There were several straws yesterday morning which threatened to break this particular camel’s back, the main one being that my cats had conspired to turn the house overnight into their own personal vomitarium and continued to do so throughout the day. Throw in (or perhaps that should be “throw up”) a dead mouse as well and, by the time I headed out into the big bad world, I was feeling rather oppressed, but the rest of the day picked up from that point on.
Over lunch I handed over He Makes His Messengers Winds to its commissioner and then pointed myself Londonwards to take a rehearsal for the Malcolm Sargent Festival Choir. I was ready to go home before this, I must admit, but I have found on many occasions that the energy of taking a rehearsal will sweep me along, and this happened again last night. Upon arriving home I found that my lovely other half had bought me a huge box of Turkish Delight from the largest corner shop in the world to cheer me up (goodbye diet, again), and I stayed up late dosing my body with cautious amounts of Bushmills and pretending to be an American Civil War general, as one does.
Today is a new month, and an opportunity for me to get back onto the straight and narrow, so I shall do some arranging and writing today before heading into town once more to do some playing. I have not been at home of an evening for a while, and I miss the gentle domesticity of a quiet time, but the simple fact is that most of my work is later in the day.
My builder is next door at the moment, trying to get the house recently vacated by my neighbours from hell into some kind of order. I can hear Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells noodling through the wall between the bangs and crashes, and I imagine him in there eating sushi, sipping Jasmine tea, playing a game of Carcassonne and grinding some coffee beans for his afternoon break. He’s changed, man, although it is a source of much merriment between us as to how upmarket this former wide boy has become.
I now realise that I’ve never heard Tubular Bells complete, and I can’t say that I have missed much. It sounds like so much hippy tosh to me. Worse still, it is the album that gave Richard Branson the opportunity a long way down the line to bombard us all with missives from Virgin Media while founding quite the worst Formula One team in recent memory.
Wisely he has cut his losses in F1. Maybe he should save a few trees and realise that, after seven years, I can still summon up enough energy to put his letter straight into the recycling.
So arranging it is today, and a little bit of playing as well. Then I might be in the mood to head back to Gettysburg or wherever and lose myself once more.