You ain't nothin' but a....

Monday 2nd July. Summer! English summer.... yep! Rain... rain... rain. But no worries! Boss (Heather) had a BBQ planned and, of course, that included cover. Monday was 'team day' but after work we all trooped out of the office to her pad, just a few miles away in nearby Harlow. I took Nickie (as we'd driven in together) and as we drove down the rain-sodden A414 a miracle happened... the sun came out! That was one of its many, but short appearances that night. "She's been on the phone to God," I said.

I stopped for petrol so we eventually arrived about 5.45 and most of the 'crew' were there - about 25 staff and associates. The BBQ was fired up by two smart young men in trendy black and multi-colour chefs 'whites' (er... don't think I can call them whites can I?) and the smell of barbecueing sea bass, mackeral, chicken, sausage, steak and lamb permeated the damp air.

There was a selection of salads, jacket potatoes and new potatoes and jugs and jugs of Pimms (tastes like cough medicine to me, I went for the 'exotic fruit juice). The crowd was relaxed in gentle chatter - gathered round tables, sat in wicker chairs, protected from the vagaries of the indecisive weather by the gazebo (which is not, I am now pleased to reveal, a cross between a gazelle, zebra and a bonobo, but some kind of tent covering. I must admit -I was worried about this before arriving, it would have had to have been a huge animal for us to shelter beneath its warm furry belly). Shani didn't arrive until nearly 7 - it took her hours to come up from one of our clients in South London and the traffic definitely didn't want to play.

The chat was informal, comfortable, good to catch up with colleagues and people we'd not seen in a while and also to natter with colleagues you'd maybe spent the day with, but not had a chance to gossip with. So - what's the gossip? Daine asked. "Well," I said. "You know about the office affair, not much has happened since then." His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Office affair?"
"Oh, you didn't know! I thought everyone did!" I looked embarassed, and Suzanne and Jackie looked at me as if to say 'now you've blown it!'. Well, there is no office affair, but unless Daine reads this, I bet he's still wondering. With everyone playing along, he spent the next hour tyring to guess who with who... I do like a little wind up, I do I do.

The weather was on and off bright then mildly rainy, chilly then warm, but none of this fazed Rocky. Rocky is a large grey Weimariner (gawd how'd you spell that?!) and had been kept upstairs for most of the proceedings. Still, there were leftovers to be had, and all those people to meet and lick and sniff and run round and grin at doggily and ... and... (I'm sure his long tongue took a swipe at that cheesecake.)

Suzanne had been away on holiday the previous week and at one point I was told 'Ask Suzanne about the bat.' The bat? Tell us the story, Suzanne! Do tell... She had been to Longleat (ah! my family home!... but that's another story) and on entering the bat enclosure was more than surprised to find them flying free around her. "Don't scream." said the keeper. Suzanne put her hands over her mouth and started to run through to get out the other side. "They won't come near you, they are fruit bats!" the keeper said. "Yes," replied a muffled Suzanne, "and I've got strawberry lip gloss on."

The food was delicious and the weather didn't really fail until nearly 9pm. Then - those of us left (the stalworts! the stayers!) crept into the warmth of the house. It was now reasonably late and Shani and I kind of figured we'd 'got away' with not pulling the guitars out their cases (though I had volunteered! The previous week I'd said to Heather 'Want us to bring our instruments?' and she'd said yes. But... not Jeremy's trombone please!)

We played in the front room with the die-hards (the BBQ had started at 5pm) and played a specially rehearsed number for our colleagues (it seems to get played on their radio with unfailing regularity). The song was "Nine to Five" - Dolly Parton. Our version was a little, er, haphazard? But the crew sang along loudly and lustily. However, it got off to a rather dodgy start. Rocky - probably never heard live bass and guitar before in his little doggy life, bless him - decided that he could sing! We started three times, and each time Rocky joined in, drowining us out. He howled, barked and generally found his voice (and in time too, which was amazing). Poor fellow was ejected to the upstairs again for a while.

What followed was basically 'human juke box'. We had a 'standards' song book and various material was chosen from it and Shani and I played (at varying levels of ability according to our knowledge of the song) whatever was asked of us. This included American Pie with full actions supplied by Daine (never mind sales, the man is a comic genius), and a 'heavy metal headbanging' from Keeley to ... something or other. I was laughing so much I'm not sure I can remember what we sang or played but I know it included Elvis, Tracy Chapman, Indigo Girls... darn, what happened to good old fashioned folk music?

