Traditional American Folk ...

This Friday Shani and I played at Bury St Edmund's Folk Club, supporting an American duo - Sarah Grey and Kieron Means - who play Traditional American folk music. Kieron plays guitar and sings, Sarah (his mother) sings and plays banjo (plays concertina too I hear, though she didn't this night). Not actually the most 'suitable' act for us to support in some ways - we are, er, anything but 'traditional' (electric guitars? My goodness! Suprised some of the audience didn't faint.. no, I'm joking, honest), but we seemed to go down well enough.

The American folk music was interesting - what struck me most of all was the similarity in harmony structure: Kieron sang the same pattern harmony to Sarah's songs, and I wondered if that was the 'tradition'? His guitar technique was interesting - flailing like a banjo player (probably very typically American traditional too). But I'm no expert, I can't analyse the harmonies or the techniques, just observe and comment.

It was a good evening overall - I enjoyed performing, enjoyed seeing Sarah and Kieron and Terry, the club organiser. I do not have a hankering to go learn any traditional American tunes or songs now though (doesn't that sound odd - traditional American?). Though it was of interest, I was not that 'engaged' by the form (and I'm not a great lover of blues type music particularly).

Interestingly, Sarah has been working on a project tracing the roots of songs - let's face it music travels the world very quickly - can we truly be honest about the origins of tunes, even if words give us a sense of time and place? An example - I was at someone's house once and I heard the local radio playing Traditional Indian Music - and my goodness, it sounded very Celtic indeed. And Morris Dancing - so similar to the Hota in the South of Spain? Morris - Moorish - the Southern Spanish Gypsies were Indian, Southern Spain was Arab for many decades... Ah, we are all a mish mash.

The key to me is simple: good music, whether it be traditional, contemporary, classic ... I don't mind. But I do like a good lyric.

What a rambling this has turned in to - never mind! I'll post something less confusing soon.

A poem - "Boys Pockets"

String, bark peeled from a twig
Nestling comfortably amidst
The twist and fluff.
The shiny conker, scratched
And the paperclip
Jostling with the crackling wrapper
That inexpertly covers the last-chewed gum.

Unused handkerchief, folded still
But bearing the imprint of fingers
Who love mud, and stones,
and the great discoveries that lie
Unheeded at the feet of adults.

My gigs seem to get stranger by the minute...

Well, week after we got back from Ireland, Bryan was ill so I stood in for him on a Sunday night gig in Cambridgeshire. Now, that's a big county as you may or may not know - but this one was near Pondersbridge between Peterborough and Ramsey. In an area known as 'the Fens'. The fens are big, flat, and pretty (in a desolate, agricultural sort of way).

It's spring, so the fields are yellow with rape, and the air full of its cloying scent. As Penni and I drove... and drove... to reach the village of Pondersbridge we could feel our throats closing with the thick aroma and pollen of this ghastly, but no doubt financially rewarding, crop.

We hit Pondersbridge and had to phone Richard, who'd booked us for a 'pub folk night' because we couldn't find the pub on this Roman straight road. Ah, turn right towards Peterborough, and about two miles... in the middle of the middle of nowhere. An enormous pub! Huge grounds, marquees in the garden, bouncy caste (oh no... we're not playing in there are we? Visions of the spike on my stand up bass....) and a big old roadside coaching inn type building.

Around us was nothing but huge open expanses of field after field - some yellow, some chocolate brown, some green. The birds sang, the sun sank slowly in the sky - you could see for miles and miles.

We met up with Richard, his wife Bridget, Mari and Tony. The four of them are in a band and Penni and I (yeah yeah, I know it was supposed to be Bryan, but they got me!) as 'support'. We went in and met the landlord. Richard had arranged everything with him, and we were in a nice room just off the main bar (next to the dessert display cabinet ... lemon cake, chocolate gateaux... mmm.....). Penni and I had filled up on chocolate raisins on the journey there - but supper looked like it might be fun later.

Not many audience (er, is the singular of audience 'audient'?), but a couple turned up who'd seen an advert in the paper, so we started off. Penni and I played OK - our Irish 'rehearsal' came in useful (we don't normally play together). We sang some, and a few more people came in (wow, six!). The landlord came in, smiling and obviously enjoying the music (if not the lack of paying customers).

After we'd done our stint, Richard's band went on. They rehearse every week - Tony on his whistles and flutes, Mari on her bodhran, Bridget and Richard singing (with Richard on guitars as well). They did some lovely tunes, but then it went a little bit awry. Tony told me later that Richard had, in his impromptu way, changed the set at the last minute. They didn't like that. But it sounded OK, and the audience enjoyed it.

Then Richard asked Penni and myself to join in, so we had six of us on stage - matching the six in the audience. If one of them left there'd be more of us than them... Adding the bass and Penni's powerful rhythm guitar lifted the evening and we had some fun. We did another unaccompanied version of 'I guess it doesn't matter' with Richard adding a third (and sometimes very peculiar and at other times wonderful) harmony.

We played through till 10.30 - Sunday after all - and the landlord kindly paid us and we wended our way home. Supper? We finished off the rasins on the journey home.

Another odd gig. Not quite as bizarre as some, but certainly odd.

A Trip to Ireland (whole thing!)

Apart from the title of this piece, I’ve named each chapter in the style of a tune or song. It seemed appropriate, somehow. One day I may even write the music to go with them.

Who the hell is Kerry?

Good start, eh? Well, as I don’t know who I am sometimes, it makes sense that I should encounter further confusion on my one trip to the country where I am known, by the very few that know me, by another name.

But, to start at the beginning (which is boring I know, but it will help make more sense in the long run), I will tell you about the night before we left, when I had to make vegetable curry for 30… but then again, maybe not, as it kind of detracts from this story.

Friday morning, up at 5am (myself and Penni, who stayed over), ready to fly to Belfast International Airport. Well, actually ready to go to Stansted so we can fly on a plane there – it’s too far to fly on our own, carrying guitars, after all. We had a ‘girls’ weekend away arranged: Penni needed some ‘I NEED TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!’ time, to put it mildly (yes, mildly)!

We drove to Bishop’s Stortford through the fog – only half an hour away from my home, and fifteen minutes away from the airport. I left my car there and my pal Shani gave us a lift to the airport, in more fog. For the last few days we’d had brilliant sunshine or cold but bright mornings. But the day we were flying there had to be fog. We met Penni’s husband at the airport, he works ‘airside’. Penni said ‘Buy us breakfast Bob’, which he dutifully did (which is ever so nice of him, especially as they have split).

The plane was, of course, delayed. The queue on the runway was like a motorway traffic jam … all the planes lined up one after the other and I was just waiting for ours to toot the one in front as if to say ‘Go on now, the runway’s clear, what are you waiting for?’ but it doesn’t work that way with planes, does it?

I explained to Penni that in Ireland I am ‘Carrie’, not Carolyn. She wanted to call me “Carriolyn”. That would confuse me even more! But because we were going to see friends that I met through the internet – and my internet name (and perhaps my favourite alter ego) is Carrie – then I should be Carrie when in Ireland.

We eventually landed and Cathy and her husband Paul were there within minutes to pick us up. Having left the English fog behind, we arrived in bright Northern Ireland sunshine – but I still kept my big coat on, my ‘matrix’ coat as Bryan calls it (long, black, leather).

Cathy and Paul picked us up from the airport. I’d only met Cathy once before (for just three hours, a few months previously) and I’d never met Paul – but it was like a homecoming. Penni had met neither, but there seemed to be a pretty instant rapport between us all. We broke the journey to our destination at a roadside café and stopped for tea (lots of very weak tea for me, coffee for the others) and a good breakfast. I was still full from the bun Bob bought us in Stansted, but Penni, Cathy and Paul had a small ‘Ulster Fry’: a cooked breakfast which included soda bread and potato cakes and pancakes (I think, I can’t remember for sure). They smoked… Penni (who I’ve been trying to get to give up for years now and was making good progress, got her down to just a few roll ups per day instead of packets of those tailor made, chemical laden paper wrapped nasty, smelly… er, you getting the hang of what I feel about smoking by any chance?), Cathy and Paul all smoked - after breakfast and in the car on the journey to Warrenpoint. “The kids think I’ve stopped smoking” Cathy had told me. And she had, for a while, but I guess the imminent invasion by one mad English Pillock (me) and an unknown English guest (Penni) was probably stress enough to start her off again. Me, I decided I’d start to drink alcohol this weekend, as I’d never done it before. Ahem. Well, that’s what I’ll write here, anyway.

We drove in to Newry and stopped for a music shop – Bryan wanted a proper Irish whistle! They had three types – the cheapo £3.99, some black ones at £10 and some very posh tunable ones at £29.00. He got a black one, and Penni bought one too. The sun shone on the shoulders of Newry Cathedral that stood with its back was to us. Big, grey, imposing. I was curious to see more of Newry at some point, but would not get the chance on this trip as it happened.

We reached Warrenpoint (our B&B was just outside in a place called Burren) and stopped first at Cathy’s parent’s house to pick up her youngest son, Patrick. We went in and were greeted by their ferocious dog – Molly. Well, not very ferocious – Yorkshire Terriers aren’t usually. It was small, rat like, furry and actually quite sweet. It had a rubber chew toy that was nearly as big as it was. We all sat in the kitchen and Cathy’s mum, Marie, showed us some embroidery she’d been doing (machine embroidery – very neat) and made more tea and coffee.

By this time we’d been up for quite a few hours and I was more than a little ‘warm’ (read ‘smelly’!) so we were kindly taken to our bed and breakfast by Cathy (once she’d dropped Paul at Patrick at their house, which was only a short bit away from her mother’s house). Penni felt unwell. The ‘small fry’ was dancing in her stomach, and she was tired too I guess, so she went for a lie down once our hosts, Dan and Mena Ryan, had settled us in our lovely rooms.

