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.

From the ridiculous to the sublime - switcheroo!

This time it went the other way round - the first gig was the barmy one. Well, not that crazy I guess, but nothing like the next one I did.

This was a barn dance and I was depping on bass for a friend. She's a lovely lady, but the band she runs drives me crazy. The melodeon player is the sort of guy you quite like, but are ready to deck after about 20 minutes. He took his melodeon off, and got up to walk across the stage at one point. "NO!" I shouted. Too late. He'd taken his melodeon off, but not unplugged all the wiring that amplified it - so - with that still connected to his belt and to his melodeon, result was a big crash and the instrument tumbling to the floor, taking with it a glass of water (great on a stage full of electrical gizmatronomy).

We were on a small stage in a Church - a Baptist church. Unlucky for me - I wasn't driving for a change but this was a 'no booze' gig, so I had to put my cider tins away for the duration. We played, they danced and smiled (really, really smiled - all night long - it was scary!). £70 thank you very much and goodnight.

The PA didn't work properly (home made monitors with teak veneer front-room speakers and bell wire), the violin was out of tune (well, no friggin, monitors, what do you expect?), and no booze. Not my perfect gig, I admit.

Then - the following night! The Poozies! Ohh, yes, what a band! Two harps, guitar, accordion (well, you can't have it all), and four voices. They were sublime. And I was support act (all on my own, just me, no one else).

I did a good set I think (well, I was complimented at least thrice), and then they played fantastically. What a contrast.

Next? Next come my adventures with S - a lady from Israel who is young enough to be my daughter (I'm not ageist), a very fine guitarist, bassist and songwriter. But that's another post for another day.

From a discussion on grief

My firend and I were discussing why multiple deaths in places far away are reported so differently to those closer to home. I mulled this over, and replied as follows. She said I should say this 'out loud'. Here I am, on my blog, out loud.

We are inured to death. When we hear of two children near our town (we live near Soham), then we are devastated. When we hear of 40 children on a bus in Palestine, we are hurt, but immune. Two children taken and murdered by one man - a different set of emotions are employed. We can blame that man, we can hate that man, we can see and direct our fear and anger towards that man. He was one of us, he is the ultimate evil, a traitor.When we hear of those children far away, we understand there is a war, their country is like that, it must be awful, no one will ever be caught, and we cannot direct our emotion because we have no empathy with a Palestinian family in the way we do with someone closer to home.

It is right? No. But we do become immune to continued exposure to things that are bad. The soldier home from the war is always changed. The surgeon is used to blood. The undertaker used to death. As mothers, as people, we are made to care so that we can survive - we look out for our own and continue our bloodlines. It's as basic and primal as that, and intellect can't overcome it because it cannot cope with the extremity of the reality. If I were to cry for every soul, my eyes would be blinded by such sadness.

But my brain knows, and my soul understands. It's just that my heart is so full - it has no room for any more. One of my friends doesn't talk much about her home country, Israel. She is a strange fish, only 27 but in some ways she seems older than me. She tells us that the news in the UK is biased against Israel, and I'm sure it is. All news is biased in one way or another. Do you think I understand the Ireland situation from every point of view? Of course not, I doubt if anyone can.

There was more - but this will do for now. Comments welcome people (person? Anyone?).

Here come the women in black...

Today did my first mini-gigette with a new line up - just a duo. Shani and I have been rehearsing for a few weeks to get some stuff together for the 'free folk day' - and tonight we played and did our first live performance together.

The set we did was just 15 minutes in the middle of the barn dance and though there was some faffing around with set up, we did our set and seemed to go down well.

Shani plays acoustic rock really, and with my folky/country type stuff as well, it was an interesting mix.

I like Shani's songs, and enjoy playing bass on them, and it seems to work vice versa too. It was - oh my goodness! - a normal gig. Well, apart from the power going in the middle of once dance (and the whole marquee being plunged into darkness).

And then on the way home as we crossed the M11, about 8 police cars and vans on the Duxford roundabout. And another 7 incident vans zooming past once we were on the A505. Phew! Didn't realise folk music would cause such a stir!

