Another Link Severed.

We rarely speak ill of the dead. Of course that means at a time of bereavement we do not speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. How many funerals have I been to are a glorious celebration of life with the worst bits airbrushed out. Always. This morning I woke to the news that Stephen Cleobury had died. You may not know who he is but I have known him since 1982 when he became Director of Music at King's. I was in my last year and looking forward to a new world after the at times brutal, violent world of Philip Ledger. Brutal and violent maybe but terribly exciting. We thought we were the best in the world. The fact that I never hear recordings on the radio from those days belies another story.

I was sadly mistaken in my optimism. Cleobury took an instant dislike to me and my final year was soured by what might have been. My favourite memory of him as the world mourns a "great" man was gleefully grinning at him as he had to move aside each time I went up to receive an athletics cup during my final prize day in 1983. I almost swept the board so he moved quite a lot.

I do not wish his surviving family ill. That he betrayed his wife for a woman my age did not kill his career. I have very fond memories of Penny who was always kind to me. My thoughts too are with their daughters who will be in the mid 40s now.

Where I'm at is a state of very mixed emotion. My cousin Cedric keeps telling me to let go of the past. But on days like today the demons come out to play and I live in a strange state of wanting to berate myself for being too unkind but also remembering the scars that have marred my mental health since I was a young man.

My emergence from King's left an angry, damaged and arrogant teen. Being a teenager is horrible enough but I do not like who I was then. Foolishly when I had my breakdown I thoughts recovery was about going back to who I was. That was a mistake.

Now at 50 I'm sitting in my small but warm flat. Beethoven string trios play. I have vegetable stock bubbling away on the hob. And I'm alone with my thoughts. No doubt in good time I will cook. I will drink tonight and I will go to bed. Tomorrow is another closer to work but also to the end of term. Next week will be a short one. Friday is booked off. Vague idea to go to Cambridge and hear the choir. No longer will I get a good seat, Cleobury owed me that much and was usually graceful when I saw him. Oh how the sins of the past are glossed over.

I will not attend the funeral unlike when Ledger died in 2012. No doubt the press will trumpet a wonderful man. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We keep alive fond memories. I just need to bury the past.

I Heard a Voice.