The last of my duties yesterday before heading off on holiday was to play the organ for the wedding of two friends to each other in a lovely country church about half an hour from the Somerset hideaway, a church with a decent organ to boot.  These friends had failed to tell me about a change in music in the service, but a swift download later all was fine and dandy, even if I did end up reading the score off the screen of my mobile phone.

I felt in some ways that I was travelling under the radar, a professional musician disguised as a guest who had offered to play the organ, but it was good to be able to contribute to the celebrations of two very good friends in a way that they seem to have appreciated very much.  The reception was also enjoyable, mixing with some people of a very similar mindset to mine, although in different professions, comparing and contrasting.

After the reception we headed north, arriving at our destination at around two in the morning. I told my better half to make herself at home while I unloaded the car, but a soft click and the appearance my beloved outside the door of our temporary abode announced, to my horror, that she had locked us out. In her three minutes in the house she had managed to open a window – on the first floor – so we spent two hours driving around the town in search of ladders, incredibly managing to borrow not one but two in the middle of the night against all the odds, neither of which was quite long enough to cancel that terrifying worry of my hanging off a window ledge for hours while my phone lay out of reach in the kitchen.

We gave up the struggle at around half past four, snoozed awkwardly and fitfully in the packed car, laughed a lot at the absurdity of our predicament, especially the driving around with the roof of the car down and ladders sticking out at three in the morning, and then went to the letting agency as soon as they opened, and I have to admit that they laughed a lot as well. As I write this I still feel that it is the 4th, for I have not been to bed yet, but I am loath to waste the first day of my holiday, even after so eventful and tiring an arrival.

The compositional plan for the break is to get on with some technical work, to explore on paper some ideas that I have had over the couple of months that may, in some small way, represent a breakthrough of sorts.  I feel sure that rethinking a few things will make my writing easier and my language possibly more expressive, but I need to get the technique flowing from my fingers first to be able to explore its possibilities in more depth later.