Whilst they passed the book round and chose a new song for us, Shani and I managed to play a couple of our own songs. Two of hers, two of mine. I played 'dance to love' whilst Rocky (who was now accustomed to our howling and allowed back in to the room) sat and chewed a dried pigs ear, drooling and crunching. Never played to an audience quite like it.... but, though talk was going on, one colleague was obviously listening, and I heard her clear tones joining in on the chorus of my song. I was complimented, pleased. I don't expect people in pubs or at parties to listen to 'original' music - they want 'singalong' stuff. That's fine, it's expected, so to have someone listen and appreciate our music (Shani's songs also got fine rounds of applause) was great.

At the end of the evening (just past ten I'd say) there were only a few of us left, so - tired and still laughing - time to hit the road. We were amongst the last to go (though I gather Neil and Lauren stayed till midnight) and as I left, bass guitar on my back, I very nearly destroyed the hall light with it.

An enjoyable evening. Perhaps if we hadn't started to play they'd have had an evening of stimulating intellectual conversation.... but seeing Daine 'dance', Keeley 'head bang' and hearing everyone join in with the roughest version of Nine to Five ever - well, it was worth it to me. Sod conversation, that's what the internet is for. Er, isn't it?

Beat it, wisie!

Sound familiar? Well, if it does, you have probably seen (or even appeared in) Bugsy Malone - that wonderful stage show that has always intended its cast to be 100% children.

So - tonight I saw Bugsby Malone live, at the local school. I was lucky to get in actually, because I didn't have a ticket. Well, long story, but of the three tickets we did have, none of them ended up for me. However, I did get in and I will get to see it tomorrow. Why? How? What canniving did I perform to achieve this end? The answer is limes.

As chair of the PTA, I knew I'd get in - but there's always a price to pay and I had volunteered to help with interval refreshments. So I turned up in good time, was handed a sharp knife and some lemons and limes. Chop chop! Citrus duly sliced, jugs ready for the juice prepared, I sneaked in to the play.

It's quite a complex show to put on for a middle school (age 9-13 ish), but they did fantastically. A simple but effective set for "Fat Sam's" and clever curtain work for intervening scenes and scene changes. The dancing was great, there was live music, but... best of all... was the leading lady, "Blousy".

13, a willowy blonde, Melody looked the part, sang the part, and played the part. Her leading man, her Bugsy, was an ex-boyfriend (in fact, we all think she's rather fond of Dandy Dan), but the team spirit and sense of fun that the cast obviously had just radiated from the stage.

With Blousy's 'Hard headed Bugsy' solo closing the first act, I sneaked out again to go help with pouring the drinks - Elderflower Pressé with sparkling spring water, and fruit juice. We (good old PTA team plus dedicated staff) opened the spring water bottles and were sprayed! No matter how carefully we opened the bottles, the water came flying out. But not as quickly as the very warm crowd from the school hall - over 200 of them! We poured and handed out drinks to proud parents, glowing grandparents and grudgingly admiring siblings.

But you couldn't beat my smile, not a chance. "Your daughter, she's brilliant..." and other such words were said to me many times. Yep - that wonderful Blousy is my daughter, and the pride and love and admiration I feel for her is almost impossible to express. I knew all her lines (having practiced with her for many weeks, I knew quite a few of Bugsy's too), but I'd never heard her sing the songs before tonight. When we got to a song when rehearsing at home she'd just say 'la la laa... another song' and then continue with the dialogue. She has no problem remembering song words.

She is 13 - learning about life, growing and changing almost every day. And the best thing of all is she found it fun. She enjoyed herself - despite start up nerves. She enjoyed it. Well, daughter of two musicians, granddaughter of an actor, great granddaughter of an actress - it's sort of in the blood I guess. But at 13 - I was just amazed at her confidence and ability.

I'm going again tomorrow night (more limes to cut). The emotions will run equally as high I know - I'm really looking forward to it.

The language of birds

I heard on the radio a while back that a lark composes a symphony every day. In discussion with Bryan we decided this was no great feat - for if you take the song of the lark as language rather than music - then it's no wonder they don't repeat themselves. After all, we don't say the same thing every day either. Could that mean - to ears that may hear music in words - our words are our symphonies? I suppose the difference is that the lark's song is a monologue, whereas human speech (in most cases) is dialogue.

Continuing the anthropomorphism theme though - whilst in my garden the other day I looked up to the roof of our house where I saw three birds perched on the TV aerial. One was a small goldfinch, the others were collared doves.

The goldfinch was chattering away as if berating the doves - his lyrical chatter seemed directed to his two aerial companions. But then the dove nearest me decided he'd had enough. One wing outstretched towards the goldfinch, his head turned backwards. The goldfinch flew off, still chattering.

I could just imagine the dove's words because he said it with his body language... "Talk to the wing, buddy."