Now I'm home, tired, and checking my emails, forum and blog of course. My feet hurt. My shoes were gig shoes, not dancing shoes, but I danced anyway. I am a terrible dancer, but who cares!

I had a fun night, I think Shani enjoyed it too, and we will probably do some more music together. Shani introduced the set in Hebrew, but I don't think anyone actually noticed.. ..

Yet ANOTHER strange gig...

This time, a private party in Norfolk. The hosts had seen us playing at one of the Rougham Air Field Events (hidden inside a tent that you couldn't lift the sides of, so most people peeked through and saw our fee!). Were we free to do a private birthday party? Well, the price was right so we said yes.

Now, on a lovely August day you'd expect a garden party to go well. But, being UK August, the height of summer, it peed down! Torrential rain! Half the guests cancelled and the lovely laid out lawn with small marquees etc was a muddly swamp with the strong wind sending the B&Q special marquees flying.

So, we were moved indoors (as we couldn't play outside in the summer house as originally intended. By they way, their summerhouse would have done as a complete annexe to our house!).

Inside was lovely - beams, antiques, and low ceilings. Great if you play stand up bass! We were squished into one beamed area of the converted cottages (three into one). In front of us were vertical beams too so we were sectioned off, like in a mini-prison. B kept hitting his head on the lamp, and every time M hit any kind of drum all the bone china on the Welsh Dresser next to us rattled and threatened to slip. On one side was a small open fronted display cabinet full of antique perfume bottles. We suggested the owner push them slightly to the back of each shelf and she immediately knocked one off - but I caught it! Phew!

We played and they enjoyed our music, but they all had face paint on (grown ups, not children) and it looked really strange. Then there was the 'farting song' - delivered by the birthday boy's son and granddaughter. And a four-year-old's improvised pirate song (clever little tyke!).

The rain stopped so they went into the garden for - this is true! - wheelchair egg and spoon racing. The birthday boy himself (a young 60) showed me his workshop which was full of model airplanes. Not little ones, hulking great five-six-eight foot things that had motors and flew and everything. He had about 30 in the workshop and a further 90 (I was told) in a barn.

We had good food, they treated us well, and enjoyed the music. But I don't think private parties are really our forte somehow. The money came in handy though, especially as it was the day after our holiday so cash was very welcome.

So - what next? Well, the next gig is the Red Lion Folk Day, and I'm doing that with someone completely different. Let's see what happens....

A holiday in the Lake District

Well, what are blogs for if not for indulging in the luxury of telling nobody in particular just what you've been up to?

This las week we spent in the Lake District, in a small village called Seatoller in Borrowdale. Wonderful!

Here is my daily diary of the week:

Saturday Night:

I'm lying in bed with my head resting carefully against the wall - slightly at an angle so that my scalp is not puncutred by the decorative iron flowers on the metal frame headboard. My head just fits between the bars, so I can rest it securely against the wall and not on the narrow metal poles. Not the best designed headboard I've ever encountered.

We are in a small small village in Borrowdale. Outside the widows of our small, stone terraced cottage, huge rocky hills - the fells - loom above us. Across one a cloud lies light a light fluffy blanket, but now that it is night this almost comforting image must, in reality, be a cold cover damping teh slippery stone and moss-covered paths. Right now I'm glad I'm in bed, but tomorrow I want my feet to meet the stony paths one on one, my eyes to feast upon the green and grey, and my ears to let the sound of so much more silence teach them how to listen again.

Sunday

We've been out on Lake Windermere today - enjoying a warm but wet trip on the lake in some tourist tub. The greyskies obscured many of the views, but just being out on the water was good - different. Parking though, had been a nightmare. We found one carpark outside the town, and they wanted £5 for a day's parking. Well, we weren't going to be there all day so that was too expensive in our minds. Instead we went back towards the town and ended up - because of the traffic and lack of opportunity to do anything else - paying £5.50 for a half day. D'oh!

