Do you eat them raw, like fruit?

Isn’t technology great. You can find out information about anything you like in a second (which may or may not be true). You can buy a cheap item of electronic equipment (which may or may not be genuine). And you can chat to someone you’ve never met in a foreign country (who may or may not be who they say they are).

But before I’m accused of being negative about technology, or ‘tech‘ as irritating people in odd-looking spectacles would say, it does make the world a better place. We’re all connected. We’re all within easy reach of each other. Information passes more easily and freely (unless you happen to live somewhere beginning with ‘C’ and ending in ‘hina’). Life is easier.

And most importantly, I don’t have to go shopping for food in supermarkets and deal with the surprises I usually encounter.

A few little clicks, and a chatty man arrives at my door the next day with all of my food in boxes. Okay, some items may be larger/smaller than I intended, or more squashed than I might have anticipated, but then I can replace those when I pop to the greengrocers or the butchers or the bakers (sadly Chipping Sodbury has, so far as I can tell, no candle-makers).

But I have been too busy lately to click, and had to venture in this morning. On my own. On a Sunday.

‘Do you need help with your packing?’ asked the boy operating the till, who I noted had the chair as high as it could go so he could reach the buttons.
‘No, I’ll be okay. Just go slowly’, I cordially replied.
This, the till-boy must have taken to mean, ‘Hi, that’s fine. Please talk to me instead. I want you to be my friend’.
‘That’s okay. I can’t do anything quick today. Bit of a night of it last night…’, he continued, but at this point my ears were temporarily bombarded by till-boy’s attempts to inhale deeply through a nose filled with enough snot to paint the Severn Bridge.
‘Oh dear’, I reply… desperately aware that I’m sounding like Hugh Grant.
‘Got a coffee machine have ya?’, he asks manboy-handling my coffee.
‘No. Just a jug with a plunger’, I reply deciding now is not the best time to explain the concept of a cafetiere.
‘Oh right… is it just smaller granules? I s’pose I should know that working here’, he chuckled.
He then continued to scan the items, being genuinely helpful and slow.
‘What do you do with these?’, he asked holding up by bag of red chillies, ‘do you eat them raw, like fruit?’
I think at this point I may have choked, making a similar noise to someone who has just tried eating a hot red chilly raw, like a fruit.
‘Nah, it’s for putting in curries and stuff’, I reply in my new found role as the product of morphing Delia Smith with Jamie Oliver. Please note, in my split-second reaction I made a conscious decision not to say ‘curries and chilli’.
‘Oh right. I think we used the in school once… my teachers were great, never minded be bunking off and stuff…’ he tailed off shortly after, before offering me the vouchers the supermarket encourage parents to collect to enhance their child’s education.

And as I left the store and it’s warm orangey glow, I was determined to make sure I stick to the clicking and the cheery delivery guy, but now, a few hours later, I’m not so sure. It’s given me something to talk about today, and normally, buying Shreddies, Wheetabix and washing liquid doesn’t offer much to talk about…

Instruments, photos… photos, instruments

I’m not sure if non-musicians get it, but there’s something mesmerising about looking closely at instruments.

And even better, if you can make a poster of your own…

But my personal favourite is the front of my cello…

Simplicity is a special place

Everyone has their own special space. You know, that little flowery field you ran through in the summer holidays when you were 12. That mountain you climbed in New Zealand. That cave you found in your kayak.

They are all different places. Every one unique to their thinker.

Except they all have one thing in common – you’re there on your own. It’s your space.

Now think back to some of the best times of your life. When you felt happy, content and like the world was waiting for you to discover it, and take your place.

For me there are two distinct periods. The first was VI Form college. As a musician, it meant I was working hard and making the most of performing. My teachers had encouraged me to play classical music, jazz, blues and rock. I was endlessly going to rehearsals with different people, exploring different ideas, and different skills. The highlight being a concert where I had performed in every group appearing, and shaking hands with the drummer at the end of the final piece who had just achieved the same fete of 2 hours of non-stop performing.

Then there would have to be the first year of uni. Discovering new things. Finding freedom (oh God it’s turning into a cliche). The cut-outs of Scarey Spice and Sporty Spice in our communal kitchen with daily quotes in speech bubbles fr fellow students to see, ranging from Billy Bragg lyrics to Nick Cave quotes (ah, saved it from cliche).

Here’s the thing. In both of those situations I was being independent. Yes, I was playing in an ensemble, or had my flatmate Joel to help decide the daily quotes. But I was independent in the sense that there was no one else to mess it up for me. I wasn’t relying on a third party. I wasn’t delegating. I didn’t need permission to do things.

Are you thinking of your special place? I bet you’re independent whilst you’re there. I bet there’s no one else there to mess it up for you or critique… says a lot about what’s wrong with life, doesn’t it?