The new village hall

Last night I played with the Brookfield Band - I sometimes play bass for them. Always hard work for me as they are 'dots' people, and I don't do dots. Dots means they play from the music, those black tadpoles that swim on the lines and if I study really hard, just about make some sense, but to read like words? No way, not my talent.

Thankfully, however, the chord names are under the bass cleff so I can read that and play along. I'm not the speediest reader (mostly I play by ear) but if I say the chord names out loud (quietly of course!) then I can usually bluff my way through most of the stuff. Playing with a band led by accordion is more challenging for me than melodeon. Melodeons just play in a couple of keys, accordions are free to play wherever and whatever, and thanks to Roger's interesting arrangements, quite often they do. Roger is the lead in Brookfield and the band is made up of him on accordion, a whistle player, a fiddle and bass. No fixed members, he finds who's free, who's nearest, and books whatever combination works. Oh yes, and a caller.

Last night the caller was a chap called Keith. I recognised him. I'd played with him as caller before - about ten years ago when I played with Goose & Gridiron (another dance band that I was actually a formal member of for some time). He sort of remembered me. Mind you, when Roger and Peter (recorders) turned up, Peter didn't recognise me! Well, sunglasses and a new hair colour, I guess I could forgive him.

We set up and Keith ambled up to me. He had photos in his hand. "Look." he said, and showed me a picture of me playing with Goose and Gridiron (and, unusually including Bryan) that was at least ten years old. He keeps pictures of every band he's played with!

The dance was for a village hall association - and a mighty fine village hall it was. So brand spanking new that the road up to the hall wasn't even finished and you had to drive over rough earth to start. Good thing it was a dry day. The hall was situated between two villages really close to eachother in rural Bedfordshire. About 35 miles from where I lived it wasn't a bad drive (though going through Luton and Dunstable was slow because of all the speed cameras). The hall was on a hill on the rec and in the distance I could see the Dunstable Downs. A sunny summer's day, birds singing, new grass all round, the clop of a horse as it was ridden down the main street below, the hum of distant, distant traffic. A peaceful environment.

It was a nice gig, lots of dancers, Keith doing his usual "Shhh.... shhh... listen..." every five minutes as he explained the dance, and a really nice friendly atmosphere. Fish and chips for tea, and a reasonable finish at just 11pm. That meant I was packed up and home by midnight.

People don't realise that as a musician the hard work is never the playing, its the rehearsals (OK, I never rehearse with this band, but in princple...), the travel, set up and take down of gear that are the real hard work. Playing is fun, easy (mostly, except for that darn tune with the Bb and the C# which took me by surprise), and as I was paid at the end of the night, it was a good one.

Another gig....

"Bryan, want to play a pub in Huntingdon?" Not really...

"Carrie, want to play a pub in Huntingdon?" Well, if you want me to... (and as Bryan won't). Yup, second choice I may be, but I do usually say 'yes'.

And I said yes as Penni had the gig, and a pub gig is hard work at the best of times and not much fun if you are solo unless you are a human juke box or have a whole array of technology that takes the thinking out of it. However, none of us are that kind of musician. We are, basically, acoustic and folk musicians, not pub singers. However, money was involved. Penni says yes, then grabs who she can to accompany her.

"aaaarggh... (cough, splutter)" on morning of gig ... "I've lost my voice...(croak) and ..."

Well no way I can do a pub gig on my own! So I said perhaps Shani could join us - between the three of us we could manage surely?

Shani arrives. "Guess what." I say. "You've got a gig tonight." No asking, just telling. I'm diplomatic like that.

So, that night, we all troop up to Huntingdon (in separate vehicles) and rendevouz at The George. A magnificent old hotel - lovely courtyard, old wooden staircase (outside) and gallery. Half-timbered, Tudor, oozing history. I enter to find Penni set up more or less in the doorway. You walk in, there's the main stairs to the upper ballroom on your right, the bar on your left, and on the right in the shadow of the stairs - sort of floating - Penni is setting up the PA. Here? Yes, here. Weird.

We set up - I have my stand up bass. Penni is a lot better than when I spoke to her earlier. She is croaky, but can sing. We do a few numbers. Whilst playing one my mobile goes off. I keep singing, keep playing and answer. I can see it's Shani and she can hear I'm playing so I ring off. At the next break between songs, I call her back - not far away now.

In the bar, watching us... well, ok, in the bar drinking and sometimes looking vaguely in our direction... are about six people. Shani arrives and sets up while we play. There's not a lot of space on our 'stage' - to my left is the entrance, to the right is the bottom of the stairs. It's a squeeze.

