So far this morning has been filled with admin, that omnipresent beast, although for once almost all of it has been productive. An Evensong picked up here, a music director found (probably) for a choir there, and some other decent bits and pieces to boot.

The bad news is that it has taken up most of the morning, but the good news is that if the horizon stays clear then it has freed up the afternoon for me to get my head down and power on with the Dunstan cantata. I feel a little like the Starship Enterprise in one of its the engines cannae take it moments, bits of work falling off here and there until only the main structure remains.

The main structure, the command deck of my life, is the composition, of course, and as I write this I sit here in my own little corner of Yeovil happy in the knowledge that one of the pieces I have written here has already had a little success, so while I am not expecting a blue plaque or any other similar nonsense, at least I feel that I have achieved something. The way that things are going I suspect that a large part of the cantata will also be fuelled by a mixture of coffee and croissants from this particular establishment.

Even after many years I associate particular places with the writing of many of my pieces. Sweet Was The Song, for example, always reminds me of sitting upstairs in my house while my hamster went out for her evening run; the Festive Voluntary of stolen compositional moments between giving piano lessons at the London Oratory School; Prelude, Fugue & Epilogue of the little room in Old Palace Yard where I used to give singing lessons.

Other pieces, oddly, remind me of nothing at all, and many titles in my catalogue, over and above those listed on my website, I cannot even remember writing. In fact, I one received an email about one of my pieces and assumed that it was spam and it was only when I checked my own catalogue that I found the title. Even then I had to open the file and have a good look at it in order to remember what it was. Memory is a funny thing.

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