Oonagh’s Walk

I decided to go for a walk. I was, at last, getting a little hungry. I phoned Cathy and she told me how to get to the nearest shop (in a garage). “It’s opposite the cemetery.” She’d pointed out the cemetery to me on the way – it’s the one where her sister, Oonagh, is buried. I walked in the lovely sunshine, with the huge hills around me. Big scenery – mountains, hills, green, everything you’d imagine the Irish countryside to be. I drank in the freedom – the air, the scenery, the peace and the adventure; it was fun being out on my own. I walked down the road, along the main drag and after about a mile and a half the garage came into view. And beyond, on the other side of the road, was the cemetery. I walked past the garage and up into the churchyard. I wandered round, looked at lots and lots of gravestones. Big black marble ones with gold letters; grey marble with deep cut verse, crosses and wreaths. A very few were completely untended, but most were cared for like small gardens. Why did I visit the cemetery? I don’t know. The last grave I visited was over 25 years ago – my father’s. I’m not a one for graves or funerals, but I went, and I read the words on many of the gravestones. I saw the names of triplets who died within days of being born, of children, old men, beloved grandparents, devoted couples, those who died young, those who died after full lives… every stone a story. I found Oonagh’s grave, beautifully tended. I can’t easily express what I felt, standing by the graveside of a person who I had never known, to whom my connection was the most tenuous imaginable. But I’m glad I went. My aversion to funerals and gravesides is nothing to do with fear of death, but more to do with guilt I think. Visiting this grave was a good thing for me to do perhaps - it helped me to picture a place Cathy had talked about, and it helped me to respect what others treasure, even though I don’t understand.

I went to the garage in search of drink and lunch – but all I bought was a small chocolate bar. I walked back up to the B&B (about three miles in total I think) and Penni had recovered somewhat from her dodgy stomach. We played a little bit of music – enjoying the sunshine and the relaxed atmosphere.

Brandy in the glen

We took a taxi at about 6pm to the small town of Rostrevor (actually named after a man called Trevor Ross). Here we found food (chips) and drink (brandy) and we took our meal and our drink to the ‘Fairy Glen’. I found the brandy in a small off licence, but walking in with my bass guitar on my back I nearly wrecked the shop as it clattered into signs hanging from the ceiling. But the shop owner was friendly and didn’t mind my attempt at destruction. The Glen has a lovely little stream, green banks and is very pretty. The walk down to the Glen was the inspiration for CS Lewis’ Narnia apparently. I watched pied wagtails dance across the water, listened to the loud chatter of the wren, and the louder chatter of Penni. We sat and talked – not of shoes and ships and sealing wax, but of our ancestry. We had both come from what you could call aristocratic families – land owning gentry. “Yes,” said Penni, “and here we are drinking brandy from a tin lid and eating chips in the Fairy Glen.” It was a rather fun contradiction really. We are who we are now – not who our families were. For perhaps the first time in a very long time, I quite like being me.
We messed around by the river in the glen, chatting (Penni smoking – have I mentioned that she smokes?) and I crossed the river on huge stones that the water swirled round; not easy in my high-heeled boots but you’d not have stopped me. My friend from the US, Nadine, called while we were messing around in the Glen, and I tried to describe to her the tranquillity of the place, but I’m not sure I managed it.

The ‘Magners’ Opus

We walked back up the hill to the ‘Corner House’, the pub where we knew there was a session that evening. This had all been planned and we entered the pub to find it quite smoky (deep joy!) and fairly empty. We got our drinks and went into the bar where the music would be. The walls were covered in thick white plaster (browned with nicotine) and lintels painted dark green. Strange misshapen instruments made of twigs adorned the walls, a sign perhaps? The barman was polite, but not exactly welcoming. Our English accents maybe? I’d had a few nips of the brandy but the top to the bottle (our brandy ‘glass’) didn’t fit back on the bottle very tightly. Well, it was a cheap one. I moved on to cider (Magners), after all I was hoping to play (with some kind of competence) later. Cathy and Paul arrived and we carried on drinking and talking as if we’d known each other for all time. The pub slowly filled (and Penni said ‘so did we’) and eventually some musicians arrived. Gary was running the session and invited us to join them. We played Irish tunes, English tunes (‘Do you know ‘Jump at the sun?’ Yeah!), sang songs and we played along with them. I played my acoustic bass and sat next to Madonna (yes, I’ve played with Madonna!) who was a fine whistle player. There were bodhran players, a fabulous fiddle player called Deirdre, another guitarist or two as well as Gary, and the banjo came out too.

Meanwhile, secretly, the brandy bottle was seeping its contents into the fabric of my handbag. They were all excellent musicians and one chap had a fantastic resonant voice. He sang songs we knew, songs we didn’t. We joined in, we sang a couple of our own. The only song I sang was the one I’d written for Cathy, about her father. The rest of the time I played bass as best I could and they seemed to like it. They were all very talented and at one point I felt quite over-awed. What am I doing pretending I can play sessions with people like this? Penni plays at sessions all the time – I don’t. I’m not used to it. I went to the ladies (plenty of cider still coursing through my veins and making its way towards my bladder) and felt quite lost for a short while. When I went back into the bar I sat next to Cathy and she immediately asked me if I was OK. Surely I hadn’t shown my lack of confidence on my face so clearly? No, I just think she knows me too well. I told her I’d visited Oonagh’s grave. (I didn’t want her finding out by reading this, it would be insensitive.) She reacted as if she didn’t believe me. Perhaps I’d done the wrong thing – mentioning it at all, I don’t know. I didn’t play non-stop, I wandered back between the session and Cathy and Paul who were sitting outside the ‘musicians’ circle. We drank, laughed and people in the bar, Cathy, Penni and Paul smoked and smoked. Cathy’s older son Kris joined us for a brief while. He went for a cigarette and Cathy said “Why? You don’t smoke!” “Neither do you,” I reminded her – for her children thought she had given up. Both a pair of liars - when it came to smoking. I felt kippered and the rasp in my throat meant it was a good thing I wasn’t singing much, I’d have sounded like a sick goat. Nadine called again (she would have loved to have been there with us, I know) and Cathy held up the phone for her to ‘hear’ us playing in the background. Must have sounded a racket – five thousand miles and over a mobile phone too. At about 1.30am the session wound down, but a couple from Lincoln asked Penni to sing to them, so she sang ‘Green Laurel’ (she does a lovely version) and I accompanied her and sang harmony. The couple enjoyed it. We asked Madonna and Deirdre (the fiddle player) where we might play the following night, and they told us about ‘Peter Doran’s Bar’, which ran a session on a Saturday starting from about 9.30pm. That was the next night sorted! Penni talked to a man called Matthew – someone had rung him to come down to the session. He is on the committee for the local (well known internationally as it happens) music and arts festival, "Fiddler’s Green". There was a chance, just a chance, that we could go back and play at the festival. He seemed to like us.

Young bucks

Eventually (after a few more ciders, though we never managed to finish them all) we phoned for a taxi. After half an hour it had not appeared. We rang again – wait outside in case we had missed it first time round. After another half hour it still didn’t appear. Cathy phoned about four times, each time she was given the promise of ‘just a few minutes’ and every time we were disappointed. At one point a taxi pulled up and Paul went over to speak to the driver. “He’ll be back for us in about 20 minutes” he said. Paul knew the driver (John) and had gone to school with him. He could be relied upon. Whilst we waited out in the cold for nearly an hour, we had a show. About six young lads, full of the drink, were ‘sparring’. Not fighting, but rearing up and facing off like young bucks. One single punch was swung, but no further violence ensued and the funny thing was the crates of beer they were carrying which were put down, whilst a group swayed one way, then picked up and moved as the group circled and postured in another. They all faded away eventually – in taxis, or meandering down the road. I missed what happened to the beer crates though. John eventually returned and we were – at last – off ‘home’. We squeezed into the car – Paul in front, one guitar in the boot, one guitar and three women in the back. My handbag filled the car with brandy fumes. It was the handbag, honest!

We dropped Cathy and Paul at their house and then John took us to our B&B. As we reached Dan Ryan’s, a phone rang. Cathy’s phone! She had picked up Penni’s handbag and taken it by mistake (no chance of her taking mine now, was there?). We had Cathy’s bag and phone, so Penni returned in the taxi back to their house and did a bag swap. We paid the taxi driver with a brandy-soaked note.

When Cathy and Paul got home they had cheese on toast, which sadly made poor Paul very unwell. Of course it was the cheese on toast, couldn’t have been all that cider now, could it?

I slept like a log. Penni slept well for the first time in ages she told me next morning. Though I’d not been to bed till gone 3am following a day that had started at 5am, I woke prompt at 7.30am. Darn! I got up, showered and as breakfast was not scheduled till 9.30, I went for a walk. This time I went up the hill in Burren. I knew there were some interesting features in the place (I’d seen brown signs – sites of historical interest) but I never found them. I walked up and up the hill, through the town, past the enormous church (or is it a chapel?) and then out of the village and into the hills themselves. I looked down and could see the hazy mountains. I could breathe fine, clear air, and listen to the birds. I smiled and the few people I met said ‘good morning’. I saw a coal tit and a black cap, heard their calls in the clear, quiet morning air. I phoned Bryan for a brief chat and then walked back down the hill – probably about four miles in total. My boots were not made for walking, but I didn’t care.

Slim Pickings

Back at Ryan’s an hour later, I found Penni awake and we went up for breakfast. We had our first full ‘Ulster Fry’. I started with cereal (Penni had fruit) and then had soda bread, pancake, bacon, egg, toast, mushrooms (Penni had the mushrooms, I hate them!), sausage, tomato… and a plentiful helping of each. This was a lining for the stomach that would set us well for the day and was probably not a bad thing following the previous nigh’s drinking. Though not hung over because I had not drunk too much (just enough to drop the shutters I’d say), I appreciated the good breakfast, especially as I hadn’t eaten much the previous day. The day’s plan was made. First stop would be the music shop in Newry – because the whistle I’d bought for Bryan was out of tune! Penni didn’t seem bothered about hers, but I couldn’t take Bryan back a whistle that he couldn’t play.

We were picked up by Cathy’s mother who stopped to natter with Mena Ryan (old friends of course – it seemed everyone knew everybody else round here) and then drove down to Cathy’s. The plan was to leave the instruments at her house and go into Newry, shopping. Paul was at the house, preparing betting slips for the Grand National. We all had a bet – for Penni her first ever! Penni placed her bet according a recommendation from a nun – I chose the most musical name I could see – ‘Slim Pickings’ (I’m sure he’s a country singer…). Cathy showed us a photo album with pictures of Oonagh. I didn’t know how to react – pictures of a lovely young girl full of life and with her whole future ahead of her - killed in a motoring accident at just 19. I didn’t know what to say, I felt inadequate.