Shani gets all plugged in and we do a couple of songs she knows. She's never played with Penni, never even seen me play my stand up actually. It's odd. Complete mix of styles. Penni and I play folksy stuff, Shani and I play acoustic folk and rocky things, Shani, Penni and I play - er, well, mix it all up and add in electric guitar and you get an interesting and perfectly listenable sound.

We take a break. Nickie has eaten at the hotel. Now she feels ill. One young Taiwanese man is very enthusiastic about our music. "Play Neil Young? Heart of Gold?" Um, no, sorry.

That was pretty much how it was for the evening, a mixture. Sometimes Shani and I played, sometimes Penni and I, sometimes all three. We got through. The transient audience (most people were only there for an hour before moving on) were polite. There was a wedding upstairs - thump thump thump of the disco through the floor. "Can you turn it down?" The landlord asked US to turn down... noisy blinkin' folkies....

The end of the evening - not a very rewarding one (by the time we split the fee three ways I guess it covered petrol and a drink each at hotel prices), but fun none the less.

"Need you to sign the contract. What's the band called?" Oh, er... I made up on the spot 'The Silbury Wanderers'. No - I've no idea why.

Wend our separate ways home. Penni flagging - adrenalin not doing the job any more. A full, rich deep orange moon hangs low above the horizon. Amazing.

Penni phones me next day to say thanks. "We should have been called the 'Strays'" she says. And when she explains why I hoot with laughter. But I'm not saying why here. That's for me to know, and... well, it's for me to know.

My brother Phil

Tomorrow, 6th June, will be my brother's birthday. And I haven't seen him in over 16 years.

I wonder what he looks like now? Thinner? Heavier (like me)? I don't know - and I feel sad that I can't talk to him or ask him what he's doing, or tell him about his nephew and neice and what's happening to those who are his family.

We are not a large family - just our mother, my husband and our children, one cousin and his daughter. That's all there are of us, blood wise, left.

My brother was a chef in London, then he moved to the West Country and - after that we lost touch. We went down there once, Bryan and I, to where we last heard he was living, but didn't find him.

Well, it's his choice. Family are not chosen, are they? Though in early years my brother and I fought like... well, like brother and sister I suppose - in later years we were friends. My husband and brother are very similar ages, and had the same taste in music (stuff like Pink Floyd and Led Zepplin... not my taste at all). I remember coming home one night to find my brother and husband lying either side of the toilet - sharing as brothers (in law) do - the results of what they both declared was a 'dodgy pint'.

I remember my father and brother arguing at the dinner table one day (so I must have been younger than 14) and father saying 'That bloody pop music...' and Phil was playing Fairport Convention. "That bloody pop music was written before your classical music!" - ah, the joys of father/son musical differences. Well, I didn't know much about it then, but now I not only know who Fairport are, but have met them, am on chatting terms with most of them and have played on the same stages.

It's funny how things turn out. When I look back at how naieve I was then - in fact even in later years - I realise how much my brother and I do have in common as people, not just as siblings. But you can't turn back the clock, eh?

So, no point fretting I guess - but at this time of year I do think of him, wonder how he's doing. In the meantime, I know he can find me any time he wants. But finding him? That's a challenge - and one I have failed at to date. But it doesn't stop me thinking of him.

Learning to talk to myself?

I went to London last week (the day before going to Lloyds) to a day's training - and an interesting day it turned out to be. The first half of the day was about learning how to talk out loud to yourself, and appearing madder than I already am. Well, OK, that's perhaps not exactly what we learned, but that's part of it.

Image streaming! It was, I have to say, very interesting and - for someone as visual and (I think) creative as me - very useful.

Image streaming is a bit like visualisation (using images to stimulate creativity) but the difference is you have to say out loud what you see. There's quite a few rules, well - concepts really - to make it successful, and you have to be prepared to talk out loud (so privacy is always good). But the results are scientifically supposed to increase IQ, so can't be a bad thing. There were some interesting points raised by various people in the group, and it also struck a chord with me on the music reading thing. When I play with the Brookfield Band they always give me music (which I can't read) with the chords under the staves (which I can read!). I discovered that I can play quicker if I say the chord names out loud than if I just read them. So - the thing about the brain processing more quickly or efficiently because I verbalise is certainly true for me.

I partnered up with a young woman from a college in Portsmouth, she's starting her own life coaching business. We got on well and at lunch time I took her down Portobello Road as she'd never been there. Unfortunately, not a market day, but it was sunny and we enjoyed the walk in the quiet suburban streets of London. We did the 'image streaming' together and it was intersting. She started in her garden, went for a drive, ended up in the countryside and then by a lake. My images started in the desert, included her walk in the countryside and had some quite strange juxtapositions of desert and woodland.

One of the rules is don't try to interpret as you go along, let it come to you at a future date, or you will end up 'directing' the images. So, no analysis forthcoming I'm afraid!

