By the Water's Edge.

On a blazingly hot day I found a little peace and shade by the canal. Yes I've escaped to Kent. Looks like I chose the right weekend to venture to the coast. Glorious but energy sapping. I haven't made it to the beach yet but I'm hoping to venture down there tomorrow to have an ice cream with my lovely friend Beth.

The weekend looks set to be a time of reunion. Last night I saw Ali who is over from Pakistan. We will meet again today for a late lunch with other friends. Tomorrow afternoon Beth then tomorrow evening my great friend and former landlord Tom.

Booking a couple of days off was I think the right thing to do. I struggled post Glyndebourne and for a week or so floundered. Better last week but it feels like a break is needed. Dad on good form as ever. He's off for a swim in a bit.

I'm cooking a late lunch of roast lamb tomorrow for dad and Beka's mum Anne. Shame Beka isn't around but I did see her a couple of weeks ago.One day I might call all change and come back to the seaside for good. What I would do for work I do not know. That said we never quite know what opportunities might pop up at some stage. Just been waiting a long time.

By the time I get to retirement I suspect the state age will have gone up to around 70. Can I really keep doing what I do for the next twenty years? I have my doubts. At the moment though there are no alternatives on the horizon.

Time to head out into the sunshine. A late Carribean lunch awaits. I'm not a great fan but I hope to be surprised. See you soon.

I Heard a Voice.

Setting in the Western Sky.

The sun is slowly edging westward to set on a glorious summer day. We are a few days past the solstice and the days are almost imperceptibly getting shorter. After the sultry humid atmosphere of recent days it was wonderful to have dry heat. I'm told Saturday will be fierce although probably not as much as in continental Europe.

On this day you find me at rest. The lethargy, apathy and flat mood of last week is gone. I have finished work until Tuesday and will head to the seaside tomorrow. Work this week has at times been intense but came away with a sense that this week I didn't fail.

Handel graces my flat, a ferocious Thai curry has been consumed. After the mild affair that was Saturday's Rendang with a mere eight chillies in it tonight I upped the ante and went for ten. Pretty good result.

I'm looking forward to seeing dad tomorrow. Not been down since his birthday in March. The visit will also see me reunited with my friend Ali, the one from Kent, who I spent a quite lot of time with a decade ago. Yes it must be ten years since she visited me here. Since then marriage, three boys and foreign postings have been her chosen lot. The last time I saw her was a wedding a couple of years ago. Lots of catching up to do.

Nothing profound on my mind at the moment just a sense that I'm at peace. Rest is good along with a not empty but not troubled mind. I'm buoyed by hearing from the lovely Eliza who sought my advice on violin exams a few weeks ago. Well a triumphant series of messages came through tonight that she scored 146 out of 150 marks and in the parlance of the young smashed it. What an amazing achievement.

With that I leave you to your evening. I will return to Handel and a beer. See you from the seaside over the weekend.

I Heard a Voice. 

Sultry Comedown.

On a warm, sultry and overcast afternoon I set out earlier for a walk. Some time since I did my Sunday walks regularly. Well at all. My intention was to clear my head but things proved stubbornly fixed as they have for the last week. Flat, apathetic, lethargic, tired and lack of motivation. Is this the comedown that cocaine addicts talk of?

Never tried cocaine and have no intention to. Yet the analogy seems fair. The high of the opera seems long gone. For a couple of days I felt refreshed from being away. It didn't last sadly and the last week has been a real struggle.

Not sure I would describe myself as low but all the others shit that comes with living with a mood disorder is very much evident. And I hate it. Just getting out of bed has seemed mission impossible. The dreams have come back and sleep is disrupted. I woke at 7 am then slept again and until 10 am. Still I couldn't get out of bed. In the end I did but not had any motivation.

Given the circumstances doing the washing, getting out for a walk and making lunch is some achievement. My desolate outlook is not helped by the discovery that I could have sung in King's yesterday but wasn't aware anything was going on. By curious twist of fate I had been contemplating going to King's yesterday to hear the choir but wasn't certain if they were still singing or on holiday. Never been Cleobury's greatest fan-that's the polite version of the story-but suspect now I will not get an opportunity to say goodbye.