But we made the boat trip and I saw tufted duck, cormorant, gulls, swans (I'm sure one of them was a Hooter or Beswick, not a Mute). Queuing for car parks and boat trips gives me plenty of time for observing other kinds of wild life too. As well as the birds I can't help but notice the different types of people around. Lots of people from different cultures all gathered together in this extraordinary part of the UK to enjoy - to enjoy whatever it is they have come to enjoy.

As for the majority of people visiting the Lakes, I think there are basically three main reasons:

1. You love walking and enjoy the rugged yet accessible landscape
2. Youar e looking for any excuse to wear short/colourful trousers, odd headgear and/or other bizarre clothing and not feel self-concious (because everyone else is doing the same)
3. You are a senior widow - and the only fit senior men seem to be these hairy legged, would-be Tyroleans whose health and rigour in their 'declining' years is denied by their sprightly pursuit. Well - if you are looking for a new bloke and you are over 50, I reckon the Lakes is not a bad place to start. You see many old men, many fat men, but not many old, fat men. These aged hiking fanatics (and they come in both genders too - I've seen them up close) probably have a longer life expectancy than your average British Male. And they seem to congregate in places like the Lake District.

There's different kinds of walkers too - there's those like us (trainers, stick to the paths, no backpacks, families, casual 'we're here so we may as well' walkers). Then there's the 'serious' walker. There is a strict code of dress - your boots/socks must provide a very definite border between foot and hip. You can't have long socks that run up your leg towards your shorts, oh no! You must have big, round boots, and big, round-topped socks. Then, your thin (in the majority of cases), but muscly legs may stand proud all the way up to your Rohan shorts. This provides another visual 'stop' as you look from shoe to stomach. Around the neck is an O/S map in a neat plastic case. On the head is either a woolly hat or a small-brimmed 'tilly' hat. On the back is a pack filled with - well, who knows! Most likely a thermos, possibly a distress beacon, and certainly some of those vacuum packed meals. These walkers stride along with their spring-ended sticks and are confident, assured and experienced. These are the ones who watch the annual arrival of tourists with a knowing smile. They are accepted by the locals as staple income builders - they will walk come rain or shine!

Finally (and I'm being very general here I know) there are the tourist walkers. They come with some walking boots and jeans. Or those aforesaid colourful trousers. They will arrive and pile into the 'Outdoor Pursuits' shop and purchase one of everything they think will make them look authentic. They usually wear leather stetson style hats, too. (I wonder if any of them are lost folk music lovers?) They stride off (with their springy sticks - my goodness, aren't they great?) and are probably the group most often causing havoc for the mountain rescue services. Equipped is not experienced.

But I digress!

Here's the notes I wrote for Monday, straight on to the laptop (hey, would you go on holiday without one? OK, but I got to the leaderboard on Pinball!!)

We're in luck, the weather has brightened and we can go to the seaside! OK, maybe the seaside isn't everyone's first thought when visitng the lake District, but we want to see the sea, and we are going to!

We set off and decided to follow the other path out of Borrowdale instead of going back up to Keswick and along the A66. The Honister Pass - probably one of the steepest bits of road we have ever been on! And it did stress the driver - just a little (especially as our car brakes had only recently been fixed). However, we made it out alive, and headed towards Cockermouth and on to Maryport. We made it to what turned out to be a small, very un-commercialised fishing village. The main sea-side was a working fishing harbour, but venturing out and along the coast a little, within just a mile we hit the most beautiful shorline.

There were no beach huts, no cafes, no stalls selling inflatable everythings - just miles of open rocky beach full of rock pools and not a lot else. Across the bay you could see land - in fact we could see Scotland. We wandered along for an hour or two just meandering - clambering over these amazing red, flat, sparkling rocks, paddling in the tide, slipping on fresh sea-weed that appearedas the tide went out. (I'm going to have to do some geological detective work - this rock was just so beautiful, and every so often there were these patches that looked melted. Amazing!).

We walked back again, to the main town, enjoying the sun and the pure peace. We saw maybe four other people on the whole shore - along with plenty of herring and black-backed gulls and, in the distance, some long-legged waders. (More detective work needed, where's my bird book?)