I have tried it twice so far (apart from the 'experiment' in the training itself) and I have had a few ideas sort themselves out, so it could be working. But I need the space and time - and privacy - to try it properly and not feel a right dork mumbling about what I see in my head. And to be honest, what I see in my head sometimes is quite bizarre (yeah, even more bizarre than some of the gigs I've played!).

The technique was developed by Win Wenger - so I'll check out his website and see what else I can learn. And practice a bit more too - when no one's listening!

But image streaming wasn't the only thing we did - we also had a session on 'emotional intelligence'. Now, I knew a bit about it as it features in some of the leadership stuff my boss does, but this was more in depth, but still only scratching the surface.

Interesting stuff again - but not nearly as much fun as the image streaming. The day ended with a discussion or more of a presentation on the change in western culture (mostly US) and the cyclical swing from 'civic' to 'individual' in 40 year chunks. Actually, it was just an excuse for the presenter to play his favourite songs from the last few decades, but some interesting research in there too.

A useful day for me, I certainly felt the image streaming will be something I can use, and enjoy just for the sake of it too.

I'd rather be dancing...

That's the title of one of my songs. And I wrote it because of my neighbour, Debbie, who is a dancer. We've been friends for about 8 years now, and our daughters are only a year apart in age. The other day when she came round, she told me about their annual Lindy Hop dance and how she was doing a barbecue. Well, however the conversation went, I ended up volunteering to cook for the afternoon workshops. So, barbecue for 30.... why not!? Well, Debbie is a hairdresser and she was wielding a sharp instrument in my direction - it seemed a good idea to 'volunteer'.

The Saturday of the dance arrived and I arrived at the school hall at 3.30pm whilst they were doing dance workshops. When it comes to dancing, I can just about cope with a barn dance, but what they were doing was something else. They hopped, jumped, slid, almost threw each other around. I fired up the gas barbecue and was introduced to the meat - some skinny burgers, things on sticks, frankfurters (frankfurters for a barbecue?!), ribs, sausages, more things on sticks... The gas barbecue heated up quickly so I got my sausages cooked well and truly. One set of tongs for fresh meat, one set for cooked, a tea towel over my shoulder, baseball cap to keep my hair out the way and an apron. And a thick, thick cardigan - it was a bank holiday weekend and consequently bloody freezing! (Yeah, even in May.)

Sausages on, I was distracted by a noise from the trees behind me. I strolled over the grass and saw, to my delight, baby blue tits hopping about the branches. Back to the barbecue - wanted sausages, not charcoal. Steve, one of the dancers and a regular at the club that Debbie and her partner run, came over to chat to me. He and his wife Sue had arranged the food. Lots of salad, and (after a brief inspection by Debbie) not quite enough meat. Meanwhile, hall doors open, I could see the dancers learning some kind of 'jumping' dance move and it looked most odd (to my inexpert eyes, of course).

The things on sticks looked, especially once cooked, very much like a dog turd. "Dog turds on a stick!" I shouted out when the barbecue was ready. Plates of sausages and other meats (Debbie had rushed out and bought more) were being cooked and taken into the hall, but my stick-turds took a little longer to cook and I didn't want them left out. The problem with things on wooden sticks, on a barbecue, is the wood burns and the sticks fall off. "Watch out for the ones with a surprise in the middle!" - the non-burnt sticks in the middle of the "turds". Well, poor marketing you may have thought, but I was getting requests for "another dog turd please..." so my cooking can't have been too bad.

I was thoroughly smoked myself, warm now though - and enjoying feeding the hordes. The burgers were useless - thin floppy things that tried to escape through the bars of the barbecue and suffered a fate worse than eating, but mostly I managed to cook and serve reasonably edible fare.

After two hours, it was time for me to disappear whilst they prepared the hall for the evening dance. I would return, but not - indeed - to dance.

9pm and I went back to the dance - the hall now dark and decked, the band (five piece swing band, loud, lively, lovely) in full pelt. The floor was alive with dancers - and the most incredible dancing it is too. Lindy Hop is like jive and rock and roll and all sorts (oh I could get in trouble with the purists here I know) but such fun to watch. Hayley, Debbie's 14 year old daughter, was dancing with Paul (Debbie's husband). They moved fantastically - Hayley was easily as good as any of the adult dancers there and as she danced her face was alight: a bright smile that was genuine (not like those plastered on ones you see on ballroom dancers - you can hear the instructor loudly calling 'smile'! behind every one of those).

"Do you dance?" I was asked. "I can't dance." I answered - but the truth is, I don't know. I just never learned I suppose. I was tempted to learn, watching them, but I have a feeling the 'flinging about' might just do my dodgy shoulder no good at all.