Another working week beckons tomorrow. I hope it's not as bad as last week when every hour seemed to drag and I wanted to be anywhere but there. The week is short as I'm off Friday and Monday. Will catch the train down to Kent on Friday morning and come back Monday lunchtime. Be good to escape.

As for now I've put Handel on, I'm trying to cool down and have a small joint of gammon to cook. A dash of mustard, some nice roast potatoes and fresh vegetables. After all it is Sunday. See you soon.

I Heard a Voice. 

Cutting Through the Air.

A late afternoon storm finally cut through the sultry, dense and humid atmosphere of today. And it was humid. Perhaps not as we saw a year ago but tough going all the same. For a newish building our office is not the best for weather and atmospherics. The strange noise of windows automatically do not denote the temperature levels but the oxygen concentration. Add in the occasional stench of sewage that sometimes takes over it is not a nice place to work. But I was grateful for the storm.

My working life is a little less busy but no less tense. Retake exams are on and I'm trying to coax the final year students over the line. After this life gets very real for them. Many are not prepared for that. But is any generation of students really ready for reality? I certainly wasn't, I had breakdown. Work is work and must be done, an occupational hazard of life. In my crazy dream world of mental illness I thought getting a job would be the final piece of the recovery phenomenon. All these years later I'm not sure life is any easier.

That is done for the day. I'm home, it is opera night and mood-wise I'm okay. The last few days have been marred by lethargy, apathy and a complete lack of motivation. Is that a result of Sunday's anniversary? Or overdoing things in the glories of the opera? Who knows? But I feel a little more stable.

Driving home my instinct said fuck cooking and go out. I didn't. Rather I deconstructed a pork souvlaki serving it on a bed of salad laced with yoghurt and mint, dressed with chilli sauce and oven warmed pitta bread. It was a triumph. Mum always used to oven warm bread but used to leave it in so long it was rock solid. A swift five minutes at 180 degrees was fabulous. The pittas I can buy in supermarkets are awful as indeed are most commercially produce flat breads. Our brethren from north Africa and middle east would turn their noses up in disgust. And quite rightly so. But heat through and a little crispy they are infinitely better.

What the rest of the week brings me we will see. Sarah arrives back from Mexico early tomorrow morning. I've invited her for Sunday lunch, roast gammon. Might even do a starter too. With that I will leave you. Enjoy the sultry humid night, I think we need another storm.

I Heard a Voice.

No More Letters.

No one writes letters anymore. Well at least personal ones. Banks, solicitors and service providers do but they are never very welcome. Once upon a time I was prolific letter writer. Now after nearly thirty years taking medication my writing skills are eroded to virtually non existent. But I hark back to a day when that was the norm.

On this dull June day I'm reminiscing on a letter that arrived twenty nine years ago today. As I picked it up hungover and myopic on what was a warm and guilty day I had no idea what was to come. I had spoken to the writer the day before. She gave no hint that she had written a letter. When it arrived the shock and meltdown that it instigated was only in its first day. My illness started that day. Well maybe it had been coming all along.

I still have all those letter kept in little box on my desk with some old photos. Rachel the writer is long gone from my life. I do not know where she is now and I don't really care. But on this day I always remember what might have been.

The world is celebrating fathers' day. I'm alone in my flat listening to Haydn, cooking shoulder of lamb and generally avoiding the world. It is my day to mourn. A wise woman said to me a long time ago that it is "okay to mourn for yourself". Up until then I simply saw myself as self indulgent and lazy. There are days now that I feel the same. But not today.

The catastrophic breakdown that ensued a year after that letter arrived is well documented. Not all is lost though. I have a vocation that would never have been without that letter. I survived. People think what I do is important. And I'm on the verge of turning 50. That was never on the cards on that dark day.

