Chapter 146

A month without post. No apologies, just a myriad of feeling and thought.

I left Walthamstow today for the very last time of living there. Walking down Church Hill towards Asda and the station, the wind was blowing gustily. A wind of change, a cliche, but yes a wind of change.

My purpose in Walthamstow was to go and tidy my old house further, but in the end, Gavin had done most of the work the previous evening and into the morning. The house looked dull and empty and lifeless and souless - set in its own rigor mortis, not betraying any of the fun and joy, or anger and frustration, or love and passion that its volume has hosted and leant soul to. When we first saw the house in 2002, it lulled us in; the walls promised cubic metres of liveliness, a house full of people and friendship. And that is what it has been. Although we all leave frayed around the edges, and with better nature distorted in places, the core of the time remains, and there are no regrets in moving - it was right to do and will manifest itself in new life and chapters in new places. The house? 146? The famous 146 parties? The meals? The people? That has died. Our house has died. It will regenerate itself for someone else just as it has done many times before - someone else will enjoy that feeling of promise, but that is what houses do.

Sitting here in my new flat in NW London, I am crammed in with my belongings strewn messily about like a messier person than me would strew. There is promise here too, but in a different way. This is an adult flat with big bay windows, a proper dining table, high ceilings and the feeling of being grown up. From my bed here now, I hear the trees outside in the garden talking to one another - blowing around the change and showing the beginnings of new life. Once I get a key to the garden, I will have to go and explore. Oh yes! A game! An adventure! I still have childish needs, and they link with the need to find laughter and happy people with surprises and mental acrobatics.

So bring on the wine, the port, the candles, the laughter, and the Miles Davis, and enter Chapter 147........

Dear Sir, Imagine my surprise

First Scotrail Customer Relations
PO Box 7030
Fort William
PH33 6WX

19th June 2006


Dear Sir/Madam,

Caledonian Sleeper Bargain Berths – Friday 25th August – London to Fort William.

It is not without a certain amount of disappointment and annoyance that I find myself writing this letter to you. First Scotrail has, due to misinformation, disorganization and bad customer practice, put the holiday plans of my friends and I into chaos.

Earlier this year, it was decided that we would take a holiday in Skye during August, and we therefore booked a cottage. I persuaded my friends that it would be a fabulous idea to take the Caledonian sleeper based on my very enjoyable previous experience. It was decided that this would be a good transport decision.

Since the booking of the holiday cottage in March, I have phoned regularly to discover when tickets for Friday 25th August will be available for booking – anxious not to miss the availability. During these conversations, I discovered that Bargain Berths would be controlled separately and that it was possible that the availability would not be released at the same time as APEX and standard tickets.

Again, anxious not to miss the opening of availability, I checked the website every day to see when tickets would be released. On the day that normal tickets were released up to 25th August (about 2 weeks ago), I phoned up your telesales team. They said that the cheapest tickets available were APEX singles at £70. It appeared that I could not book return tickets until the following week when the availability was to be extended – I would run the risk of not being able to get an outgoing ticket by waiting. Naturally I asked the agent about the Bargain Berths. He said that as he only dealt with normal tickets, I would need to contact Bargain Berths directly and he gave me a number. Directly, I phoned this number, asked the following questions, and received the following answers:

Q – Can you tell me when the Bargain Berths will be available for Friday 25th August between London and Fort William?
A – No. It depends on when they are released by the company – but probably in the next three to four weeks when the next quarter is released.

Q – Can you tell me whether there will be Bargain Berths on the Caledonian Sleeper on Friday 25th August?
A – Yes there will be – there is a quota of Bargain Berths on all services

Q – Are you able to tell me whether there is a specific quota or whether bargain berths are just using up tickets that haven’t been sold another way? I don’t want to wait for Bargain Berths to be released to discover that they don’t exist and the other tickets have sold out.
A – No there will certainly be bargain berths and there is a quota put aside.

Following this conversation, I decided not to risk waiting for the return journey to be released, and booked a return flight for myself and my friends from Inverness. However, still very keen to use the Caledonian Sleeper, and in good faith to your employees, I have continued to wait for the Bargain Berths to be released. Even the richest person would see an opportunity for an economy extending from the difference in ticket prices; it would not be good enough to say that I should have booked the £70 tickets at the time considering the information that I was given.

Today when checking your website, I noticed that Bargain Berths had not yet been released, and so decided to phone once more to check my previous information. It took me half an hour and 6 different phone numbers to finally get through to someone who seemed to know something about the Bargain Berths (including 15 minutes trying to track down someone called Maria on a ‘direct’ number which went through to the automated service). It seems the information I had acted upon in good faith was wrong. First Scotrail will not confirm in advance whether or not there will be any Bargain Berths on the service concerned as that puts me at an ‘advantage’.

I feel humiliated for having falsely led three other people into thinking that the Caledonian Sleeper is a very good service, and that we would be able to get Bargain Berths (on a first come and first served basis). Naturally, I’m also upset and annoyed as well as finding myself at a loss on what to do next. Apparently there will be an extension to the Bargain Berth availability in the next few days: of course it is possible that there will be some available, but given lack of information due to company rules, and my now mistrust of your agents, I cannot see my holiday working this way. My other option is to book four £129 tickets normally (the APEX fares having sold out). Firstly I cannot afford £129, and secondly I feel, given that I have been misled by First Scotrail, that I have been placed at a severe disadvantage and incurred a penalty of increasing ticket prices. Should I wait to see whether there will be Bargain Berths, it is certain that the £129 tickets will be sold out. My particular reasoning for phoning to check the availability of Bargain Berths on a Bank Holiday weekend was because I thought it would be a time when the company may not offer them.