We stopped for some chips and then headed back inland, intending to walk around a lake. We went back down the A66 and turned off to hit the top of Bassenthwaite Lake - a lovely quiet lake with small inlets around it - each occupied by a small family enjoying the sun by the water. We found a tree swing and the children splashed around and swung on this before we moved on round the lake, about half a mile, to find our own private inlet. The children decided they would swim - and though quite cold, obviously had a great time splashing around in the shallows, stumbling over slimy stones and swimming in the shallow, open water. Around them the sun shone, the sailing boats (further out) enjoyed the light wind and the warm weather, and we chilled on the shore, enjoying a really peaceful, relaxed afternoon. Apart from the drama of the extreme descent in the Honiston pass, there was no drama, no peculiar occurrence or anything remarkable. It was just chilled - a proper relaxing day with the family.

Monday evening:

It;s the end of a very war, relaxed day. The sun shone and I wore my sun-glasses. Big, wide, round the side of yer face glasses (my daughter says I look like a fly in them). Consequently, the sun being hotter than we realised, I have a face like a panda (two white eyes in a red face), my cleavage is bright red and my parting smarts when I brush my hair. The children, thankfully, are not burned and my husband is merely a slightly redder shade of brown than usual. It is my misfortune to sit here and radiate as I write. I should have been more careful! But it really didn't seem that hot. Ah well, with a bit of luck tomorrow we'll have more sun (we didn't!) and if I put on sunscreen everywhere except the white bits, I may achieve a slightly less panda-ish appearance and a more even beetroot. I won't go brown - I never do. White: red: peel.

Tuesday

We went shopping! To a very superior supermarket in Keswick called 'Booths'. Everything looked neater and cleaner (certainly nicer than the Co-op we had already visited), and nicer than our home supermarket (Tesco). The bread looked inviting, the fruit tempting, the tins lined up neatly and full of interesting things (even the baked beans looked somehow, nicer). And it was spacious too. Goodness! A nice place to shop.

The weather brightened so we took another trip to Bassenthwaite and went for a good long walk. There was a sign that said 'Osprey View Point' but we never found the view point and certainly didn't see any osprey. It was too cold and cloudy for swimming, so we went home for lunch and then took a trip to Ullswater. The drive was spectacular - and the lake very beautiful - but the weather was dull so apart from some 'deep paddling' not a lot was done other than to continue the chilling out process.

Wednesday

Today I ate ostrich! OK, not exactly the reason you go on holiday, but certainly something I'd not done before (well, not in a burger anyway). We went to Muncaster castle - a beautiful castle in the South of the Lake District. The castle itself was a big, square, 18th Century castellated manor rather than a medieval castle, but impressive non-the-less. We entered the big, redstone building and were handed neat little hand sets which would guide us round the rooms that were open to the public. The castle was built on the site of Roman remains and then a medieval tower, but the big windows (which my son noticed immediately as very un-castle like) gave away its more modern reconstruction. The rooms were full of many peronal memorabilia of the family, who still reside in part of the castle. The voices on the audio guide were family members, and their great fondness and pride in their heritage was evident. In the 'most haunted' room, they ask if you notice whether its colder, or feels odd at all. Well of course its colder, I'm sure they've made it that way. But the castle is the focus of many a paranormal researcher, its true. I didn't notice anything, but then maybe wandering round the small room with a family or two, and an audio player plastered to my ear is not the most conducive atmosphere to detecting anything on a psychic level. Not that I'm likely to anyway, but my sometimes more perceptive husband may have done.

Following our tour of the castle we went to the stable block for lunch (not hay, they have a restaurant/cafe there). That's when I ate my ostrich burger! After lunch we went out to the 'Maze' - which turned out to be a large plastic run, introduced by a cartoon vole, intended to instruct the young in the importance of vole conseravation. My daughter was unsure about going in as it said, in the leaflet, 'dark in places', and she doesn't like the dark. But it was not very dark at all, and the scariest thing was how quickly Alex and I wandered through and came out the other side.