The band were great, double bass, drums, sax, guitar and vocals and keyboards - all wearing white shirts and colourful ties. But at their break (and this was the reason I had returned to the dance, after all), there was another band doing a guest spot: the Jivettes.

Hayley and four of her school friends went on stage, Hayley clutching her double bass (Buster, bigger than she is!) and her friends on keys, trumpet, sax and drums. They played two songs and once again Hayley shone: she sang and played the double bass and - of course! - the crowd loved it. I loved it.

I chatted to her father, Graham, afterwards, he was very proud too (as was his wife, Stella). This wasn't his world - the dancing, the music, but he was (in a demure way I have to confess) exceedingly proud of his daughter, and rightly so. "Must go," he said, "say goodbye to Terry" (Hayley's brother and a bit of a rascal, to be honest). I was off too, having enjoyed watching the dancers and of course Hayley's performance. I heard later that he didn't even say goodbye to Hayley, which must have hurt her feelings.

So - a sneak look at another world - that of Lindy Hop. Dancers of all ages, all races, all abilities, and all - without exception - having fun.

Fish out of water

Anyone who knows me knows I have no tastes in clothes or dress sense. I rely on the advice of friends, colleagues and my 13-year-old daughter (a look from her is amply sufficient to deter me from making a bad choice). But no one intervened in time to save me from this faux pas!

Knowing I was going into London I wore a smart, dark brown suede skirt and (as a brown jacket that I though matched nicely had previously been pointed out to me as 'too severe') a tan suede jacket. A bit hot for a warm May train ride into London, but with a pale pink sleeveless top I didn't think it looked too bad.


I wish I'd looked in the mirror though (not something I do often, have to admit, apart from to apply a little slap and brighten up the old mush). When I arrived at my destination, however, I realised that I stood out like a... well, like a country bumpkin! Because my destination was Lloyds of London - that hallowed City establishment. OK, I was smart enough, but I was very 'brown' - and everyone round me was suited, booted, ready to ... well, whatever it is they do in Lloyds. I sat down in the reception area (having been given a pass, had a urine test, retina eye scan.. well, OK, maybe not quite that rigorous) and some chap in a dark blue pin stripe on the other (deep leather) sofa was saying into hims mobile "yes, after £50 million, sure - he can have that for free... but after £60 million ..." I tuned out. Another world - not my world.

My lady came down to meet me - she looked very smart in a black dress (fantastic actually, given that she's 5 months pregnant) and we went to lunch at a local French restaurant for our meeting. As we exited the Lloyds building I asked her about the architect. Built in the 80's, it looked to me like a huge pile of tin cans - just on the verge of going rusty (not brown, but covered in that grime that layers any flat surface in a city). "What's it like to work in?" I asked - and she wasn't that impressed. She is not on the 'trading floor' but in the offices - where the main area is open plan and the managers' offices are all round the edge, so no one in the middle gets any natural daylight. They are refurbishing to make it all open plan.

We had a good meeting over lunch. She is about 34, smart, pretty and obviously a smart cookie. Looks good in black. Then there's me - more than ten years her senior, hair with stay greys fighting the remnant colour, dressed in something that would perhaps not have seemed out of place on an Indian reservation. But nonetheless, we got on well, established an easy rapport and the business end of our meeting was simple and both of us were happy with the outcome.

I went back with her to the Lloyds building to inspect the room we are going to use for a meeting in September: in the basement of this huge steel monstrosity is the perfectly 'preserved' Old Library from the original Lloyds building. Dismantled piece by piece, reconstructed and now used as a meeting room. Dark oak panelled walls, bookshelves, a gallery, a ship carved into one panel, paintings, hi-tech presentation equipment... the whole room an anachronism. Which, actually, I quite liked.

We parted and (after purchasing a postcard of the building) I headed back for the office, to Liverpool Street to catch a main line train. As I sat on the train I got out my notebook and did some work - catching up on various bits and pieces that needed doing. "The next station will be Rye House..." the recorded voice said. I looked up. We had just left Rye House... "The next station will be Cheshunt..." the voice said again, once we'd left Cheshunt. "This train is for London Liverpool Street..." Eh? Back the way we'd come? No... we were still going in the right direction, but obviously something was up with the recorded announcements.

I did return safely to Ware, though I wonder if anyone missed their station due to the announcements. It was warm - hot even. I walked back through the town, over the bridge by the river where swans and Canada geese haggled over bread thrown by small children. Through the town centre where shoppers and workers scurried, crowding the small pavements. Too warm for wearing, I carried my suede jacket over my shoulder back to the office. Darn, I should have worn a business suit, I really should have.