I feel that the very least First Scotrail can do is to offer me £129 tickets at the APEX fare since it was your misinformation that persuaded me to wait for Bargain Berths in the first place and now they may not even exist.

I look forward to hearing from you, regarding this dismal situation and bad organization. One of your agents is posting me a copy of your customer charter.


Yours faithfully,




Jonathan Lee



cc. First Scotrail Chief Executive
BBC Watchdog
The Office of Rail Regulation.
Scotrail Customer Services by e-mail

Random thoughts for early summer

Goodness - what a marathon week or so! I find myself at home and able to relax with myself for the first time in ages. Whilst busy, I've observed the following amusingly ludicrous things, and also observed my hatred for certain ridulous others:

1. Random meetings
I have revisited old thoughts on bumping into people randomly. A couple of weeks ago I was walking along Oxford St and I bumped into two people from Hertfordshire who I had accompanied the night before at St. Alban's Abbey. This wouldn't be so unusual except that they had just bumped into one another randomly as well. A total coincidence, although it makes you wonder why! Yesterday when walking to have a drink with Lou, Rob, Kath and Chrissy in Piccadilly, I noticed a shop with interest: I was drawn to it. I found myself thinking 'that is going to be useful soon. I'll remember this'. Odd.

2. Being undercharged
Of course in the scheme of things I'm overcharged more than I'm undercharged for purchases. There is a great childish glee at going to a restaurant and trying to get out of the door without giggling too much when they have forgotten to add the wine on to the bill. In the week before last, I was undercharged twice in as many days for food and a smoothie. Both incidents were at separate places. It just stuck me as odd. Jung would have said something about coincidence in time.

3. Totally wrong
A heavily pregnant lady sitting on the tube reading a Jilly Cooper novel. It made me laugh, but it was still totally wrong. I won't write what I was thinking!

4. Getting older
Twice in the past month or so I have gone right up to someone in a bar and looked inanely at them whilst smiling. I was sure that it was someone I knew, but it has turned out not to be. How embarrassing is that? My eyesight has certainly got worse. The second time it happened, I was meeting my friend Nic at the Yard in Rupert Street. When I arrived, I thought I saw him at the bar chatting to someone else. After my chesire cat routine, and then realising that I was wrong, everyone must have thought I was on an internet date. People kept looking and smiling once I met Nic!

5.Senility and madness
I spotted an old woman reading a book at Oxford Circus Tube. Shocking. She was also having difficulty walking down a staircase with her walking stick, and it was in rush hour. I almost pointed out that things might be easier for everyone if she stopped reading the book... I didn't notice whether it was Jilly Cooper or not: that really would be wrong.

6.Night busses
I have tried to use a night bus twice in the past three weeks. Both times the driver of the N73 has driven right past me and ignored a helpless man in his late twenties out-to-play later than he should be. Both times I have ended up getting a taxi because my need for my bed has overcome my stubborness. You see that is the only positive side of it all; I'm not impressed with London Transport.

7.First Scotrail
Dear Sir,

Imagine my surprise...... First Scotrail has annoyed me once too often and I have written a three-page 'Imagine my surprise' letter to them. It will be posted tomorrow morning. You watch the response. I may even post it here tomorrow......

love

Distraught in Walthamstow....

Study the amazing properties of sine waves

Jehova quam multi sunt hostes mei!
Quam multi insurgunt contra me.
Quam multi dicunt de anima mea,
Non est ulla salus isti in Deo plane.
At tu, Jehova, clypeus es circa me;
Gloria mea, et extollens caput meam.
Voce mea ad Jehovam clamanti
Respondit mihi e monte sanctitatae suae maximae.
Ego cubui et dormivi; ego expergefeci me;
Quia Jehova sustentat me.
Non timebo a myriadibus populi,
Quas circum disposuerint metatores contra me.
Surge, surge Jehova; fac salvum me Deus mi;
Qui percussisti omnes inimicos meos maxilliam

Dentes improborum confregisti.
Jehova est salus: super populum tuum,
Sit benedictio tua maxime.

JL

Patience

On my way to St. Alban's Abbey today, I found myself at Euston station with a ticket in my hand and ten minutes before my train. Sensibly I thought this would be an ideal moment to get some lunch and so I went to Marks & Spencer. Predictably, being a bank holiday, the station was full of people, and so was M&S. During the week when I visit Euston, there are about 10 cashiers on duty; clearly a bank holiday only needs three. In addition, all the people with lower salaries come out of the woodwork on bank holidays meaning that there is a higher proportion of people paying at the tills with coins counted to exact addition. By the time I reached the front of the queue, I was very agitated and dropped my belongings and soon-to-be purchases on the ground. I looked up to see my cashier had the name badge 'Patience'. Needless to say, the irony of this tickled me. My journey was successful, but only after I just (and impatiently) managed to discover my train at an unmarked platform number 17.

