But my Dad is no longer suffering.

..Wish it was a neat as that, however. Sixteen hours before that call, we'd had another one. My brother in law's dad, David, died one night previous. In the space of a day, Caroline and her sister had both lost their fathers, because that's what both men really were to them. A personal thing to say, and a testimony to both of them. The first of many.

So we're juggling families. And feelings. And practicalities.

Will let you know more details here in time; the blog's been useful to let friends know the news for our folks. And everyone's texts and thoughts have been very kind, very helpful and no surprise at all. Bless you guys for being our family – Mum and Dad were always so pleased you've been there for us.

A little more when we have time.

x

WARNING! WARD CLOSED.

WARNING! WARD CLOSED.

My Mum now has C-Dif. Or similar. The point is, they've closed her ward entirely and moved her to a side room where she can feel completely lousy in bacterial privacy. Can't see her.

The hospital looks like M*A*S*H. Yellow warning stickers all over wards; crooked bits of wood nailed over the doors. Blood on the lintels. But, amazingly, Melissa and I managed to see Dad this afternoon. We sat and chatted and I tried to put my finger on what was weird about him. Then I twigged – as ill and unhappy as he is, he looks more like himself than I've seen in a month. I figured he must be getting better because he'd been grouchy with the nurses in the night – they'd tried to make him lie down and he took umbridge at not being able to breathe.

We're still not thinking beyond tomorrow, however. Dad's medical condition is as complicated and vulnerable as ever. But they have moved him to a ward tonight.

So we got through today. Seems my parents will both be in hospital until next week at least.

Stop me when this gets boring.