Inside story – a visit to prison

Well, today I went on a client site visit to interview the training manager so I could write a case study. I imagined I would be going in to his office, having a brief chat so I could write up how effective our company’s training was for the staff at the prison. Well, it wasn’t quite like that - not like that at all in fact.

The prison is a Category B Young Offenders Institute and though it caters for male prisoners aged 18 and above, it has lifers and local prisoners of all ages. I looked it up on the web and saw that the prison was essentially a Victorian one, built originally as the county jail.

I went with a colleague, Bev, and we arrived in the security reception. We had to have passports, were not allowed to take in mobile phones or perfume or anything that could be considered ‘dangerous’ (or drugs, or guns or any of that kind of thing I guess). I simply took my passport, car keys and a notebook and pen.

We were allowed through security in a brand new reception (there was much building work still going on) and were greeted by Ian, who asked if we would like a tour of the prison. I know Bev had been before, but I said yes. I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like this. We walked into the main courtyard area and I noticed two sparrows playing in the gutter – enjoying the water left by the relentless rain we had enjoyed but was now, thankfully, in abeyance. The buildings were exactly as you would imagine – dark brick edifices, small grilled windows, imposing, dark, but not quite Satanic (that was Mills wasn’t it? – not prisons…)

After walking past where the sniffer dogs inspect visitors, the first stop was their brand new visitors centre. That is, where people come to visit their relatives, not a ‘come see our lovely prison’ centre. It was light, airy, bright and empty. There were rows and rows of seating clusters – four chairs around a single round table, all linked together in one single piece of furniture (a bit like those unmoveable tables and chairs in some of the nastier fast food restaurants). The tables were low, the seats widely spaced (but contact between those around them was easily possible) and one in every four chairs was red. “Guess which one the prisoner sits in.” Ian said. Hanging down from the ceiling were cameras, providing 360o vision, and there were two raised platforms for the overseeing officers. Up above, Ian said, were two video courtrooms. Much easier to video link rather than convene a court and transport prisoners for what might be a five minute remand hearing. There was a well equipped children’s play area funded by ‘the blue rinse brigade’ from the local diocese.

Then he took us up some stairs through two sets of doors. Every entrance was double doors – each with their own separate key. This was an administration area and Ian was showing us their mini ‘black museum’ – a display cabinet full of items confiscated from prisoners. There were many mobile phones, ropes made from bedding, packets of drugs (some hidden in tennis balls or in birthday cards), knives and other highly creative and wicked weapons created from razor blades (which they are entitled to as a basic 'human right') and an extremely complex and – I had to admire it – well-crafted ‘fishing line’. It was a spool wheel with a long string and a comb like metal affair on the end. Its purpose was to be thrown over the wall so that contraband could be attached and reeled back in. The phones though – Ian said a mobile phone was worth about £800 or £900 inside, so people were always trying to smuggle them in. Mostly, as it happens, internally. “The most we found in one guy was four.” he told us with morbid glee - and they had all been secreted in the same orifice!

He took us through to the central courtyard where the old Victorian ‘hub’ of the prison lay. Extending out from an almost octagonal building were the four original wings – so from the air the place looked a little like a wheel (I know this, as he showed us a aerial photo). We went in and he pointed to Wing A (where the isolated prisoners were), B, C and D. Each wing had a different ‘clientele’ – for example one was for the ‘unemployed’ though most of the inmates do actually work. He took us into Wing C. Through the doors, into the corridor with the prisoners. This was the old prison wing, with low brick doors (Victorian prisoners where shorter, obviously) and a metal grill between floors to ‘catch’ attempted suicides. Some prisoners were cleaning the floor, and chatting and swearing just like youths anywhere as we walked down the hall towards the stairs (he wanted to show us how the ceilings were now converted so that entry could be gained from outside, in case of riots). There were officers (we were not allowed to refer to them as ‘guards’) in an ‘office’ at the entrance end and one (female) officer at the other end of the wing. Not an overly heavy ‘presence’.

One prisoner addressed us: “Do you mind if I ask why you lovely ladies are here?” We replied “Just visiting.”
“So am I.” he said, and smiled broadly. “And he’s a lovely bloke,” he added, pointing to Ian. He wouldn’t know who Ian was – not a clue, but obviously he had a sense of humour. Ian told us they had enjoyed the company of a few famous guests in times gone by, but one prisoner who had been with them 44 years was originally a 'friend of the Krays' and couldn't survive on the outside. As soon as he was let out, he would offend and end up back in the prison, where he would be told what to do, and when. Something about the 'institutionalisation' of individuals - and a little of the architecture - reminded me ironically of an old University.