Patience has been on my mind lately, and as ever with concepts like that, you notice so much relevant in the world around you once you are thinking about it.

One of my friends has been in hospital for a week after, randomly and for no obvious reason, rupturing the arteries in his head. I also went to see a friend give a recital at the beginning of his professional career as a singer. The two incidents together have made me think of mortality and fragility of MY life as well as who i am and what I do. On the face of it, everything is well: I have a burgeoning career as a music publisher and I manage to run a fairly lucrative freelance career alongside it. For some reason, however, I'm not happy and fulfilled, and haven't been for sometime. Immediate reasons for my uncomfort are the tensions at home, my perpetual singleness, and my sudden loneliness from close friends. Naturally, a snapshot of a life never reveals a true story or the real reasons for things, but real feelings in motion. Of course, those who know me might tell me to have 'patience'. The truth is that I do have considerable patience but that it has now worn very thin on several key points of my life. It has been a decisive weekend of thought certainly, but also I ended up doing something I never thought I'd do and I hate myself for it. .. at the moment!

Why else decisive? I have been asked to accompany my most favourite piece of music in November. It is quite a coincidence since I have listened to it most days recently when distressed. Oddly I have never played it before and have always wanted to but believed it too difficult.

Where does patience come into this rant? Life is all about markers and the energy they give us. To my choir in Cambridge I used to describe musical moments of potential energy as 'zero gravity' moments. It gave a useful image to image weightlessness before the onset of gravity and engaging of potential energy. We live our lives though these markers (or zero gravitys) and they constantly propel us to on to the next one. I suppose you might call them goals, except for the fact you don't necessarily know that they are going to happen. It is the ability to keep happy the potential energy between markers which keeps life fluid.

In discovering markers this has been an important weekend. However at the moment I seem to be stuck in a stasis of zero gravity with lots of potential markers, but none to engage with or grab. Depression and personal loneliness are both conceptual in my world, so I await the rebirth my mental struggling gives way to. It goes to prove that patience is such an important part of life, and had I not been stuck in that queue at Marks and Spencer, I would never have linked all this together.

Busy Jon

Well, Jon has been busy. Emotionally I've had the worst time in about 3 years, musically I've been busy playing, my work has been busy and I've been socialising lots.

You may have noticed a decrease in the frequency of posting; this is down to busyness, and a total lack of mental capacity to be musing.

What is the solution? A day off work, breakfast at my favourite delicatessen, coffee at patisserie Valerie, 1-hour long full-body massage at Selfridges, and then Gordon's Wine bar with some of my philosophites.

Oh yes! A joyful day. I had forgotten how good a massage was. I felt $100 after it was all done and fully relaxed. Alas it is bank account heavy, but much worth it.

Anyway, a few images:

Have you seen my mummy?

Well now I'm a MA. Not as in mother, but as in Master of Arts. Master Lee is very masterly, one might say. So, a couple of photos from my weekend.

College at night from the Senior Guest Room:


Wrong in SO many ways:

Before becoming a Master... academic pose:

The new Master Lee:

London is an amazing city

When I have a bad day, there are various things I do to cheer myself up. One of the most effective is to spend time walking along the South Bank in the sunshine amongst the bustle, then to go and sit on a staircase that leads down from the embankment to the beach. The soothing water laps, the river traffic goes back and forth, there is happiness coming down from the South Bank, and there is the amazing London skyline. It never fails to right a day, or to make a problem objective. How many people in history have discovered this amazing power of London I began to wonder......

Monday thoughts

1. I hate April showers in May. Where has the sun gone?

2. Do people on the tube look so miserable because there is an increased centrifugal force of gravity underground that pulls their muscles down?

3. Everytime I get on the tube, I become convinced that it is run by a network of loonies who left intelligence and logical thought at home for the day

4. I'm really looking forward to going to Skye in August and doing things like nothing, and visiting the Outer Hebrides.

Suspiciously super sunday

I've had a super sunday. I don't know why. It could be because of a nice weekend that started on Friday after I had some happy understanding of something that had been vexing me. Two entries in one day shows a bit of happiness. After church this evening, I came home and had a lovely meal with my housemates (with a bottle of St. Emillion... not that that makes any difference of course....).

So, some observations to begin what I feel will be a positive week:


1. Why are the football supporters I see on the tube often fat, ugly, unrefined and badly dressed when their idols/ teams are often slim, attractive, aspire to be riche and dress well when off the pitch?

2. Will Christian Aid be surprised if they get bad press from traditionalists when they bring (lovely) hymns from the middle of Africa to their service that no congregation can understand the rhythms of let alone sing in the context of group worship? I love African music (obviously) and I firmly believe everyone is entitled their own style, but surely if you are promoting unity in purpose through Christ, then you should use good old songs that everyone will know and feel part of?

3. The same person who put the bible together was essentially responsible for the foundation of the beliefs of the Catholic Church. If you want to read scripture literally therefore, shouldn't you read it in ancient greek rather than a spurious translation?

4. On platforms along the line in about three places, the Victoria line has compressed air generators. Assuming there must be miles of tubing to reach the farthest distance from the generator before the next generator along will reach, surely the air becomes less compressed a few miles down, and therefore useless? Is that why the lines are falling apart?