Some friends from those days came back into my life. Ros, Rebecca, both of whom knew Rachel well. My other former singing colleagues too. Music seemed to die that day. I no longer actively engage in music but I have rediscovered it. Tomorrow my friend's daughter Eliza will undertake her grade 7 violin. And she asked me for advice. I struggle to read music now but I still have value even if it is to a girl I barely know. I wish her well tomorrow.

Another working week begins then and I march on. Seems slow going today in my loneliness. The good days will come again though. Until then I bid you a good afternoon.

I Heard a Voice.

Rambles in Sussex.

Wet afternoons in Sussex are part of my childhood. Well adolescence really. Back in those days we played sports four afternoons a week and on the fifth afternoon, Wednesday, we did other activities. In my deluded childhood foolishness I thought that an interest in military things could translate into a military career. That I was not really cut out for that my wholly undistinguished career in the Combined Cadet Force showed the folly of my ways. I just didn't recognise that. Another option might have been for one term to join my English teacher Alan Black on what he called rambles in Sussex.

Yesterday I was reminded of those days and my loss on a wet Wednesday when once again I saw the lush but wet south downs in Sussex in all their splendour. And the purpose was even more glorious, Glyndebourne. How magnificent was that? I didn't let the long journey of cold wet outlook take away from such an amazing day. The Barber of Seville may have been confusing in places but it was sublime. And the soprano lead out of this world.

A day later I'm at home once again listening to Italian opera on a wet day as the night closes in. For all the downturns of my life I am so pleased to have rediscovered culture.

Time away from work with little anxiety and an upbeat mood has I think done me some good. I will return to work tomorrow. I do not know what I will face. Nor indeed on this Thursday night do I care. It will be dealt with tomorrow.

I enjoyed my return to my kitchen. Simple Chinese food, Hoisin glazed chicken. Took all of ten minutes from the moment I took out a knife to serving it. The Chinese know a lot about food and we should learn from them. Until next time.

I Heard a Voice.

Burnt Ragu, Wind, Rain and Finally Sun.

Well that was the week that was. Holidays are not supposed to be this tough. Perhaps I went a little too far in my last post but when under pressure many of us struggle. That was a wearying, cumbersome and in the end successful week. How much more I can cope with I'm not sure but my short break is almost upon me. Glyndebourne here we come on Wednesday.

What started as a wet windy Saturday has morphed into a brighter day and a culinary catastrophe. I enjoyed a very pleasant lunch at The Waggoners with my former colleague Rachel. All had been going well until I returned home, got back to cooking my Ragu then promptly turned the hob up to 5 instead of 2. What a disaster. I'm left with very burnt Ragu and a ruined pan. Must learn to concentrate more when I'm doing things. I ought to throw it away but can't simply waste good produce like that. Will try and rescue it.

Away from the kitchen I'm listening to Beethoven's string quartets and musing on my latest book adventure. Some years ago a very wise woman for whom I have lot of respect said a sightly disturbing thing about sex and relationships. A therapist who has spent much of her career delving into the minds of people most clinicians won't touch she knows the darkness in the souls of men. She said something on the lines of "when men go on a date they want to get sex. When women go on a date they don't want to get killed". Harsh and controversial I guess but with some of the stories I have heard an element of reality lies in that bleak statement.

Earlier in the week I started reading Anais Nin's Delta of Venus, an journey into erotica from a female perspective written I think in the 1940s. The first chapter was brutal, nasty, sordid and repulsive. I considered putting the book down and leaving it there. Come the second chapter though I realise that Nin got it. She knew of the sexuality and sensuality of women. She also knew the carnal domineering male sexuality perpetrated in a male dominated world where women to some are play things. Men want sex, women don't want to die.

I'm now gone from wanting to put the book in the bin to the intrigue of moving on. I mentioned it to Rachel today who also happens to be a therapist. Must mention it to Kym too.

The rest of the day brings more music, more fish and more switch off. A day in work on Monday will give way to the opera. I'm anxious about it but eager in my anticipation of the glories of opera. I'm not familiar with The Barber of Seville but I look forward to finding out.

I Heard a Voice.