Mussel Beach

Our plans, however, were foiled. The Newry road was closed due to a traffic accident. We later found out that two French youngsters had been killed – tragic it is one of those roads that claims lives regularly. We tried to reach Newry by the back roads, but police had diverted lorries, caravans, all sorts of traffic the same way and they were small and impassable with the size and volume of traffic suddenly thrust upon them. We did an about turn and instead went into Warrenpoint.

No bad thing. We wandered round the town – the three of us – Cathy, Penni and myself. Into shops looking for trinkets (I found another whistle for Bryan, Penni bought some gifts for her children) and we enjoyed strolling round the small sea-side town that still had mussel boats and an active port. Across the bay was Southern Ireland, still shrouded in haze. Paul had told us that in times past when the pubs shut in Warrenpoint, people would take a boat across the bay because the pubs there were open longer, then come back in time for the pubs to open again back home. Many people may know the name of Warrenpoint for one reason – for the dreadful murder of 18 soldiers in 1979 – and indeed it will take many years for the stain of death to leave I am sure. But what I saw was a small town with beautiful countryside, wonderful views, small friendly shops and – something that I covet – a seashore. Warrenpoint is on a wide estuary, but as soon as you walk onto the beach, the salt tang of the sea hits powerfully. I love the sea – I’d love to live by the sea. To have it on your doorstep every day, in sun and storm, must be wonderful (well, I think so).

We stopped for a coffee and some cake in Linda’s – a small coffee bar that I knew of from Cathy’s emails. We chatted some more and decided that Penni and I would wander further round the town while Cathy headed back up the hill (after we’d bought dog food for Cathy’s Dexter - a bigger mutt than Molly). Penni and I wandered down to the beach itself – a shoreline of grey stones (slate and shale I guess) and mussels… hundreds and thousands of mussels. We walked a bit down on the stones, then when we realised we were walking on the mussels themselves, moved back up to the path. It was a lovely beach – not a towels and sunbathing type, but a real “hey, land – meet the sea!” type of coastline. We walked ‘round the shore’ as Paul called it, picking up some tiny bits of driftwood and a few stones to take home, then back up through the town and up the hill to Cathy’s house. The sun was still bright and the smell of the sea, the sound of the place, the atmosphere was relaxed and patient. People wore smiles in the sun like they’d wear coats in the rain.

When we got back to Cathy’s house, we sat in the sun and talked. Dexter the brown and white collie/spaniel mix raced round the garden excitedly and growled and Penni and I – strangers! – but he seemed happy enough to chase the ball and play with his bone, eventually ignoring us as nothing more than an inconvenient intrusion in his garden.

Hilltown’s High-spot

We enjoyed a relaxed afternoon, chatting drinking coffee (a little brandy for me, please) and just enjoying the day. Paul returned from the betting shop with the winnings (my horse came in third and my £2 bet resulted in £9 – not bad) and Cathy, her mother and I drove down to the town to pick up Chinese take-away for supper (via a quick stop at her friend Aileen’s house – she’d won about the same amount as much as she’d bet). We took the supper back to Cathy’s house and ate a wonderful selection of different dishes and still had plenty left over. Patrick was very keen on the prawns and Dexter enjoyed the rib bones. Penni and I enjoyed the bottle of wine too and the company was pleasant, relaxed and easy. The evening chilled as the sun set, and we called a cab to pick us up at about 9.10 as the pub in Hilltown for that evening’s session was about 20 minutes away.

Well, guess what? We waited for the taxi – and waited. So Cathy phoned again. We’d tried calling John, our rescuer from the previous night, but he was booked for the next hour solid. I wish we’d waited for him! In the meantime, Cathy’s brother Hugh called. “I can’t speak long,” she said to him. “Here, talk to Carrie.” And she passed the phone to me. I chatted to him for about 15 minutes (no sign of the taxi, after all) then passed him back to Cathy. Not bad, conversing with a complete stranger! Well, Cathy said about another three words, then passed him over to Penni, who spoke to him for another ten minutes. Poor man! Wanted to talk to his sister and got passed to two complete strangers. Ah well, he won’t be such a stranger if we do meet him now. After many calls and over an hour, our taxi eventually arrived. Oh boy – we were going to turn up late to the session that was for sure. On the way over in the taxi we booked the driver (David) to pick us up at 1.15am. No way we were going to be stranded again (especially as this pub was a little more rural than the last one).

All squeezed in again, and we went to Hilltown, then left Hilltown down some small country roads, to reach the bar. We ended up at Peter Doran’s and there was nothing around but the bar and a garage (I think, I can’t remember for sure). We walked into the front door in this big square block of a building (no idea what colour, it was dark and there was no ambient light as we were surrounded by fields). Inside were two more front doors! The one on the left was locked so I opened the one on the right. We walked in – to a long narrow room that was dark and smoky. Like in one of those horror films where you just know things are going to go wrong, the bar went silent as we entered and everyone lined up at the long narrow counter top turned to look at us. Gulp! But the landlady (steely grey hair) saw the instruments we carried and broke into an instant smile. “Er, where do we go?” I asked (the others backed up behind me). To my left was a small window through which I could see children – a window onto another world! Well, another front room anyway. The landlady pointed to a door on my right. “In there.” Grand! We were an hour late for the session. We went into the room: Empty!

Seats round the edge, stools up on the seats, very Hammer House… Um. Gulp again! We moved stools onto the floor, sat down and ordered drinks – two ciders, two lagers. The room was small, square, dark, and more than a little disconcerting. Over a closed up fire place was a dark picture – a seascape in cracked paint, layered in nicotine... I only knew it was a picture and not a very dark patch on the wall as I was standing very close. Our drinks came in, served by a nine year old girl – Jenny. We settled ourselves in (taking the stools off the chairs so we could sit down) and the landlady came in and welcomed us, and after about 15 minutes some musicians arrived. Phew! Firstly came the host for the evening who was a charming man – a bit like a game show host. He had a cheerful shirt on and played guitar. With him came an accordion player, and mandolin player and the little girl, Jenny, fetched out a violin too. She was one of Dierdre’s pupils. So Jenny was the fiddler for the evening. (I’d love to say she was a child genius, but she wasn’t, she was a good young learner with a natural feel though).

We introduced ourselves. “Penni, Paul, Cathy, Carrie…” – “Kerry?” no, Carrie! The evening started well, with tunes and songs, our host played lots of Hank Williams (in what I fondly call ‘Teddy Timing’ – a few extra bars here and there) and we played Penni’s songs, two of mine and – just for fun – we sang an unaccompanied a duet of Buddy Holly’s ‘I guess it doesn’t matter any more’. The young fiddle player also did some Irish dancing – and it made me smile because she danced to an English ceilidh tune. The landlady came in with a round of drinks for us – complimentary – and spent the evening in the room with the musicians. A few of the ‘seniors’ came and joined us too, lined up against one wall with their drinks on the table in front of them – in for the craic. At one point we played a very strange version of duelling banjos with our host – on banjo (him), bass (me) and guitar (Penni). A very bizarre version, but huge fun. At one point the accordion player and mandolin player did a tune that they both obviously knew, but in different keys. Didn’t stop them though.

The evening was surreal – and just as we were getting into the swing as it were, the taxi turned up – early! That wasn’t fair. So we said our farewells and were back at the B&B (having dropped Cathy and Paul off) by 2am. An early night. Well, it would have been if Penni and I hadn’t stayed up chatting for another hour.

Time to go

So – before it had begun it seemed, our trip was nearly over. Of course I woke up in good time, with no headache thankfully and decided to go for a walk after our final Ulster Fry. I’d packed (including the very, very smelly handbag) and walked down and along to the nearby reservoir. Along the way I met a young man walking with his toddler, Isabel, in her pram. He was originally from Manchester and we chatted briefly as we shared about half a mile of road. He took his daughter to the reservoir every day.

I asked him about the local ‘mound’ – he didn’t know about anything other than a standing stone on a nearby hill. That’d do me. I walked on – leaving him to parade his daughter round the mere, to watch the swans and other birds dancing on the water. I walked a half mile further and found a hill with a single standing stone. I couldn’t go up to it, so I snapped it with my camera. A trophy. The return journey was pleasant – and on a hill above me as I made my way back a horse stood against the skyline like a professional – posing for effect. Alas my poor disposable camera wouldn’t do him justice, but I snapped him anyway.

I made my way back down to the B&B and Penni was sitting enjoying the fading sun (consumed by a haze that was to cloud the day). In what seemed like no time at all, Cathy and Paul arrived to take us back to the airport. As we approached the outskirts of Belfast we passed the Maze prison again. Paul had pointed it out to us on the inward journey. This prison, which in Penni and my eyes had always been seen in aerial view (from news coverage), was now empty – deserted. We saw towers, distant buildings and fields surrounding they grey, crumbling walls - it was almost as if no great dramas had ever darkened these lands. Now, Cathy told us, they were thinking of building a leisure centre on the site. They’d knock it down, clear the land of this black mark in history, this stark reminder of the troubles, and replace it with a place where people had fun, enjoyed themselves – spent time together willingly. I didn’t know how to feel – I’d not been here, not lived under the regime during the troubles when sectarian rule had been vicious. I had not suffered the segregation, violence or desperation that has plagued this country. All we ever knew as children was the effect it had on us – bomb threats, news items, not the real human stories of the people in the country it affected most. I think back now to those times. A long time ago, when my father was alive, I remember him saying in response to a bombing ‘Should bomb the bloody lot of them in Ireland’. And that was the first time I remember thinking independently about politics: I thought – bomb the children? Bomb the mothers and fathers and those who are nothing to do with this violence? For the first time I challenged, internally, my father’s dictum. I was probably about 12 or 13 years old at most. But here I was, years later, enjoying the bounty of this beautiful country. Enjoying the hospitality of friends whose politics I did not quiz or question. Here I was in a land that has changed, and is changing, but still has such a long way to go. Peace is no easy journey.

When we reached the airport we checked our bags and spent a small time together in the café – Paul, Cathy, Penni and I. It was a great time we’d had, and now we had to leave and go back to our normal lives. It was a sad but fond farewell.