5. As Johnny Clegg alluded in his song 'African Sky', one can really miss the African sunset on the west coast; I fell in love with it 8 years ago. The sunset in London makes me smile with love in my heart, but it is nothing compared to Cape Town. Still... there have been some beautiful dusks on the river over the past few days. It makes me love London. One day this week I will go and sit by the river with a bottle of wine, and watch the first sundowns of summer. Glorious.


And to end off, a few photos of what Jonny has been up to:

Playing/ flying Gavin's organ last Sunday morning. I want an instrument like this. There should be a safety announcment before pressing all of these buttons and travelling down the runway to enlightenment:




Me and Nicola being silly:



A beautiful summer sky on thursday evening in Greenwich:




I was proud of this still art:

Jo(h)n player special

I used to work in an off-licence for money. Yes, I did say 'for money', just in case you thought I did it for pleasure (and to underline that I wouldn't have done it if somebody had offered me a fortune to be a kept woman). An off-licence in middle-England, (a type of sutre between middle class and hobbit land), is the sort of place one goes to buy your product with satisfaction and a hint of pride:

'I'll have my daily litre of sherry please. Yar that one as usual'

or

'I'll have a packet of JPS. No, not those, the ones I always smoke, what?'

It used to drive me insane being treated like an unintelligent oaf, and towards the end of my time there, I would have books open on the counter about the octotonic or showing complex numerical analyses of music. Obviously I couldn't understand most of it myself; I wanted people to think before they assumed I worked in a shop because I was mentally retarded and that they could thus win any situation they started. It still happens in life, and there are some people who know me who feel the need to overexplain things at me, and it drives me up the wall. Just because I don't partake in discussion, it doesn't mean I haven't understood; I understand and follow about 50% more than people think sometimes - I just don't like arguing. Obviously in the off-licence, the simple example is:

'Yar, a packet of JPS, that's John Players Special by the way!'


I was talking to a friend that other day about conversations you can have with some people and never have to explain anything at all. This happens to me most often with Ben and Rel. They are the most creative discussions ever - like a drug. It is funny how frustrating it is when there is not an intellecual connection to people I'm talking to. Maybe this lack of connection then comes across from me just like I have explained above - annoying to the other person. Maybe I am just as bad? Probably. It's all about spending time with people so a frightening/ frighteningly wonderful telepathic connection seems to exist. [I do love that juxtaposition - when something is so frightening, it is wonderful].

Anyway, this friend and I also spent time talking about a religious man we used to know. When we knew him, we were always overawed by his sense of dedication, his cleverness and his compassion. However this friend and I have both fallen out of touch with him because he never returns e-mails except when he has a favour to ask. We knew him very intimately in the line of work, he was always charming and we thought the connection would remain a long time after we finished our work together. We decided that Mr Religious is a bit of a player: this, of course, is not as in a cad and bounder. A player here is somebody who plays chess in order to win - a person who uses pawns to achieve his ultimate 'check-mate'. Mr Religious now has a blooming career, and we never get any response from him. Obviously when we meet him next, he will be charming and as genuine as he ever was: one does not easily forsake being a man of God. Our use to him, however, is nowadays negligible.

If that sounds like an admonishment from Lord Jon, it is not! 'Hypocrite', I hear you shouting. Should I be Patrick Troughton, at this stage I would smile and move my head down and say 'Oh yes', and then frown violently and say, 'No! I will not submit'.

Diversion. Totally tangental. I know. But I do play the recorder.

We are all players aren't we - even if we don't mean to be. I spot myself afterwards rather than during. Life is a play, and we are the directors of our own plays. We use the actors who are good for us, who fit the roles we need: I phone particular friends when I'm in need of different things. Sometimes actors phone us and ask to be involved in a particular scene: sometimes friends phone and ask to be part of the current life. When the play changes, we can use different actors depending on specialities: when life moves on, different people arrive and are found. We are all players, surrounded by a wooden stage - never is the saying so true:

'The stage is the same, it is just the players who are different'.

Of course, one of the beauties of life is the way we hold on to important things through emotion. I have happiness in that a number of people I know will act in my plays as long as I produce them; I have great fear that some of the best actors I know will grow tired of my plays and move on to bigger and better things.

This is not an original thought, and I'm not dressing it as such. It is just a thought. Some things I'm learning about writing a blog/gallery and my different groups of readers:

a) Those who read it, smile, and think that I've missed the point/ was never quite there academically
b) Those who read it and pick up the nuance and meanings
c) Those who read it for enjoyment of someone else's rant
d) Those who are bored and stumble across it accidentally

Each of those are very worthy readerships and it underlines something I've said all along to people: that the beauty of reading/ hearing someone else's (even passing) thoughts can inspire creativity and insight in your own. A muse for tangentalism (just like Patrick Troughton..). It is for that reason my life is a play - each player is different, and they all bring something unique to

Jon's players special.....

_______________________________________
*** COMMUNIQUE FROM BLOGGER.COM***

We apologise for that last very bad joke, and would like you to know that the person responsible for that last joke has been sacked. We will start again in a totally different style and.. umm

' Idiom sir?'
'Yes that's right. In a totally different idiom. Thankyou Patsy.'