We then went on to 'Meet the Birds'. On first entering the castle grounds we had stopped at the Owl Sanctuary - the headquarters of the World Owl Trust. We saw, unsurprisingly, lots of owls. Owls who live in deserts, who burrow in the ground, who come from Mexico to Muncaster. The 'Meet the Birds' attraction was a very informative talk on the work of the Trust and some close up views of some of the rehabilitated inhabitants of the sanctuary, including a buzzard who chased his decoy rabbit on foot - not a natural hunting method for one of the UKs largest flying predators! The poor bird had been raised by people and was afraid of heights!

We wandered on through the grounds and, enjoying the sunshine (which had only shone since our arrival at Muncaster), and then set out for home. Deciding to complete a circular journey, we made a mistake and spent twice as long going home as getting there - but it didn't matter. It was a pleasant day, and we stayed chilled out.

Thursday

Today was once again a 'chill out day'. We started with a quick trip to Keswick to download our photos to disc (fancy forgetting the cable!) Then we went down to Derwent Water for a walk - which turned into quite a good distance. We walked from where we'd parked alongthe side of the lake, then up through the woods to the Ledore Falls. Not enormous waterfalls, but very pretty. We went on, across the countryside and through the marshes. We walked along wooden walk-ways, enjoying the bright, but cloudy day. We came back the same way (but not visiting the falls) and I saw goldcrest breifly flash through the branches of the pine trees.

We came home for some lunch and then, after some chill time for our leg muscles to recover, went back out to Bassenthwaite - our favourite lake.

Anglers on the opposite bank were bathed in evening sunshine, and we saw one pull out a very large, long fish. Pike, perhaps? Or a stumpy eel, not sure which. We skimmed stones, wandering along the stony bank and watching my daughter swing on the rope swing and - as predicted - dunk herself (fully clothed) in the shallow end of the lake.

Our journey home took us back through Keswick and past the Chinese Take-Away. Back to the cottage for a continuation of the chill therapy - Chinese food, wine (not for the kids though) and (this time for the kids!) ice dream from the local shop for dessert.

Tomorrow we must head home, but we will head home well walked, well rested and having spent more time playing cards and doing activities as a family in these few daysthan we usually do in a year.

Friday

This morning we packed. Sad that we must leave this lovely place, but we've had a good week. OK we've not trekked up any mountainous paths, we've not delved into the Slate Mines, and we've not white water rafted our way along the rivers, but we've had a good, relaxing and enjoyable time.

The evenings we spent watching a bit of TV (the athletics has been great) and playing cards. I think we've played more cards as a family this week than we usually do in a year. We stayed up together, and had relaxing baths, long showers, late mornings and lazy evenings. What else should a holiday be about?

After packing we went for a brief walk locally - enjoying the last chance to breathe this lovely air and enjoy the sounds of nothing more than the occasional car and the bleating of the herdwick sheep. I like the sheep up here - they seem more intelligent than southern (different breed obviously) sheep. They watch you, they move when a car comes along, they just look smarter (well, for sheep anyway).

The journey home was long and tedious. We decided to avoid the M6 and head straight across the country on the A66 (our favourite road in the whole of the UK) and then down the A1. Rats. Lots of traffic, and plenty of concertina-ing and stop-starting in various places. But we are home, and I have 167 work emails (OK, call me sad for checking my work emails but most of them were spam so I could delete them before going in on Monday!) and 26 personal emails (of which only 16 were spam).

Friday evening

I am doing this. Writing up my week in my blog. Call me sad! I don't care. I have had a nice supper (mother cooked roast beef) and a large brandy. My husband has gone to the folk club (fancy being home in time for that) and tomorrow we have a gig (yay, money!).

I wonder where we will go next year on holiday? I think we are going to have to find some sun.

And what happened at school today dear?

Well, I ask my kids often enough, don't you? The answer is usually 'not much', or 'usual'. Though from teenage son, the response is more of a grunt than a word. I'm amazed how 'I don't know' has transformed from clear, audible words to something musical almost - to 'Iuno' with an accompanying shoulder shrug that tells it all.

But the amazing versatility of this response! Have you tidied your room? Iuno. Have you any homework? Iuno. Is that an elephant about to tread on your mobile phone? Iuno.