On the flight home we sat next to a man who lived in Ireland and worked in England – in print. He minded a 12-colour Heidelberg. Goodness! I remember being shown (and great awe expected, and reverence duly given) the first 8-colour at Cambridge University Press – now they do them 12? It must be huge! He loved the lifestyle in Ireland, but the work wasn’t there, so he commuted by plane to East London for three days a week. Not something I could do. As we left Ireland the sky was cloudy – when we hit England the sky was blue. After (anxiously) waiting for our baggage (the conveyor was rather brutal and we feared for our guitars) we exited and Shani was waiting for us, complete with a large box of doughnuts. She took us back to Bishop’s Stortford where we had tea (and doughnuts of course) before heading back to Royston.

A grand weekend. All of a sudden it seemed very short. But we’d done a lot in two and a half days. We’d played, we’d drunk a bit, I’d walked, we all talked and talked. Penni smoked too (a lot for her… all my good work of the past few years out the window in a single weekend!), that wasn’t supposed to happen.

When we eventually got back to my house, the men of the family were deeply engrossed in an important football game. After the welcome greetings and seeing Penni off in her car, I retired to sit in the garden. The sun was shining. It was quiet, peaceful. It was nice to be home. But it was nice to be in Ireland, too…

I believe I can fly...

Oh boy! 7th April 2007. And this time I am flying without an airplane or glider... just me (and a rather tasty bloke called Jules) and an effing great wind tunnel!

B buys me unusual Christmas presents - and Christmas 2006 he bought me 'full body flying' - in other words free fall without the 'fall'. I booked the date and over we all went to Milton Keynes to Airkix. I had 5 2 minutes sessions in the wind tunnell and I learned to go left, right, up and down (though very wobbly, I have to admit). It was amazing!

I think if would like to become addicted to anything, then it has got to be adrenalin! I am a bit old for extreme sports (and creaky, and crunchy bones and the like), but once a year I am definitely up for the high that you get doing something really mad like flying a Tiger Moth, gliding or - as in this case - full body flying.

The experience is unique (apart of course from sky diving - then of course you have a parachute too and the opportunity to go 'bump' very hard at the end). The noise is terrific, even with earplugs and a helmet. You learn hand signals from your instructor before hand because there's no way you can talk when you are in there. The space is quite limited but goes up quite a few feet. So you can spin around down low (or land on the grid on the bottom on your bum like I did once) and then 'fly' up higher.

You 'fall' into the tunnel to get into the airstream, and the instructor is with you all the way - pulling you away as you bump into the glass walls, steadying you when you go into a spin, grinning at you madly as they can see your obvious enjoyment (or perhaps terror in some cases). Position is important as it keeps you stable, moves you from side to side or makes you go up and down in the airstream. You have to keep your head up - looking forward all the time so you have no sense of height - just that wonderful, floating, flying sensation. And the pummell of the wind, and the roar of the air, and the rush of blood.

It was just amazing. I had a grin from 'ear to eternity' afterwards. The following day my shoulders ache of course, imagine pressing your arms hard against a wall for a long time and its that kind of ache - across the muscles in the neck and shoulder. But I don't care! I really, really enjoyed it and would go again tomorrow if I could a) afford it b) get a lot fitter a lot quicker!

So - next year? I think I may just fall out a plane next year. The thought terrifies me and exhilarates me at the same time! What a buzz that would be.... (quick... gimme some more adrenalin... )

Welsh Music

Sunday I supported 'Crasdant' a Welsh quartet. The music was amazing - a triple harp, flute, accordion and the wonderfully talented Huw Williams on guitar and funny bone.

The room filled slowly – but it filled. Whilst people arrived and I had a few moments to chat, I talked with Maureen, the club organiser. In about 15 minutes we covered subjects as diverse as abuse in Irish ‘laundries’ to whether we believe in God or not, and the joys of parent/grandparenthood!

On to stage I go – unaccompanied by man nor beast (just my guitar). As there was a band on for main act, its easier sometimes if its just a solo artist doing support.

And I sang my songs (started off very depressing!) – and I chatted lightly and the audience dutifully (and very prettily too) sang along. My last two numbers arrived. Firstly, a song I had written just three weeks ago about an Irish lighthouse keeper (well, about his daughter’s memories of him). It went down a storm (well, not literally, but it went down well). Then – my new song I wrote last week – Cromarty (named after the dog). I got lost! I was nearly at the end of the song (and it was going well) when I put my fingers round the wrong way and the whole song went into a minor key! Ooops… Anyway, I got to the end of the song with a wonderful new section in the middle (um, well, I think I got away with it) and was duly applauded.

The main act were superb. The music was melodic and engaging and a couple of songs (both in Welsh). They even got the audience to join in with a chorus in Welsh and Huw managed to do some clog dancing on stage. He’s a talented man – as well as being a champion clog dancer (Welsh clog has more of the flair that I associate with Appalachian rather than the rigidity of Irish or Lancashire) he is an excellent song writer and a most talented musician. He played guitar most of the time but also did one number on a tiny knee harp. Looked like the triple harp’s baby!

When doing these supports I also draw the raffle and announce what’s on, so I get to do quite an MC job as well as perform.

At the end of their set we all yelled for more and I got them back on stage for an encore. Robin, the harp player, actually asked the audience to applaud me and Huw was complimentary about my voice. Aw shucks, that was a nice gesture.
I bought a CD (which my old man is well taken with) and came home a happy bunny – for the second time that weekend!

Being a folk musician is good. You meet nice people, have appreciative audiences and get to see quality music (and dancing!) that so many people don’t realise even exists, let alone get to appreciate.

Another good night.

I'm gigging again!

Yeeha! It's been like wandering in a desert, not having gigs. But I've had a few these last couple of months, and I'm definitely a happier person for it.

Firstly, a support at Ely Folk club - supporting the wonderful duo Dansmall. Shani and I were booked on support and on trust. Ruth, the club organiser, had never seen our duo, but even so we were booked and had a lovely night I have to admit. We seemed to go down well and it was our first half-hour set. We took a walk at the break. Wandering the small streets of the ancient Fenland town in search of - history? excitement? no - PIZZA! Which we duly found.

Then we did a support at Hitchin folk club. As a resident there I often play - sometimes with B, sometimes on my own, but this time I played with Shani. It was - er - odd. The main act was Lazarus - quite a folky trio (loved Kevin Dempsey's guitar playing, know Maart Allcock of old and Dave Swarbrick - well, back from the dead!). So the audience were quite folky. So our mix of folk and the slightly rockier stuff was unusual, but seemed to go down well. One day before the gig I decided Shani and I should do one of my songs that I was going to start with (on my own) so made her learn the song then and there. And I decided (hark at me - bossing her about) we should limit the gear, so I made her learn one song she plays on guitar on bass instead. As it happens logistically it was a sound dicision, but not quite as good musically in as much as our original arrangements are better.

But - the most recent gig and one that has finally prompted me to put this entry on my blog - was at Cambridge folk club. We'd played there a couple of months back, doing a two-song floor spot, and been offered a 'feature spot'. Hence, this evening, we had a whole half hour to ourselves!

The evening was Friday 16th March 2007. Which is Red Nose Day. Comic Relief. A day of fundraising for deprived children in Africa and the UK. Lots of silliness occurs across the country. This night at the folk club the bar staff all had their hair dyed red. One woman wore a 'red nose' (foam - looked like a microphone pop-shield) whilst she explained that the evening's raffle prize money would all go to the charity. Hey - we'd donate our fee! (Well, we would have if we'd had one, that is.)

We turned up (Shani and Nic arriving first - unusually) and our gear was set to the side. We'd set up in the interval. There were then a succession of floor singers and I have to say the quality was excellent. Good voices, nice instrumentalists, and even those who were not 'expert' in performance still did their best and entertained.

Half time we set up our gear - bass, guitar, electric guitar - and a microphone so that the sound engineer (Howard) could join us for our last number. Yes - I hate harmonicas, but the last song we do (Hobo) just begs for it!

The evening went on - more great performers (a duo from St Albans, a singer from Bury St Edmunds which is - funnily enough - where B's band were performing that same night), the landlord (complete with red hair) sang and recited a monologue and at the end a man who sat quietly, sang quietly, played gently and was completely engaging. It was now 11pm (psssttt... whispered in my ear ... we are overrunning a bit...).

We got on stage, were introduced with the 'Carolyn from Shave the Monkey' bit and I introduced Shani from 'all over'. We performed well, we played well, the room was full and we went down well. Our last number - Hobo - we really did well. Howard on harmonica, and our vocals at the end just worked perfectly. It was a good feeling. I felt very comfortable on stage with Shani.

Hugs all round girls - off home in our separate vehicles. I got home about 12, and my son (who'd been playing - and won - poker all night) disappeared off to bed. But I was buzzing. Still on a mild high from a good night performing. I checked my emails, rattled a quick one off to my pal in the US and then the phone rang. Probably B - telling me how his gig had gone. No! It was Nadine phoning from the US. She knew I was up (I had just emailed her) and as it was only afternoon in her neck of the woods...

We chatted for half an hour. This conversation involved me explaning the difference between a bog and a heath (I live near a heath), a rather too detailed description of the cat vomit I had to clear up whilst talking (cat is not well, poor thing) and general, light hearted talk - learning about eachothers lives and trying to put perspective and context to our friendship.

Well, that was a treat. A good gig and a long distance call from a friend. It was now 1am. Sleep? No way - too jazzed as they say. I had a bath. A hot, relaxing bath. I eventually went to bed at around 1.45am and just as I was drifting off, B came home. We had time for a brief chat - his gig had gone well too (and he got paid for his!). His had been videoed and I'd be able to see it in the future (albeit edited, of course). That would be nice. We don't seem to get to see eachother perform much these days.

Sleep came like a warm blanket, enveloping my happy, tired, simple mind. Simple because it doesn't take a lot to make me happy. Not really. Good music, good friends, and a nice warm husband to snuggle up to at the end of the day.

And on Sunday I am at Hitchin again - solo though - supporting a Welsh band called Crasdant. And I will sing the song I wrote last week, and the new song I wrote two weeks before that as well. I think ... I think I'd better go practice.

A day recording for my audio book

Well, I knew the publishing company was small, and I knew I was going to record in a house, not a studio, so my expectations were - how can I put - moderate.

How did my recording an audio book come about? Well, I'm going to be honest, its not because I submitted my scripts and some publisher came back and said "wow, that's great, we want to publish you." No, its because I attended a training course about something completely different, NLP. The man who runs the NLP training company also runs the publishing company, and he 'offered' to publish an audio book of anyone who wished to submit.