There was no communal eating area (not like in the films, he said more than once), prisoners were taken their meals from the central kitchen block. They had one hot meal a day (evening) and all cultural and religious preferences were catered for. “We spend more per day per prisoner on food than they do in primary schools.”

Ian showed us the new buildings that had been erected to extend the prison – it now held nearly 700 prisoners – and in these wings we saw an updated mirror of the original, and obviously successful, Victorian design: corridors, rows of cells, the stairs and gallery (upper levels) but no grill. “They aren’t needed now,” he said, explaining that the way things are run now, there is so much less chance of anyone trying to kill themselves by throwing themselves over the gallery (which really wasn’t that high). But prisoners do kill themselves – they’d had two in recent months, both hangings. One lad had only been in prison 8 hours, the other was not on suicide watch nor considered a risk. It depends on the determination of the individual: those determined to do so, will find a way. The thing that struck me was how bright it all was, not dark and dingy (like in films…). They also had cells for the disabled – with wider doors and special showers.

He constantly referred to ‘my prison’ or ‘our prison’ and was obviously very proud of the institution. It has very good records according to the ‘targets’ set by Government and with an average stay of only 3 months, the focus really did seem to be on rehabilitation rather than punishment. He showed us blocks where prisoners were trained in bricklaying, fork lift truck driving or electronics, we went into the education centre and saw classrooms with prisoners learning various things – including cookery (which meant knives, yes, highly trusted, select prisoners, with kitchen knives). We also saw the blocks that were the health centre, the gymnasium (currently undergoing refurbishment) and we passed the astro-turf football pitch where inmates were being coached by a Football Association coach. It sounds rather ‘easy’ – doesn’t it? But every night these men (some really only boys) are locked away. They are restricted in what they can do, who they can talk to, and what they eat, they don't see their loved ones as often as they may wish, and some of them die. Every week there are fights, posturing and rivalries between individuals and the various ‘gangs’ in the prison. “We have the Russian Mafia, the Tongs, the Italians and gangs that have been established in the prison.” And they have to be kept apart.

I thought back to those vicious looking implements in the display cabinet – toothbrushes melted to secure razor blade tips, knives made from everything from bits of wire to the sharpened metal splint from a medical wrist support. No, it wasn’t easy here, and these men around us who seemed so relaxed and casual were probably just ‘posturing’ for the visitors.

To see the newest wing we could have taken a short cut across the exercise yard, but it was prudent not to as the yard had about eight or ten prisoners out. “We wanted to make this a basketball court,” Ian said, pointing to the tarmac covered area where the prisoners lounged “but Health and Safety said we couldn’t. If a prisoner fell and hurt their knees, they could sue us.” So in the interests of prisoner safety – or protecting prisons from litigation – the inmates were denied the opportunity to play basketball. So what, they are criminals! Well, yes, but they are people. And some may be just on remand, and some may be innocent, and some may just do less harm if they could work off some energy by doing something as simple as basketball. Who knows, I wasn’t there for the psychology, but it certainly made me thoughtful. On the way back past the yard, one of the prisoners waved. I smiled and waved back - high fence and razor wire between us.

We went past a low brick hut, with stairs that led down to what could have been a basement. “That’s where I’m working until the new admin block is complete,” Ian said. “it’s the old hanging shed.” And under the flooring, the trap door is still there he told us. The last hanging was just after the war. “You can’t undo capital punishment.” I commented, and Ian seemed to agree. I’m sort of glad we didn’t meet in his office.

The whole complex was very compartmentalised – we went through many gates even when outside and the main perimeter was a high steel fence topped with razor wire. Beyond the wire was a road width empty space (suitable for emergency vehicles) and then a high, high wall. The prison had originally been built three quarters of a mile outside the town – but the town had grown to meet the prison walls and gardens now backed on to the high walls on one side at least. “You’d think we just dropped the prison in to the middle of the town, the way some neighbours react.” He said. “We were here first.”

As we walked back to the exit, I took the opportunity to ask the questions I was supposed to – about the training and how it was working out. In just a few minutes more I picked up what I needed to know for those purposes, but for my own experience as a writer, and indeed a more knowledgeable perspective for my case study, the trip round the prison itself - including that small interaction with the prisoners - had been invaluable.

Traditional American Folk ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

A poem - "Boys Pockets"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Trip to Ireland (whole thing!)

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

Who the hell is Kerry?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oonagh’s Walk

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

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

Brandy in the glen

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

The ‘Magners’ Opus

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

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

Young bucks

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

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

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

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

Slim Pickings

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

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

Mussel Beach

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

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

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

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

Hilltown’s High-spot

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe I can fly...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welsh Music

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another good night.

I'm gigging again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A day recording for my audio book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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