Don't count stars or you might stumble

Oh dear. Having started a rant like the one on Sunday, I suppose I ought to try and finish it somehow. I fear it is going to be a trilogy at least. It is funny how emotions interfere with logical thought and create a degree of uni-dimensional thought.

Recently I have immersed myself in the world of Anne Rice's 'Interview with a Vampire'. Again, coincidence in time, but the reading of it has been highly relevant to my thoughts. Happily I am cynical in my view on the existence of vampires: in my opinion pure fantasy. Narrow-minded perhaps, but I have limited belief in magical powers and immortality being bestowed during a simple blood transfusion. However, the concept is curious, and transposes to a big part of my life. You need to know that when a vampire is created by another vampire, a strong bond of attachment and 'love' is created between the two; all by blood exchange.

My muse has been on friendship. It is a very simple word which describes so much: I suspect that the philosophy of a word being a label for something that exists is quite appropriate. In the same way that the ancient greeks had 3 different words for love, there should be an argument for never-ending words of friendship. I love all my friends to a particular extent, but obviously that has severe variation; perhaps the problem of language is that for me to catergorise groups of type of friend/love is always going to be a compromise.

How does this relate to vampires I hear you ask? Well tonight I met someone for a drink and dinner who I have known in passing for years since university days, but never actually had a long conversation with him. These days I rarely have the tenacity or the patience to spend time getting to know new people, unless I judge them special and amazing. Having dinner this evening reminded me how exciting it is getting to know new minds and new thoughts. I have a close group of friends whose minds and souls I have gradually been getting to know, and whose being resonates so strongly with mine that I would go to the ends of the earth for them out of love. It occurred to me that the 'soul exchange', albeit a gradual process, was very similar to the way the creation of a vampire is described by Rice. Similarly a bond is created: in some cases, such a strong bond that it hurts.

Of course, friendship is totally evolutionary, and it is always wrong to think that it will continue in the way it is for more than a fleeting moment of joy. It is like a river that flows: a friendship must always move and go to new places - if it stops it either becomes stagnant or it is being stopped for the benefit/abuse of others, like a dam; it is only with settling down that the friendship will become consistent - in its estuary. However, I do believe that friendships that have reached the top level, the vampire level, have created plug sockets between two people that can easily be rewired instantly. It is healthy always to unplug, allow contacts to be cleaned and refreshed, and to reinvigorate the longevity of the friendship. In the past I have had one or two of these vampire level friendships be ended forcibly: it is the most horrid and wrenching feeling I have ever experienced apart from bereavement and grief. Thankfully one has now been reinstated, and I was delighted to see how easy it was, and how simply the distrust and suspicion built up evaporated. It is amazing to think how strong these bonds are. I love life because of it, and because of the people I'm bonded to - even if my emotion does get the better of logic at times.

The vampire analogy is of course flawed in that the creation of a vampire is an act of death and immortality, whereas the creation of friendship is an act of life which is limited by mortality. Thank goodness there is an evolution otherwise if friendships always continued getting better, forcible removing as an inevitable conclusion to life would destroy me.

The song 'I've got you under my skin' comes to my mind.

I think that's enough for one night. Emotion soon.....

Tube to power to flower

A long time since the last update; mainly because my mind has been occupied with my life rather than life in general - hence if I were to write on that, it would be boring to most other people.

Upon arrival at Tottenham Hale station, should you be travelling on victoria (as it were), there is a new announcement,

"This is Tottenham Hale. This station has step-free access".

Now Nicola lives in Brixton, and I live in Walthamstow; I have been to visit Nicola a number of times recently. As far as I'm aware, Tottenham Hale is the only station on the Victoria Line that has 'step-free access'. It made me wonder, if you need such access, whether you like having days travelling up and down the Victoria Line since the only place you can get on and off is Tottenham Hale. Of course it is society power. The only reason for providing 'step-free' access is because 0.01% of your customers require it, and to discriminate against them is punishable by derision, fines, legal action, and the News of the World. If you can provide an example of intention to bore millions of pounds worth of lift shafts into the ground of London, you can happily be excused in your committment to society. That is until the environmentalists get hold of you for all the pollution caused by your lorries, bore machines, and concrete manufacture. Obviously if I needed (or am going to need) the easy access(!) I would be delighted. It is simply power of the angry conviction.

I've realised lately that life is all too unashamedly about power and that the whole concept of power is a pot at the end of a very long rainbow.

What is one man's principle and conviction is another man's view of facism. What is one man's being is the way another man will judge their principles to be. I judge myself as trying to be very patient and tolerant of other peoples' principles; to learn how others exist and think is the most satisfying thing ever - the experience of humanity's differences. Power on the other hand is like a drug - you always want more.

So much of life is about a need to be in control. As children we play games in which one person is always in charge. We grow up (sort of), go to work, play games with others, become pawns in other peoples' games, and aim towards greater power. Why do we go to work? To earn money and stability through promotion and success, so that one day we can have freedom from hierarchy, power and control in retirement. It is all so screwed up.

Of course, our innocent games of Doctors and Nurses as young creative things, teach us much to be useful later in life. Personal life can often be about power games. I despise power games - they make me sick - people who use them on me, people use them to others, but worst of all when I find myself involved in one. You just can't get out of it can you - what is the other person thinking? What do they expect me to do? What should I do to show I'm not getting involved? I've thought about it a lot lately - the strategy of life, the laquered chess board that is the template for my life.