Not very discerning, is it? But I guess he was in a good place to find authors (at least three people I spoke to on the programme were also writers) and why not? He could, I suppose, discover some great talent or maybe its just a way to build his portfolio of publications as the business grows. That, I think, is most likely.

Well, I accepted the offer, and the arrangement was made. I sent him my stories, which came back with 'Thank you, I enjoyed your book, please...' followed by instructions for how to contact the engineer and start the process. Yeah - it read a bit like a standard letter, and I'm not sure he ever read the stories, but I don't care. I was thorough in my editing, and I had the help of a very good writer too who helped me plug lots of gaps in my stories.

A date was arranged for the recording - 11 am on March 9 2007, in Tonbridge, Kent. The day before I did a 'dry run' at home, reading through, timing, even doing some last minute edits. Amazing how differently stories sound when read aloud.

Well, 9 March arrives, and with a two hour journey ahead of me I set off early. The M11 and M25 journey is a dream... easy! Eh? That's odd. Usually a nightmare. I arrive in Tonbridge at 10.10 - but the first thing I see is a sign to a country park. Off I go. Follow that road - and arrive at Haysden Country Park. It's March, and the sun is shining, and the walkers and their dogs and the grandparents and their toddlers are out and about enjoying a brisk but bright morning.

I parked the car and walked down towards the lake. The path was flooded. Turn back? No - what the hell. Posh boots, not wellies, but look - a lake (no doubt full of wildfowl) and half and hour to kill. Sit in the car? Visit the town? No way - I'd come here is if programmed it seemed.

I splashed through the flooded path and reached Barden Lake. A huge flock of Canada geese, a few ducks, a coot. I walked round the path a way and then down to the water's edge on a fishing pontoon. The water was being rippled by the wind and it felt as if I could sense the movement of the earth. I looked out towards the scraggy island in the lake and there were two more water birds - Great Crested Grebe. It was early in the season, but as if on cue they began their courtship dance: head wagging, bobbing, and circling round eachother. It was half-hearted, not the full display (and indeed their plumage was still not in full colour), but it was like a small show just put on for me. I loved it.

As I walked back up to the path, smiling at the birds' dance, a huge shaggy white dog bounded up to me. All the other park dogs had ignored me, but this one wanted to play. He pranced round me, smiling in a square faced, laughing dog way. He daubed my leather coat in mud, and looked up at me imploring me to come play too. His owner called him, throwing a ball for him to pursue. "Beautiful dog," I said. "What's he called?"
"Cromarty. His mother was called Dogger."
I smiled. "As long as he doesn't German Bite.." yeah, she'd probably heard that one before. But the dog was beautiful - big, creamy white, and if it hadn't been for his square, otter hound type face, he could have made a passing fair wolf.

Back to the car, revived by the fresh morning air after my hours in the car, I found my way to the house in Tonbridge where we were to record. A small, modern semi in a very nice residential part of the town. Tim was there, with his recording gear all set up. One room had two microphones, three baffles and a chair (my 'booth'), the other (wires trailing under doors) had his recording gear (a small desk, his CD recording machine - no idea what type, but good broadcast quality).

We exchanged pleasantries, planned the track list, and began. It was that easy. I read, I stopped if I bumbled, and re-read where needed. We stopped for tea whilst a local builder's compressor provided a subliminal hum we were not keen on. At one point Tim thought the compressor had started again - but it was my stomach.

I read, we reviewed, I did some 'extras' for him to dub in, and corrected the odd passage. I even re-wrote one small part because it made more sense for the story.

It was amiable, easy. I did not cringe quite as much as I usually do over the sound of my own voice. Maybe because you don't have to be 'in tune' for reading (and most of my recording time has usually been spent singing). I gave him two CDs with music on for segueing. The house owner returned - Jo. I had met both her and Tim at the training programme programme originally. They remembered me. Tim told me that so far John (the trainer and company owner) had got four audio books done so far. Ah - so it is a very new publishing company indeed! One about stress, one childrens book, one horror stories and next week Tim was recording some one with some erotic fiction. Well, I guess my ghost stories fit in fine then!

So, at the end of the day (we finished about 3.15) I left Tim and Jo with my thanks, and started the drive home. The sun shone. The rain fell. Rainbows arched the motorway. I drove home happy.

No - I wasn't hitting the big time with a national publisher. Yes, I have to wait three weeks for the proof disc. Yes - I have to sort out the cover pictures and make sure all the text is in place. No, I probably won't make a fortune, nor will the publishers. Yes - I can say I am published. I will have an ISBN number on my work. I will be able to sell the books myself as well as through on-line resources and through John's network. Yes, I am confident that though maybe not the greatest collection of ghost stories in the world, the stories are good enough to be enjoyed by others.

It won't be a finished product for a month or two. But when it is, I hope I have some sense of achievement. At the moment I still feel that its closer to self-publishing than commercial publishing. But I'm going to reserve judgement. I need to be objective instead of my usual hyper-self critical.

It can't be too bad - because as I left Tim said "Do let us know if you want to make another." And I just so happen to have another collection of stories ...

A trip to Belfast

For years now, I've been playing celtic music: not just Irish, but Scottish, French, Spanish - the celts were a well travelled race (and still are indeed).

So, here I am, at the grand age of 46, I've played Celtic music for years, even play the bodhran, and I'd never been to Ireland. Until Wednesday 31st January 2007. Coincidentally, a full moon. Which, though it has no relevance to the story, has relevance to me.

Why did I go to Belfast, and just for a day? Business of course. Why else get up at the crack of dawn (poor girl, she really should use more moisturiser) and drive down to Stansted to fly over to Belfast so you can get on a plane home again in the evening and arrive back home more tired than a tired thing? I reached the airport at 6.30 am. But as I love flying, the trip was no bother - I just love being in a plane.

Well, I went to a 'Network and Getwork' event with Belfast City Council. Oooh, what a fabulous building the Belfast City Hall is! More marble than you can imagine - a superb building with a beautiful dome and some really quite OTT paintings and (oh, I don't know, architecture was never my strong point - but lots of pretty bits, anyway).

As we drove into Belfast Andrew pointed out 'the sites'. "That estate, Protestant, and over there - UDF, and over there - IRA..." the journey was punctuated by sectarian territories. It is extraordinary - a cultural heritage you cannot imagine until you have been there with a native. And I guess the perspective will vary according to the person you are with. A shock to me in my naievety, I have to admit.

But first, my Irish colleague Andrew and I had a meeting to attend, with a potential associate for future business. Andrew picked me up from the airport (the flight was late, but Andrew was later) and we trolled off to the meeting at the Europa (the most bombed hotel in Belfast he told me). As we walked from our parking space to the hotel, he pointed out the men in red coats. "Privatised parking fines - they've made more than a million in fines in the first two months.."
As we wandered down the streets, a mix of modern and ancient buildings, I noticed to my left a plethora of tiling adorning the side of a building: "Is this the Crown?" I asked. "Yeah," he said, and as we turned the corner, "The Crown" pub it was. The oldest pub in Belfast. And I know this because I am a sad git and I read my BBC history magazine. But sure, he was impressed that I knew what the building was before seeing the frontage.

So, off to meet this chap in the Europa. BORING! He was extraordinarily boring, full of himself and I saw Andrew 'switch off' after about ten minutes (no good at false body language, bless him). I tried, but the bloke was obviously out to get more from us than we could get from him. Such is business. I will email him 'no thank you' politely at some point.

We were, of course, late for that meeting. And then, of course, because Andrew didn't want to stay on a parking meter, we had to look for another parking place. We went round, and round, and round... I saw quite a bit of Belfast. The two huge cranes - still standing from the days when they built the Titanic; bright new glass monstrosities (not a fan of modern architecture on the whole), the St Georges Market (opposite a particular kind of housing estate that he would not walk through of course).

We eventually parked in the same car park that we'd passed about ten minutes previously (I'd seen some cars leaving so knew there'd be a space!) and sauntered over to the City Hall for our network event. "Mr .... is talking. He's Sinn Fein, but business is business." Said Andrew. Business does seem to be breaking down the barriers it seems, but who am I to comment.

The entrance to the amazing Belfast City Hall opened into a fabulous atrium with high domed ceiling. Marble everywhere! Thick, deep, almost warm, the marble was the fabric and soul of this amazing building. (Yeah, I like marble.) We went up the stairs into the main hall where the event was taking place and started off with a finger buffet. Thankfully they didn't serve fingers, but bits of chicken and sausages and a few curly sandwiches.

Then we all sat down for the introductory speeches, from InvestIreland, Belfast City Council, The Dublin and Belfast Chambers of Commerce. I heard the nuance (well, not so much nuance as stridence) in each accent. It was a mixed audience and a mixed event. It was business. The oddest accent was probably mine - clear London!

Then we entered into a 'speed networking' furore that probably got Andrew one or two dates (he's a good looking lad I suppose) and got me one or two strange looks (unsurprising too). We had two meetings scheduled with the City Council which were both good. One with an HR person, one with a lady from Communications. Andrew pointed out to me which one was Catholic, and which Protestant. I could have worked it out, in retrospect, but it didn't occur to me that I needed to. And I don't need to - but I do need to understand more if I'm going to do business over there.

After our meetings Andrew and I sauntered round the corner to 'Bar Red' where we had a sit down, a chat, and a drink. But, to be honest, my excitement was nothing to do with being in Ireland for the first time, or the business networking - I was going to meet my best friend. For the first time.

Now that might sound strange - meeting your best friend for the first time, but that's the beauty of the internet. And the scary thing about it too I guess. I had 'met' Cathy on line on our writers forum many months before and we'd communicated about writing, then 'chatted' on line about other stuff, and slowly developed a very firm friendship. We now talked about everything and anything - and with someone you can't see or talk to, its often easier to share the 'difficult things' in your life, the stuff you usually keep bundled up behind shutters. After all, you are never going to meet them, they are never going to meet the people you talk about, they can't hurt you - at a distance.

But if you find someone who is such a good friend that you don't mind what they know, and you trust them completley, then actually meeting them won't cause you anxiety. Well, it shouldn't. And - it didn't really. Do you know what worried me most about meeting Cathy? That I would be a disappointment to her. That I would not be the selectively 'erudite' or 'eloquent' person I aspire to be, in words on paper and on line, and signally fail to be in person! There's a Carribean saying 'Mouth open, story jump out' - with me its 'Mouth open, foot jump in' more often than not.