Bit part actors of our lives, stand up and take a bow

So, with still 6 weeks to go, Oscar fever is upon us. Whilst I might think the two people there on the night most deserving of an accolade are the ones presenting it, there will be the inevitable sobbers and smugsies. There will be some talented actors there. And there are several things we should be thankful for – most obviously the fact that Ricky Gervais’ face won’t, hopefully, fill our screens for any more than a few minutes of the evening.

The nominations are a mixed bunch. There’s Morgan Freeman, who has spent his entire career pushing himself ever further and breaking boundaries in his new role. And then there’s Colin Firth, who as far as I can see has spent his entire life playing a public school graduate from Buckinghamshire regardless of the demands of the roles he is cast in.

But our lives are full of bit-part actors. They roll in and out of our lives. Entering stage left, exiting stage right.

These are the people we see on a daily, weekly, occasional basis for whom we don’t know names. The people who in a movie scour the credits whilst everyone’s leaving the cinema looking for ‘bank guy number 7′ or ’shopper with canteloupe’.

We all have them.

We pretend we don’t, but they’re everywhere.

For example, my house overlooks Mondeo man. A few houses away there’s ‘drummer boy’ and ‘drummer boy mum and dad’. On Sundays I tend to see ‘fluffy dog lady’ whilst washing the car. If I buy bread there’s ‘handlebar moustache chap’. The list goes on.

I know to some it seems strange, but stop and think about it. You get home, and you’re telling your beloved about your trip to the greengrocers and you say, ‘oh I bumped into…’. What do you say? ‘That chap who, now don’t think I’m a snoop, but lives at number such-and-such and puts his bin out a day early?’… No, you don’t. You pick a characteristic. A characateur. It’s not rude. It’s not disrespectful (unless you want it to be). It’s just, you know, they’re not a main character in the movie of your life. They won’t be getting an Oscar for their part in your life when you arrive at the pearly gates. They’ll be scouring the credits of your life to see if they’re listed at the end. In the smallest font. After the grips and technicians. After the movie theme tune has finished and the cheap stock-muzak has started and we head towards the technicolor(tm) logo.

So, bit part actors of our lives, stand up and take a bow.

How big’s a foot? About a foot.

Although I’m in danger of this becoming a foot blog [disappears off into Google to see if such a thing exists]…

Further to my last post, I have found a good use for large feet. The lovely Sarah and I have been looking at moving house lately, and have been trying to make sense of Estate Agents’ details for various properties. Is that kitchen big enough? Just how good is a 17ft living room?

It turns out that my foot is exactly a foot long. This comes in very hand for measuring things. Although Sarah contested the idea that my feet are 12 inches long, when she stopped laughing an appointed measuring device proved me right. Therefore I have spent much of the last few days pacing up and down the living room imagining various bits of houses whilst looking like I’m featuring on one of those Police, Camera, Brutality shows on Cable taking a drink-driving test in America.

There is an added bonus – it is widely believed that the measurement of a foot was set by Henry VIII. Therfore, I have regal feet.

Fresh in their newfound royal status, my feet were given the freedom of the coffee table, released from the confines of the sock. I’m not saying my feet should be modelling for Reebok or M&S, but I like to think they’re nice-looking feet. But again, here Sarah had a bone of contention. Or, technically, a tendon of contention.

Apparently my feet look like they are in a perpetual state of tension. They never relax. This is shown, says Sarah, by a large tense line standing out above the join of my big toe to my foot.

Being as I am, unable to move my toes they certainly can’t exercise the tension out of themselves. I’ve never been able to wiggle or bend my toes. I know I should be able to do so, but it’s like someone forgot to include the wiring to connect my toes to my brain. I can think and think until my face looks like I’m trying to calculate the circumference of a circle in my head, or fathom out why Giles Brandreth is famous, but it’s now good. They just defiantly sit there immobile.

Now, I’m no expert, but how does a foot look relaxed? A comfy chair? Nice book? Glass of Chianti?

I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that my toes are in fact too relaxed. The little piggies just won’t move at all.

Popstar to Opera star – as it happens…

ITV – ‘Popstar to Opera Star’

8.59pm – Oh my God, this could be the most chavvy musical experience of my life. And I’ve seen The Honeyz and Bewitched

9.01pm – Yes. All fears realised.

9.02pm Mylene Klass and Alan Titchmarsh are presenting. Presumably this programme is at some point going to involve gardening whilst wearing M&S lingerie. I have to turn this off.

9.04pm It’s judged by Meatloaf???!!!  Right, that’s me hooked.

Mylene – ‘Most people train for years to become an opera star. Our guys will have just a few weeks’. Not everybody trains that long, Katherine Jenkins is giving it a stab.

9.06pm – Lawrence Ll-B ‘When opera is done really badly, it makes me angry’. Me too Lawrence… Let’s leave now.

9.10pm – The lovely Sarah: ‘If I had to make a programme about music that had to be really s*!t, this would be it’

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