It used to amuse me predicting how people I knew well would react to situations and scenarios, and often I was right. Today, I'm tired of it: my king is in stalemate, and strategy holds no interest. I'm gradually learning, the more I reveal my soul to people, the more power it potentially gives them, and the less I can resist joining in. That is who I am however - I'm open and honest, and emotionally in tune, but I am tired of it. Perhaps this is a power game me writing this now? To me, I am writing what has been exercising me for a while without solution. I hate not having solution.

But I have restbite from this. Life has its total relaxations. After a very exhaustative Easter, I went with Rel to visit Claire and Rupert in Surrey. It has been a long time since I have been so relaxed. We have no power issues, we just drink and talk, and laugh, and eat, and philosophise. The colour and excitement to the chess board like a flower breaking through at random points.

Look at relaxed Jon.

Jon with Toby:



Jon pretending to be a bird:





Jon with Claire and Rupert and Rel on the front cover of our 12th century polyphony album:

Sea Change

Photocopiers are evil creations. They have a knack of creating chaos where order existed and where there was once art. Today I spent a whole afternoon of work photocopying some sets of music ready to be engraved. It should have taken but an hour except that the first photocopier failed to scan random pages correctly, and then the second photocopier on which I repeated the exercise (totalling probably about 500 pages), managed to split 3 copies into 6 randoms, and jammed once every 5 minutes. The rest of the afternoon was spent sifting the copies to find out which pages were missing.

It was a day destined to go wrong from the moment I woke up late and got to the Victoria line to discover it fully broken past Euston and the next train being a 15 minute wait. Needless to say, I didn't arrive at work until half past 10. Lunch was spent in the post office in a unusually long queue, and then the cashier's computer crashed. This evening, I accompanied a rehearsal for Gavin and on the way back, the north circular jammed and the bus was terminated leaving us stranded in Edmonton.

It led me all to wonder whether there are such things as bad days. Does the earth have a magnetic shift or a change of spin speed which knocks everything over? It is certainly true that things always tend to go wrong at once. I've come to the conclusion that far from going wrong, it is the normal things which I have grabbed onto as going wrong in order to persuade myself that life continues as normal.

Alas, my bad day has coincided with an epiphany: hence the grabbing on to normal every day things. Last year I was very unhappy in my job, and the things that supported me were the very important and secure life and relationships I had. Why is this related you ask? My life has seen a sea change: my epiphany is that this is year has the potential to become very lonely. As I sit here, I am very happy in my new job, but my personal life has already begun to unravel around me and today picked up speed: this change is my magnetic shift and my change of speed - not the planet's. It is my earth that has suddenly moved rather suddenly: some key supports and things that have kept me going have disappeared, or will be later on in the year.

I am tired and emotionally worn out at the moment - my brain has been working in overdrive for some time, but today it reached capacity for too many problems at once. It is a good thing to force yourself time to think and wittle away all the supports in your life so you can identify yourself and your needs without all the cladding. As long as you remain objective and try to purge emotions as much as you can, I believe it a positive evolution. But I am frightened for the wilderness to come.

Thankfully I am spending time in Surrey after Easter weekend is over, and I have randomly been offered a two week opportunity to think by myself and sort my head out later on in May.

Summer is *certainly not* i cummin in

Today's theme is lunacy. I will freely admit to being fairly lunatic now and again. For instance I have it in my head to apply for the job that Rel is advertising at the moment - obviously I would pretend to be a barely literate silly person with a lot to say in the covering letter, and for whom principles are something you pick up at Camden market. That can be tomorrow's homework. An example of lunacy, but only part-time and avoidable if I was pretending to be boring. The weather is very lunatic; in less than 20 days time, we should be dancing around maypoles and singing barely veiled filthy songs (madrigals) to welcome in summer. The weather is however stuck in winter and is foul. But I am stronger than the weather - it will not beat me.

Tuesday Lunacy:

1. When I arrived at Oxford Circus tube station this morning a man even shorter than me (and it happens I tell you) had got off the train too. He proceeded to act like a Monty Python character that had been binned. Whilst carrying a plastic briefcase (the sort that swots had at school... remember that?) he walked along the platform hitting himself, cursing under his breath, screwing up his face and making his hands into fists before going back to hitting himself. It is the sort of thing I might do if I realised I had got drunk the night before and had told somebody that they look like a chimpanzee and acted like a four-week old poodle. At least I would only do it once - he must have told someone that they looked like Gail Porter or something because, in the middle of the crowd, he continued to do it until the surface. It was amusing and I did get smiles from one or two very attractive people on the escalator... I'm pretending that that isn't related to my laughing at the man.

2. Outside Oxford Circus station a lunatic man laughing like a hyena so physically that he had to steady himself on the rails around Exit 1. What was that about I wonder? I was going to point out that it was Tuesday morning and far too early when you are hungover, but I didn't think he would understand my distress, so I didn't.