So Andrew and I were in this bar, and I knew Cathy would arrive shortly. Andrew hung around, he's a gentleman and would not abandon me in a bar in a strange city on my own. I looked out the window and saw Cathy arrive. Looking just like her photo, she came into the bar and straight up to me (damn, I must look just like my photo too - and I hate my photos). I stood, and we hugged like old friends. We are old friends. I introduced her to Andrew, passed her a beer (I pre-ordered, knowing what she drinks), and we had a few minutes formal chatter. Andrew (still the gentleman) took his leave and left us to it. We were on our own.

I sent a quick text, as promised, to a third party. No reply. Cathy and I started to talk, and we found that we could converse as easily in person as we did on line and, in more recent times, on the phone. I think the phone calls helped, we knew what each sounded like and had attained some 'measure' of each others' pace of conversation. We had been worried that we'd need bits of paper to pass over, as if exchanging emails - but our concerns dissipated quickly.

I picked up my mobile phone - the text had not been responded to. I dialled - the US! - on my work mobile (I'd have to fess up to that one, that's for sure!). The person answered and I passed the phone to Cathy. On the phone was Nadine, in Arizona - a further friend via our writers circle with whom we were both in close email communication. We had always said she'd be with us 'in spirit' when we met. Cathy was astounded and pleased to hear Nadine on the phone. But the bar was noisy, so it was a short lived conversation.

We moved to a slightly quiter part of the bar, and talked. And talked. And talked. What did we talk about? I don't know! Cathy showed me pictures of her home town, I showed her pictures on my mobile of friends she knew by name and reputation. We examined each other's jewellry, telling the story behind each ring, bangle and earring. I tried to show Cathy the hairs on the palm of my hand (which is why there was some trepidation about a full moon - for I had the reputation of being a werewolf which is erroneously based on about three or four extremely fine hairs on a skin graft on my fingers).

We were both nervous, both excited, and both extremely happy. I felt as if I'd known Cathy for years - as if I was meeting up with an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. I felt as if we were 'catching up' on history and events that we had shared in more than just emails and phone calls. It was a very strange experience. But it was one that kept me grinning for a long time. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to say how happy and pleased I was to meet her and how nice a person she really was. That she was as genuine and natural in person as she was on line. Or should that be the other way round? It was hard to say, and I wasn't eloquent, or erudite . I think I talked complete and utter rubbish. The pub was smokey, and Cathy smoked too. But for once, I didn't care.

I had just three hours before I had to pick up a taxi back to the airport. Cathy was staying over in Belfast with her family, so the taxi dropped her off first. The time ran out too quickly - there was still so much to natter about, and I didn't get to meet her (rather dishy from his pictures) husband or her son. But it was a start, and a good one. If you are going to meet your best friend for the first time, this is the perfect way to do it.

Once I'd left Cathy at her hotel, my taxi driver said he'd take me 'over the mountains, it's quicker from here'. Fairycakes it was quicker! Over the mountains? I think we must have doubled the usual journey to the airport. But I didn't really mind. I had a good chat with the driver, I went past the Falls Road, the Shankil Road (hey - they look like perfectly normal streets!) and then up the hills into the permanent fog that adorns the hills above Belfast. The taxi fare was more than £26 - but he rounded it down to £25. A minor twinge of guilt on his part, perhaps, for fleecing the poor English Eeejit.

I got to the airport and had traditional Irish Fayre for tea - Burger King. Nadine phoned me - I could hear this time and we spoke briefly. She was happy that we'd met. Cathy and I hope to meet her in time too. On the flight home I chatted with a lad I'd spoken to that morning - Darren. He'd come over for his aunt's funeral. Though we didn't sit together on the flight, we did catch up on the bus back to the car park. He was a teacher and - I guessed correctly - taught history. He had a seven week old son. We both play guitar and bass. Like will find like.

But on the flight I sat with my notebook open - ready to write - to put onto paper the gamut of feelings that I'd experienced. And nothing came. I just felt extremely peaceful, and tired. And, above all else, happy. I looked out of the window as we flew over England - the large dark spaces between the yellow smudges of light showing how rural much of the country still is around the busy international airport of Stansted.

I got home at about 10.30pm and my good friend Penni was there, looking after the kids whilst B was at a rehearsal with his band. My son and Penni's daughter were sitting together in the front room watching football. Her team was winning, his was losing. Penni made me tea and I listened to her and chatted briefly, trying desperately to stay awake. My children were fine, happy, sleepy. Like me.

I went to bed with a grin on my face. I heard B come in and get into bed and hugged him - so glad to be home and warm and loved and secure. And still happy. And in the morning, back to work, still with a smile on my face and in my heart.

I am a very lucky person. I have good friends, a lovely family, and the desire and pleasure of writing and playing music.

It's Friday Night... the teenagers are in.

In my front room are seven teenage boys. The smell from their feet is ... well, I'm keeping all doors well and truly closed.

It's Friday night and the rest of the family have gone out - my teenage daughter has gone pub singing with my husband and my mother (husband will play, but heaven help them if granny starts to sing!).

It's a strange evening - I have, I suppose, all this time to myself. One half of the family are out, and son and entourage are otherwise occupied on the Playstation game. So... why do I feel... bored?

I'm not bored, I have LOTS to do. I could be writing; editing one of my stories. I could be practicing some music (gig next week and I haven't learned all my words), I could - also - be ironing. But I feel unmotivated to do any of these.

I think by Friday night I'm ready for a natter with a mate and a few bevvies. But all my mates are out, and drinking on your own is no fun I find.

So, in fact there is little point to this post except to note that I have found something to do - update my blog with a meaningless post.

Time for a bath I think...

Christmas is coming, the turkey's getting worried

Christmas is Coming
The Turkey's getting worried
He knows a week from Christmas day
He's going to end up curried!

So - everyone looking forward to Christmas? Well, everyone looking forward to the non-denominational holiday break we take at this time of year then?

No? Oh...

At our office we have a BIG fireplace. It's empty of fire. But.. what could we put in there to make the space look 'pretty'? We could put all sorts. We could put... a dried flower display (GROAN...) or a .. oh heck, I don't know, what could we put in a bloody great stone fireplace?

Well, one person suggested a lovely statue of Buddah. Well, it would look cool, to be sure. But would it be PC? In a workplace? I guess not. We even discussed it at a team meeting and decided that whatever went in the fireplace had to be by common consent. But - guess what! We ARE putting up Christmas decorations. Nobody has asked me if I accept this Christian tradition. No one has asked anyone if this is acceptable. We have non-Christians in our office, but they don't mind. We have athiests in our office, but I (whoops, gave the game away there) don't mind.

So, are we too polically correct? Or are we making assumptions because it is 'the season of goodwill' and therefore assumptions are acceptable? A good friend once said to me 'Don't assume, it makes an ass out of U and Me'. A better friend once said 'Don't make assumptions, it makes ass ... and umptions.'

So - Christmas is coming and the commercial world is rubbing its greedy paws together. And I will participate as a willing and able victim to both the commerciality and the forced bonhomie of the season. What I believe is, in fact, irrelevant. What my society chooses as acceptable, and my colleagues and friends choose as acceptable, is what is relevant. Because I choose to be part of this society. And guess what? I quite like it (the society that is - not Christmas - I HATE Christmas!).

Of mud and motivation

Developing your teams is essential in any business, organisation, group or club. Even a band! But this team awayday … this one was for the ‘Sales and Marketing Team’ and it was one of those ‘corporate’ events that involve mud. Lots of mud.

Sales folks from around the country had joined us in the office and we were all staying at a hotel near to our intended destination for the following day’s exercises. But, of course, we went to the pub first – so we were a little late.

A dinner had been scheduled at The Compasses in Pattiswick – a remote village in Essex that is, interestingly, one of four pubs with the same name within a 12 mile radius. Known as ‘The Essex Enigma’. However, that didn’t figure in our evening. Though late, we all made it to the restaurant and had a very pleasant meal. The crew included the Heather the MD, Robin a director, our sales team and me – marketing manager. Harry and Nina only joined the company very recently (I mean days ago), and Gwen and Heidi were also ‘newbies’. It was a new team, a fresh team. This was going to be a unique initiation.

I sat opposite Harry and Keeley. The conversation was such that I almost collapsed with laughter at one point – partly at what Harry was saying, partly at the expression on Heather’s face. Harry told us about how some of the women he dated asked some very stupid questions sometimes… Harry is very dark skinned (family originally from Ghana) and he was describing things quite graphically … “They even arsk what colour me ‘Arry Monk is…’ (poor attempt at Essex accent here). Don’t ask what the Cockney Rhyming slang stands for. I refuse to explain if you can’t work it out for yourself.

The meal was good, though the tables were sort of divided and the conversation could not stretch the whole length (and maybe that was a good thing). The important thing was that everyone was relaxed in each others' company, and though I was in bed by 11.15 (and not drunk, just well and truly relaxed - as a small newt), it was a good evening.

But then … the following day … we arrived at Layer Marney Tower. A magnificent red brick Tudor building boasting the highest Tudor Tower still standing in the UK. Impressive. As I turned into the drive, I saw a field to my right with little yellow tent like shelters in it. Pausing, I threw my hands in the air and gave a silent mental scream. I could see Emma in the car behind me (she’d followed me from the hotel where we stayed) laughing. My trepidation about this kind of thing is due to my own lack of fitness and my lack of confidence when dealing with things ‘unfamiliar’. Yeah, not so much a “change coward”, more an “am I going to make a complete and utter tit of myself?” type coward.

We entered the building to be greeted by Heather and Robin who were there to brief us for the day and introduce us to our hosts, who were running the ‘outdoor’ aspect of our team day. Kurt (tall, dark, South African) introduced himself and his colleagues and told us that we would be doing a short exercise this morning, then after lunch a further ‘game’. All dressed in black, military style, their corporate logo neatly embroidered on caps and shirts. Soldiers stop being soldiers, but they never stop playing soldiers, do they?