The joys of communicating with the young! I think I will have to learn txt spk. Then I cn tlk to thm in thr own lnguge. Or then again - maybe not. 1984! It's here - a few decades late indeed - but Newspeak is now common parlance over messenger services and mobile phones. And there's Big Brother as well - so perhaps all early science fiction was not indeed fiction but just time travel. I remember reading a 1957 book that had Texas as the last preserve of masculinity, the whole world ruled by women, and the opening paragraph stating 'It was ever since the UK had a woman prime minister in the 1980s' or something of the sort.

And they say that 60% of today's 10 year olds will be doing jobs as adults that we haven't even invented yet. So what will they say to their kids at the end of the day?

"Hv a nc dy lol?"

...
...
...
"Iuno."

Ah - maybe a little cynical - surely the written word will thrive in this world of blogs and on-line publishing rather than be degraded by abbreviations and contractions. But who knows! By the time my children are grandparents, they'll probably be 'reading' stories through a brain implant that is fully accompanies by image and sound.

"Did you enjoy that one?" as the braincast finishes and the family unclick and use verbal communication, by way of novelty.

"Iuno"

Pirates!

If you've read any of my other blogs about recent gigs, you'll have noticed they have had a slightly bizarre twist. Well, this Saturday was no exception.

The first issue was that for the first time we were just a three piece - no melody instrument. Me on bass, P on guitar and singing, Baz on drums. OK, no worries, we'd get there - just all have to sing a lot more.

P relies on me to provide the set list - I have a big book and a list, and I yell things out and we pick a key and do them. This year I chose, at about the fourth number in, 'The Pirate Song'. I had heard (from P's children) that this was a good song, but P had always refused to sing it. No escape this time!

She lined up some willing volunteers in front of the stage (participation number folks) and then started to sing what turned out to be a song for the under fives. In other words, at this Medieval Fair, it was perfectly pitched! They did the actions, sang the song and loved it.

Baz squeaked at me 'Never again!!!' Shut up and hit those drums man. I'm busy slipping sweatily up and down the neck of my stand up bass and if I'm lucky I'll hit a decent note soon.

P was exhausted having worked all day at the show running some kind of on-site facilities (she told me she was not on toilet duty, which was a relief... har har). But she sang beautifully as usual, and the gig was going fine. The stallholders were getting rowdy (they say they drink mead because they like it - I'm not so sure). They were still in costume and probably getting more medieval by the minute (it was HOT and natural wool fabric hose can get pretty warm I'm sure).

Then - as darkness gently fell across the fenland airfield, and our open sided marquee filled with mildly inebriated knights, monks and maidens, the pirates arrived. About six or seven, in full pirate gear. One waved his pair of muskets at us yelling 'SING US THE PIRATE SONG...' having been told he'd missed it. But no way - it was now far too late (in so many ways).

So picture this - three of us on stage, about 50 tired and slightly drunk East Anglians, Stall Holders, Medieval Re-enactors and a bunch of Pirates. Oh yes, and one bright green leprechaun with orange hair.

As the night ran on we played on - singing everything from traditional folk songs, Ps own material, to Jimmy Cliff and Elvis. I kind of went a bit mad when it came to Blue Suede Shoes - Baz looked at me in amazement having never heard my (usually soft and very folksy) voice belting out a raucous and rough Rock'n'Roller. Ah - what he doesn't know about me - that's a whole other blog!

Then one of the monks (yes, there was more than one) decided to climb the tent pole. 20 foot up, and he clambered up agile as a ship's monkey (aharrr me hearties). Not to be outdone, another chap climbed up the opposite pole, and at the top detatched his wooden leg. Now he SHOULD have been dressed as a pirate (but wasn't).

The great relief for us was that tonight we could stop at 11 because our medieval music pals, Schelmish, were booked to play after us. So, following slightly jazzy folk/rock/whoknowswhat us, was this bunch of 8 large (well mostly) very noisy Germans. They are terrific - http://www.schelmish.de/ - run around half naked, dressed in leather with the most ludicrous shoes, playing enormous bagpipes and many, many noisy percussion things. They were great! We had fun watching them as well as playing.