3. Going to the swimming pool at lunchtime in my ploy to lose weight, swimming 120 lengths, and then going to buy lunch in Villandry on Gt Portland Street. I had pasta carbonara. I tell you ... no self-restraint is me! There is the lunacy of going swimming and having such a big lunch... but Villandry is worth going into: not only the food looks fabulous and tastes fabulous, but the serving staff always look wonderful and attractive (I can't vouch for their taste - cannabalism is not my thing). Suffice to say that it wasn't the cheese I wanted from the cheese counter! [now I'm the lunatic]

4. Walking past Piccadilly Circus to see the Metropolitan Police's new Police Box. I know that Doctor Who has been a big success, but is there really a need for a limousine Tardis like this:



Silly. Lunatic

5. Spending all evening practising Bach Chorale preludes on Gavin's large organ (oh yes... bring on the jokes):




So a day of lunacy. Let's hope I have something more useful to say when I next write.

Be Minor

Well it's been a while since I've actually been moved to tears by music that I was playing, but it happened tonight. In all honesty, Bach's B Minor mass is one of the most Godlike works ever written, and anyone serious about music should at least know it. My emotional feelings arrived in the last movement which is the most beautiful fugue; its simplicity after so much intensity, a 4 hour rehearsal and a 2 hour concert, general tiredness, and recent emotional stetchings all contributed I think. Bach was truly a genius, and I shall remember that performance for a long time, if only for the sheer exultation and emotion I felt at the end (and for the need of agile jumpings between harpsichord and organ!)

Gavin and I were both playing, Rel, Claire, Rupert, Harry, and Eon all came along to the performance, and we went for a wonderful thai meal afterwards, got the last train to London, and then a taxi back to Walthamstow... decadence.

Bed time for tired continuo players!

Tuba Smarties

I do maintain that the tube is an amazing place. The control room at Covent Garden Station today gave the following proclamation:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please beware that pickpockets are in operation this afternoon"

It led me to wonder whether London Underground actually sublets the pickpocketing on the tube, and if there is a certain timescale for it.

A fairly unusual day all around, I met my friends Luke and Ruth, Helen and Andy, Clare, David and my Godson Benjamin. We had lunch in a lovely vegetarian cafe in Neal's Yard. Some years ago when I was an undergraduate, Ruth, Helen, Clare and David used to sing in my choir at college. In those days, I was the one who held court around the tables - usually with bottles of wine and filthy gossip and/or high philosophy. These days it is 1 year old Benjamin who holds the court: he is clearly the most important person in the room. Perhaps it is because I have passed it on to him that I no longer possess this gift. In days gone by, I could play a room like a game and come out of it having charmed most people. These days I just can't be bothered, or at least it feels like it...!

Age... it moves on. I went to the Edge tonight for the first time in ages. I miss convivial times there with people now distant and years now gone!

Bach B minor mass tomorrow. It should brighten my mood.

A stringy thingy

"What's pulling your strings? "

I knew the voice was directed at me from the moment I heard it; it wasn't a menacing voice, but it did belong to the lady who had been irritating passengers on the train that had just arrived into Euston station.

"Just a question", she said.

During the journey, this woman had been firing javelin questions and statements at innocent and awkward passengers:

"You have beautiful eyes. I'm just saying."

So when this voice asked the string question and the mouth and eyes of the Irish woman (who had previously and apparently been looking out of the train door) turned to look at me, I was quite surprised. Not surprised because she meant me, but surprised because I had been expecting it to be me she meant, and I had been right. At the time I said something that wasn't an answer in a plummy accent, and in the style of a privately educated ra-ra chap to which she smiled, evidently in possession of the answer she needed.

This encounter was over a week and a half ago just after I had arrived back from a holiday in Geneva, but I was reminded of it yesterday morning. In a break from sitting at my desk, I left the office and walked to Chappells of Bond Street to find a piece of music that I needed to do some research on for a publication. Oxford Street was full of people; this of course is not unusual, but the insight of my Irish inquisitor came back to mind: What are these people doing? Who is pulling their strings? What is pulling their strings? It is an interesting idea to work out what people are motivated by, or what they think they are motivated by. For me the question often comes back in private thought as I am fiercely analytical of most things I do. I suppose to a certain extent, what you think motivates you, is only what catalyst you use to find what everyone seeks - freedom, happiness and satisfaction. There are plenty of philosophers who have written on this much more eruditely than me, but it is still fascinating. I think the strings which pull me have carrots of fulfilment on the end like a mirage oasis of whatever I think my motivation is at that time in my life. Right now, being Friday evening, the strings pulling me are the need to leave my desk and head to a rehearsal in order that I can then go and meet Rachel and Claire in Islington for a drink. I go for a drink to fulfil the end of my week, and to relax with two like minded intellects. A short-term fulfilment but with potential long-term implication.

But fulfilment changes depending on what happens. My life has been going through a very odd phase over the past few weeks. Like a wind change. I have found stages of fulfilment, and I have found answers to a great many questions. However, bizarrely, as if someone had opened one window and shut another, a vast swathe of friends have, without real contact for ages, suddenly decided to get in touch. Even more bizarrely, a majority of them with about a 3 year gap. Another one telephoned me today. The converse is also true. Of course, this is all the Rhythm of Life again, and evolution must have fallow periods too. It is interesting how a natural balance is achieved, and significantly how what is 'pulling my strings' changes depending on which puppeteer is on duty. After all, a river which stands still, and doesn't evolve will get a return of stagnancy on its stubborness.