We were divided into two teams and I was with Harry, Robin, Heidi and Emma. The other team was Robin, Gwen, Heather, Andrew and Nina. We were each issued with laser rifles and combat coveralls and webbing and hats with sensors … we looked a collective 'sight'. During the briefing with the weapons we were – as a whole – unruly. The instructor commented on this more than once. GUns fired when they shouldn't have been, buttons pressed that we were told not to press, giggling and joking and not listening.

With each team based at opposite ends of the field, we had to get from one base camp to the other and shoot the other team down on the way. The objective being to occupy the opposing camp with all your team members (or as many as were still living). I got killed pretty quick because I’d misunderstood something (should have listened!). Oh well, I just strolled on down (whilst others were running, diving, ducking, slipping in horse and sheep shit as well as mud). Mud, lots of mud. Robin looked happy as Larry playing Action Man, Heather was squeaking with indignation as she tripped over a large tree trunk and her hat fell into some nice smelly horse dung, Nina went wild shooting me repeatedly (though I think I may have already been dead by then). We then repeated the exercise back the other way. I noticed two people running round and round one of the vans parked near the field. It was almost like a stage farce - certainly entertaining to watch from a distance. And when you are dead.

Yes, team dynamic characteristics were demonstrated and strategy implemented to varying degrees of success. But the game generated winners and losers. Our team was not the strongest mix of 'personalities' perhaps, but, to be fair, the other team had Andrew (who is in the TA) so they probably had the march on our team from the start through dint of his experience.

Our team lost both rounds. Never mind. Lots of mud – lots of laughs – lots of running around. Back in the main house, we all sat down and everyone was panting. All this exertion! Of course, being dead, I wasn’t too tired at all. Dead tired? No, I’ll pass on the opportunity for that particular pun.

During a break, Emma and I went exploring. We found the tower stairs – up past Victorian type ‘nursery’ wallpaper (dreadful dolls of the world, but probably as listed as the crooked beams in the training room), up wooden, worm-eaten stairs. We entered forbidden rooms, dusty and unloved but oozing history, and climbed further. We reached the roof. A magnificent vista and the most amazing twisted brick chimneys. We went out on the roof with the camera later. Too good to miss. The Tower's marketing brochure shows lovely rooms, beautiful panelling, and the amazing buildings in the grounds like the Chapel. That's all there too - but what we saw was the true heart of an enormous stately home – too expensive to maintain, too dangerous to open to the public, too precious to change. I would have loved to spend more time in there, exploring, learning about the character of this ancient structure. Oh well, back to training.

Next came the sales planning exercise – how to make as much money as we can from the available marketing budget. That went quite well I thought (which pleased me as I ran the session). Though we were down one colleague - Daine was unable to attend due to injury - a place labelled ‘Diane’ was neatly laid for him at the table come lunchtime. And we kept his dinner too (Andrew ate it). Normally after a big lunch, you go into a nice warm room and let yourself drift - just a little. No chance!

After lunch it was game on for the main ‘mission’. The two teams were dropped off at separate locations about 2.5km from the house and had to navigate their way back to a field where we were going to be set a new task. So, as nominated navigator I took control of map and compass. We didn’t do badly on that part of the exercise, but when it came to the ‘mine field’ (oh no! Scary football markers and plastic tape!) we had a little trouble. But we got through by fair means and foul. I actually stood – deserted by my companions – in the middle of the mine field for about 10 minutes whilst the others came across first. They left me 'safely' there so I chilled out while I had the chance. The weather was pleasant, the birds were singing, all I had to do was stand still. Eyes closed (we wore blindfolds), whilst the others used walkie talkies to get each member across without treading on a plastic marker or hitting the tape. Eventually I was talked across - via a very prickly bush! "Forward! Forward!" came the shouts over the radio. "Ouch, Ouch!" came my reply. We completed this exercise in communication reasonably well. It was very similar to one that we run as a training company in nice comfy offices with a flip chart and some Lego - and no mud whatsoever.

Then we hit the main field and our mission, should we decide to accept it (what, were we given the option? No), was to capture a big blue rucksack from an enemy camp and get it back to ‘base’. Lots of guff about computers, satellites and timescales. Oh well. By now my lugging of the laser gun through fields of mud and through brambles and hedges and mine fields was beginning to wear a little thin. I have to say that if I’d then been presented with a challenge like building a bridge across a river, or getting over some obstacle where I had to use my brain, my willing participation would have been far more enthusiastic. The strategic planning aspect wasn't really focused on. I think the fresh air had cleared my head so that tactical thinking was absent (I was still listening to the birds and looking for wildlife) - and some of the lads were probably running on laser-gun adrenalin rather than cold rational thought too. I now had to shoot my colleagues again. I don’t like shooting people. I don’t mind target shooting (I’m not bad as it happens, but Emma as a past triathlete was most expert amongst us I believe, and Heather has expertise in rat and rabbit shooting), but shooting my colleagues? Yeah, great team building! A little competition goes along way, but succeeding through the failure of others has never been a motivator for me. Oh well!

Emma and Robin went off to recce the "enemy camp" (oh, to be honest, just a few more of those yellow tents with a bit of webbing over them), and then – then we hung around in the bushes. At least it was less embarrassing than walking down the country lanes and passing drivers looking at us and laughing. Hey, maybe we should have tried a carjack and then we’d have got back to base much quicker.

Though Heidi and I were cold and bored, Harry did a great job of rallying us to a small level of enthusiasm. We would complete the task to assist our colleagues but for me – no payoff (whilst I think Heidi was just knackered). OK, so then our team grab their backpack which weighs 30kg – and we have to shoot at a few people (point, pull trigger, wonder if that was one of ours or theirs?), and then get this effing great pack back to a truck in the house car park. Harry shouldered it first and tried to run through the mud but was soon flagging. No reflection on his fitness – it was a heavy pack and the going was not easy. So from there on we took it in turns, each grabbing a strap and hauling it back as fast as we could through very, sticky, horrible mud. As well as carrying these great laser rifles and the back pack, we had about three or four pounds of mud on each foot. And some in other places too, no doubt.

As we got nearer to the car park, we knew it was a race against time. It was getting dark, the sun had gone down and as we got closer Emma took up the rucksack and ran. Amazing! She was off like a rocket and Harry was running alongside her, helping to support the weight of the pack from behind (or using the excuse to put his hand on her backside, I couldn’t tell which from that distance). Emma was determination personified. I walked casually along the path back towards the house and the car but Robin was shouting ‘Come on team! Let’s run in! Show them what we are made of!’ or words to that effect. Oh, alright Robin, jog jog jog… eww, this mud is slippy. Wonder what’s for tea?

We got back to see the other team already there, disrobing and smiling and laughing – they had beaten us again. Oh well. Others are far more competitive than me and were more upset at coming second. But we did the computer thing and had a neat little message saying ‘MISSION COMPLETE’. We had a group hug to celebrate completion, even if we didn’t beat the other team.

Afterwards we had a debrief back in the warm house with photos of the day displayed on a screen (Robin on his backside in the mud, Harry looking like he was taking a whizz against a tree, and a nice one of the group hug - ahhhh). What had we learned about leadership, motivation, delegation, discipline and communication? Well, nothing I didn’t know already about the colleagues I knew well, and a little something about the colleagues who were new to me – but only those on my team. I hadn’t learned a lot about the new members on the other team. Didn’t matter though. Motivators though, that was an interesting one. I was honest and said ‘Yes, I enjoyed myself, I spent a day in a field. But I wasn't motivated to win.'

Kurt took issue with me – telling us how pushing people to their limits could develop qualities and characteristics blah blah... I could hear and understand his words, but they were not for me. In his world, maybe he is right. But in my world I can learn more about my colleagues, their preferred working styles, strengths and weaknesses in many ways other than pointing a gun at them. Oh – have I said that before?

All in all I enjoyed the day. It was something different. Something I can say I have done. What did I learn? I learned how heavy boots get with mud. I learned how nice – without exception – my colleagues are (but I knew that anyway). I learned that unless I am given the right motivator, my performance is affected. Hey, maybe I knew that one anyway too.

But, let’s face it, I got a chapter out of it!

An evening at the folk club

So, last night, I go to the pub with S and N. They are late (as ever) so we don't have time to rehearse. We squeeze all the gear into their car (with N squashed under my hard-case bass in the front) and head off. Left B playing on the computer - writing music (turns out he used Queen's 'another one bites the dust' bass theme and a traditional folk tune to create - a musical - hysterical - Frankenstein).

The conversation in the car was - bizarre. It went from TV personalities through to subjects I just can't write down in a very short time. Ended in laughter, of course.

Get to the pub, D is running the evening. D is 6' 4" - big, cuddly, lovely. He looks like my brother, does things like my brother, which is often disconcerting. But he's good for a hug or three.

Dan puts together the running order - he's left us till last. Which, complementary as it is, means we have the whole evening to wait through. But first, the evening starts with tunes. S and N eat their food (ordered on arrival), I play bass whilst Dan starts off some tunes with a recorder player. Pleasant, easy start. Then the individuals go on, one by one. A trio with fiddle, mandolin and guitar, singer/songwriters with their guitars and angst, tune palyers, singers, a pleasant evening. Oh, yes, and the awful saxophonist (well, her playing), but its a free country.

Richard plays his usual sixties type stuff, his body swinging and rocking whilst he plays like he is in the hands of a mad puppeteer. But he's a nice chap. He was good for plenty of hugs too - even with his wife there.

The evening goes on - with us chatting in the bar or back room (very smoky in the pub, does me in). Relaxed, fun. I had two pints of cider - relaxed, fun. Not pissed.

Then we played our two numbers - one of mine and one of Shani's. In between I mentioned that I'd written a new song 'The Spanish Lady' and got the audience to guess the subject. "The flu" piped up one chap. Correct! It's my first pandemic song! Knowing me well, and my penchant for death, doom and destruction, everyone laughed.

Then we finished the evening with tunes again - and this is where my sense of mischief took over. S played guitar, Dan played guitar, Mel on flute, me on bass, Ted on melodeon.. a few other guitars and whistles and bodhrans and the like. We were all squeezed up together, so I started to push D with my back. He pushed back. I talked to S - lots of musicians can't talk while they play. I started to tell jokes, putting S right off. D joined in the joke telling. All this whilst playing. I undid his guitar strap, he shoved me a little, I twisted a peg on S's guitar so it went out of tune. Her look of horror! D did the same to my bass - laughter all round. Then I just carried on playing - but one semi-tone out from everyone else. Dan, Shani and I were collapsing with laughter (it sounded horrendous) but Ted, bless (76) thought his melodeon was out of tune.