I was very brave and asked one pirate (in the most amazing full length leather frock coat, with tricorn and some rather strange looking false fangs - not quite sure if pirates were vampires or not but at that stage I didn't really care): "Why Pirates?"

His answer was simple: "Because Pirates are cool." Turns out he bought the coat at a German Gamers Convention for about 160 Euros. I kind of wandered off then, not just because of his wife and very large Wolf Hound, but because I was worried he'd start to tell me all about the Gaming....

But for me the evening was over, and once I'd collected my share of filthy lucre (paid in English Pounds, not Pieces of Eight alas) I donned my rather daft black leather hat (only to fit in you understand, only to fit in), and tootled home.

On my return B told me of his gig somewhere near Southampton. It had gone well but the event had put two stages back to back so whilst his acoustic quartet played lovely music, they were overwhelmed by the backwash of recorded music played very loud whilst colourfully dressed youngsters gave their interpretation of 'Riverdance'.

I still think I win on the weird gig stakes though. Bet there weren't any Pirates at HIS gig.

Another mad gig

Picture the perfect English village on a beautiful summer's day. The green, opposite the pub, is filled with happy laughing people as the Villlage Fun Day enters full swing. And this afternoon's entertainment will feature a barn dance - on the village green. This is where the village idly dissipates.

We set up whilst a blues player twanged the afternoon away, and once all was plugged in and Mr Punch had finished demonstrating wanton puppet violence, we were ready to go!

But, of course, our audience was spread over a field. At one end, a football match, next to us a bouncy castle, ahead of us (some way off) the steps up to the pub. And scattered around was the audience. Ready to Dance?!! No way. They were ready to drink and probably to snooze. In the three and a half hours we played our caller managed to get enough people together for just three dances. All of which were a complete shambles - I've never seen such bad dancing!!

We sang songs, played a few tunes - made the afternoon pass. But one chap did want to dance. There we were in the midst of the Suffolk countryside and this man, in his shorts with his baseball cap on, spoke pure Estuary. He was a little drunk and decided that he and the children should have a dance competition.

I have played to some odd sights - three men, two goats and an inflatable doll, even to strippers (see previous posts), but this is the first time I've seen a grown man in competition with 8 year old girls by doing headstands and trying to 'teach 'em rock'n roll' (to the sound of a country dance band).

Ah roll on winter - when the audience are trapped in the hall and can't wander off.

My take on the universe

I was sitting on the bog today, letting my mind wander whilst other things happened, and sort of organised my own view of the universe. Just for me. So I understand it - so it makes sense to me.

I'm not a religious person, but very tolerant. If you believe in a God/Gods, then they exist for you. I won't argue. I won't share your belief, but I can't decry it.

So how does this link in with the universe? Well - kind of energy is what I'm thinking. Take faith healers - they believe that with the power of God they can make people well. And it works sometimes too - amazing, extraordinary, unexplainable (through scientific logic that is). And Chinese healers using Chi, and Reiki, and so many strange and wonderful healing, therapeutic and beneficial practices that have a result we can't explain. Do we need to explain them? If the faith healer and the reike practioner are getting great results, they are doing something. They are tapping into an energy or force or whatever you like to call it (watch out Luke Skywalker!) and using it for beneficial results. So there is something there that they access, even though we don't know or understand how.

Some people use crystals for healing, or herbs, or dowse, or pray or even use hypnosis. All of these have one thing in common - the belief of the practitioner. There is belief because there are results. Despite scientific and clinical tests, somewhere along the line there are people who benefit from 'alternative' therapies.

Going back to my energy theory, this links in with religions of all kinds. God - one big energy created the world. Many gods - pagan, Hindu, whichever religion you choose - they could all be different energies. Some people worship or find deity in the simplest of things - perhaps what they are recognising is its innate energy.

I don't know - this is a very undeveloped theory at the moment, and someone somewhere else has probably refined it wonderfully. But it makes sense to me.