A thought for the weekend. I'm off to find a pair of scissors.

Have you glot what it takes?

It occurred to me after work yesterday that I am a polyglot. I was very pleased to discover this as it is a silly word and applying it to me just makes me more silly (and as my friends know, I am quite silly). My language abilities include English, German, French, Russian, and Afrikaans. Well... that is a bit of a lie: my English abilities and German abilities are (mostly) assured, my French abilities (as those in Geneva two weekends ago will testify) is limited to simple stuctures in the present tense, my Russian abilities are limited to saying where I live (and a repeating of the word for hedgehog), and I speak one sentence of Afrikaans. Perhaps they can all link together to make me a polyglot? I think so, and so do you.

My knowledge of etymology is a bit third-hand or pub-quizzy, and it was always where I fell down in essays at university - I was never able to exhibit such things as knowledge of language origin or history of being; it is what comes of being too tied up in experiencing people rather than tracts and theses. However, yesterday evening following the polyglot revelation, I found myself sitting in a bar in Piccadilly with my friends Lou, Nic, Kath and Rob. At one time we all worked in the same building and it cemented our bond of friendship: we would head to a bar regularly to discuss the problems with the company and the issues of the day. It has been a year and a half since we were all in the same building at the same time, but the bond of friendship is stronger than ever, and we still meet regularly (with Chrissy as well). In some ways we are older and wiser and nowadays discuss grown-up issues like relationships, marriage, mortgages*, and bathroom redecoration, but we still drink lots of wine and talk about sex and what's hot and happening.. almost a group Bridget Jones experience.

Why is that relevant to polyglots? Well, drinking wine is a big part of this relationship, and I was wondering why I never manage to have 'just the one' glass I intend (acknowledges Mrs Wembley). It is clearly because, when someone says 'let's have another bottle', I say, 'why not!' I then decided that actually when my friends call me a 'Wino', they must actually just be acting middle class (and Surbiton) and pronouncing Why not in a french accent. In fact, Wino is just slang for 'middle-class alcoholic'. Clearly if a polyglot (or poly-glow if you are Margot Ledbetter) is someone who can read/write/speak several languages, then a wino (derived from the expression why not) is someone who can open/drink/dispose of several bottles of wine!

I felt happier leaving Piccadilly having discovered that I was a Polyglot and a Wino, and having realised (for the latter) that it was because 'I'm just a girl who can't say no.'

So I came home to Walthamstow and went to the pub with a nice South African musician who is staying with us at the moment. We celebrated my self-discovery with a pint of beer.




* Isn't it interesting how the word mortgage contains the french word for 'death'. Answers on a postcard. Watch my etymology go (very wrong...)

The Rhythm of Life is a powerful thing

Everyone complains about the tube; as a Londoner it is as genetic as your hair colour. It means so many things to different people. I use the tube to think about the rubbish that circles around my brain - it is the only time of my day that I am forced to sit with my own thoughts for 20 minutes. Many arguments have been avoided and friendships saved as a result. Today I bumped into a friend from Cambridge who I haven't seen in over 3 years. All the more bizarre because he lives in Azabaijan and was in my carriage.

If you look around, the tube is like its own society - a microcosm under the streets of London; it is full of people who are so totally different. When I am happy and not thinking so intensely, I notice couples and find them fascinating. Some couples argue, some look in love, some look unhappy, some should really find a room, some are gay, and some are probably not in a relationship at all. I think I will attack the relationship concept at another time - for the time being, assume that by couple I mean two people attached to one another by means of a love partnership slash bond.

Some couples are stunningly attractive both individually and together, some couples, to me, look ugly, and some couples look like they are entirely wrong.

Do the attractive ones have anything apart from the lust which must be distractingly present?
Will they have anything in their relationship when the inescapability of age attacks their bodies?

Do the ugly ones find one another attractive or are they just in love?
Are ugly people automatically attracted to other ugly people?

What about the mixed ones? What is going on in the heads? Does the attractive half wish his/her partner was a beauty? Does the uglier one feel as if they owe something. Or have they just found real love, beauty and solace in one another.

Of course 'relationship' could almost mean anything these days, so these are futile and improper questions. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and good on both beholders for fitting their jigsaws together as much as they can.

It is really a question of perception and perception is certainly one of the Rhythms of Life. Cole Porter fans unite. Why do I find people beautiful or ugly? I suppose I've learnt it. It is the same way that the arts I find beautiful are only so because they follow rules which I've been told (or experienced) make something stunning. Or is that true? Perception is evolving all the time in each individual - it's what can make diversity.

I didn't like coffee the first several times I drank it, in much the same way that I'm sure my love of Bach only grows the more I experience music. When I was 11 years old and sang in the Premiere of Michael Garrick's 'Judas Kiss', the sight and sound of Norma Winstone scat singing was the funniest thing I had ever seen. Five years later when my Dad took me and a friend to Ronnie Scott's to see Betty Carter, it was the most informative and amazing experience of my Jazz love. My perception of scat singing had changed: my beholding had changed.

There is no answer to this ramble yet. It is thought in progress. I have a lovely image of Freud in my head. He is sitting on the Victoria Line surrounded by people.

Expect more...