Anyway, needless to say the evening ended very happily and when I came home, B had written his masterpiece.

Watch out pagans, here come the....

Well, here come the what? The almost pagans? The killer gerbils? No - the two musicans known as TU! S and I played our first proper gig this weekend at a Pagan Halloween Festival in London.

Now I'd been to a few Pagan gigs before (having played with other bands in the past) and knew what to expect. S said she had been a 'virtual pagan' - ie an on-line pagan. Not sure how that works, but I guess it's just getting into the spirit of things without having to turn up and meet with anyone else actually face to face. I understand the Paganism thing - in fact if any religion actually 'attracted' me, that would be it. However, when I read Pete Jennings' 'The Pagan Path' I threw it out when it got to Gods and Goddesses. Not into that sort of thing - don't like the idea of 'worship'.

Anyway, off the point. Back to the gig! We were booked through serendipity - I just happened to email the organiser the day after someone had dropped out. 'Any gigs going?' - 'Yeah, what you doing on 21st October?' and it was a done deal. No dosh, but we wanted the opportunity to play a longer set (than the few we'd played at some folk events), so we were happy.

S and I were booked to play, B could not come with us, and S's partner was of course more than happy to come along. I asked a colleague, Z, to come too. So - four women, off on an adventure. Z aparrently didn't tell her children she was off to a Pagan feestival with us, just that she was going to a 'music thing'. Very wise.

Down the M11, then onto the A12 - and the car decided to behave very oddly. I was in B's car. We pulled over and discovered a nicely punctured front tyre. Now, four women, one tyre, TEN MINUTES! It was a record wheel change. We were already a finely honed pit stop crew thanks to the arrival of lots of flat pack furniture at the office we all worked in. So changing a tyre was easy. We had all the parts, all the tools and didn't need a translator for the instructions.

When we got to the venue, outside there were lots of people in strange costume - it was fancy dress after all. Though at some of these gigs I can never tell who's in fancy dress or who just fancies dressing up. That's the fun of these things - just be yourself, or the self you aren't allowed to be when you are a teacher, or bank manager, or whatever else you do when you are not being 'publicly Pagan'. I was wearing a long leather coat and I had my hat. Our dress style for the day was 'black'. Nothing wrong with the easy option, it's classy and slimming. Suits me. When we got there Z - who'd been a little worried about what to expect I guess - said "Oh, if you'd just said 'Goth' I'd have known exactly what you meant. Been there, done that."


The festival was not a large one, but there were plenty of people (including one large fairy in pink called Dave), lots of leather, lots of corsets (a woman at the bar told us that there was no cider because the barman had forgotten it, but he was in bigger trouble because he'd not told his wife her corset was on upside down), plenty of makeup and pointy hats. Red Indian, Goth, medieval - be what you want to be. All good fun.

We were set to play a half hour set in the afternoon. I was a little concerned our mixture of material might not be right, but I had nothing to worry about. We heard some of the other acts and knew we'd fit in just fine. We whiled away the time, wandering round the stands (me spending money on the silver stand), and had a chat to the backstage crew about our requirements: two guitar inputs, two vocals, one bass (amp supplied). One act didn't turn up, so we could play longer if we wanted. No worries. Before us were the 'Pagan Choir' - so an easy set up. We went back stage about 15 minutes before we were due to go on and heard the Pagan choir enticing the audience to join in. They had a bit of a battle on their hands, it seemed. Also, of their two sopranos (the group was only about 8 people), one of them had a little difficulty with the high notes. The choir went off and we set up - two mics ready, the bass had a line out to the PA. "What about guitar inputs?" And we got an "Oh yeah," from the engineer. He'd forgotten! Lines hurriedly put in, and we were, eventually, plugged in, live and ready to rock! Well, to pagan, or whatever.

Up go the curtains - semi-busy hall, loud, LOUD, PA. Off we go with our first number - not a whit of the guitar in the monitors. But we did OK. "More guitar in the monitor please?" Oh yeah.. And that's kind of how the set went. With frequent requests to the engineer so that we could hear what we were doing. But the voices were loud, we played well, and the audience seemed to like us (especially those two on the right - oh yeah, S's friends!).

After we actually sold a CD each! We've nothing recorded together yet, but were not averse to punting our existing material out. No enquiries for further gigs or desperate groupies asking for autographs - but give us time.

We were going to stay for the main act in the evening, Blue Horses. I'd heard they were good. So we wandered off around 5pm for something to eat. Walking down Mile End Road we came across a nice looking Chinese and went in. Table for four. We all had really nice meals, and the company and the craic were good. I felt more relaxed out and about at a gig, or festival, than I had in years. And no drink, either!

We had fortune cookies. Mine said you don't stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing. I like to laugh. I like to be happy. Though I can be a little extrovert, I felt completely fine in this environment - and not just the dressed up pagans. I felt comfortable with who I am, and what I was doing, and who I was with.

Afterwards we went back to the festival to catch Blue Horses. But before them was the Drum Workshop performance. A load of people who'd been practicing with a most wonderful conductor. The drums thumped, thrummed and hummed through the venue. I felt them deep in my chest, and at one point I heard what was almost like a 'voice' - the voice of the drums. Interesting. The conductor of this rag-tag drum orchestra was a skinnyoung black guy in suit, with hat. Voodoo drumming? I don' t know, but the obvious delight of the performers and the audience was wonderful. One chap at the back had a big floor tom strung round his neck, which also sported a small bow tie. Another very goth bloke with long hair and painted leather jacket had a snare - and these two very diverse looking youngsters - like the 20 or so others - were joined together in the joy of sound.

When Blue Horses started, they had to stop as the PA was compeltely awful. I felt very sorry for them. Then they started and they were good - not brilliant, but good. I knew that in their heydey, the band I'd been with was easily as good, if not better. I knew that it could have been me up there (and in the past frequently had been) with the big band sound and the lights and all. I felt frustrated. But determined. It would be me again - me with the right musicians, in the right combination, making the big sound and enjoying the musicality and - I must confess - the attention. Ego, moi?? Its one of the few places I feel I have impact - on stage. I feel right on stage, playing, performing - entertaining.

On the journey home we nattered away as women do. S told me a story about embarassment that had me laughing loudly, and I thought just how uncomfortable some of my previous band colleagues would have been in such a situation. She also helped me drive, carefully pointing out red lights, cars in front, and which lane to be in.

I dropped S and N off home, then Z, and then went back home to my family. "Good gig?" Yeah, it was. A good day altogether. B was surprised I was home so early, and he was planning to watch "Match of the Day", so I sloped off to go chat to pals around the world on the computer. Back to the real world? No, not just yet, please, not just yet.

Horse of the Year ...

Well, due to my wonderful husband double-booking himself, it fell to me to accompany my daugther to the Horse of the Year Show yesterday. What's to complain about? Well, I'm allergic to horses and crowd phobic... so I wasn't exactly looking forward to it.

The journey was about two hours, through driving rain (hate the M6 in the rain - actually, hate it any time). I was taking my daughter and her friend, and our spare adult ticket (due to last minute changes) meant I was the only grown-up. So, if I ended up requiring medical attention, we had no back up driver.

Just as well really that I was fine! The NEC arena was big and there was enough air space for the horse fumes not to affect me (just a bit of sneezing). And the crowds? The crowds were calm, 90% female (and 70% aged between 10-14 too I'd say) and because of the way the day was run, there were no great crushes of people. That's what I hate (ever since going to a Pink Floyd concert in about 1979 when I completely freaked out) - crowds that squish and mill without a seeming purpose. These were well behaved, spaced out (physically) crowds and I could cope. And - after all - there was SHOPPING! One whole hall dedicated to the delights of shopping.

OK, so I'm at a horse show (but I don't have a horse and neither does my daughter, though she asks regularly). What will I buy? One of those trendy pink leather stetsons all the little girls are wearing? Some smart waxed jacket for my contry jaunts? Some of that fantastic silver jewelery that is right up my street? Nope! I bought (for me, no one else) a lovely set of ratchet secateurs. That was my extravagance. For my daughter she got a new padded jacket thingy (very horsey, very smart, very pink), a new PE kit bag (very horsey, very pink - you get the picture) and of course lots of food and drinks (all at extortionate prices). I even bought a mug for the adult who couldn't come. It has a cute little horse (of course!) on it, and her name engraved. Cheap and tacky - it will make her laugh.

The show itself was very slick - with excellent set up and take down between events. The local TA were running round in camouflage trousers and blue tee shirts (perhaps so they didn't lose their heads) and very efficiently moving jumps, flower stands and all sorts of area acoutrements. It was a new world to me. Though I'd seen it on TV, I didn't realise just how exciting it was going to be. My heart went over every jump with every rider - it was exhausting! The whole arena took to a new young rider, an Egyptian lad of just 17. He was wonderful, no two ways about it. The jumping was my daughter's favourite, but there was also 'Pony Club' events with children on incredibly small ponies who had trademarked 'cute' all over them, plus the most wondrous display from the Household Cavalry's musical ride. I love a man in uniform - and a man in uniform on a horse? Well, I certainly enjoyed that bit.

In the display area I'd been talking to one of the Household Cavalry lads, saying how I liked the uniform. He explained how each bit of it had originally had a practical use - the wide belt was a spare girth, the small rope a spare musket fuse, the metal 'dangle' on the end of the braid was used to stopper cannons, and the box on the back for powder and shot. I wonder what they keep in it now? "It's a bugger to clean, though." he said.

One of the TA lads running around the arena caught my eye. Bright ginger hair - black eye. There was a story there, that's for sure. And at all the military stands (in the retail area) the young soldiers were kept very busy - mostly by the 14+ girl visitors I noticed (and smiled to myself - in just a year or two that would be my daughter too - dumping me and off to visit the 'fit' blokes.)

It was a good day and I was glad I went. But today - the day after - I am sniffing and sneezing and my eyes are puffy and red. How come I get an allergic reaction the day after?? Oh well, I put a happy girl to bed last night (well, this morning at 1.30 am to be accurate) and despite her extreme grumpiness this morning ("I'm NOT TIRED" stomp stomp), it was all worthwhile.