I am back from the south of France, a couple of days there and a full day of travel in either direction, my brother and I spending some time clearing out our father’s house and getting it ready for an impending sale.  It has been empty for a while, the sizeable garden untended, so this was a task that was greater than we had initially imagined, but I think we have made a decent fist of it.

As on any holiday (which this was not), I took more games than we could play, ate and drank more than I should have done, and did far less composition than I had anticipated.  I took manuscript, pencils and all the other paraphernalia of creativity and failed to put a single note on paper – there simply was not enough time.

Now, though, I need to get on with things, blitz the emails and attack a new piece, something large that needs to be written by next Friday.  Whether it can be done is going to prove a real challenge, but I think that with decent planning and a little bit of application it might have a chance, even if I suspect that I have already left it too late.

We also sprinkled our father’s ashes, finally having decided almost separately on the same quiet spot, so with the house selling and the bits and pieces of his life dispersed, it feels as though the door has been shut on that chapter of my life.  If the house sale goes through, it will be time to look determinedly forwards.

We may have to return to France one more time to sort out some of the finalities of the house sale, to throw away the last useless artefacts from the house, so we shall see what we shall see, but for now I am just happy to be home.  Tired, spent and a little wired, but ready to get down to writing some new music.


Bacon sandwich, red wine – candlelit dinner immediately after arrival.