It's Tuesday when I'm writing this Monday post whilst I wait for my PC to re-install some automatic software. Monday was another compressed day where I eventually stopped for a refuel at around nine in the evening. I'm getting some of my 'task boxes' ticked though but then inevitably another appears demanding some kind of unexpected attention.
As I mapped out the week in my head looking for one of those 'and rest' moments it seems to be at least a couple of weeks into the future, with most days pre-programmed. When I idly looked at my inbox for travel arrangements, I noticed another 5 flights have slid in and during Monday a sixth one looks probable for next week.
So I shall be doing my best to find the ten or so minutes to pen some kind of ongoing blog post. Like others, there's always incomplete adventures, partial projects and storylines that never quite make it.
We took position opposite the chapel, in the library, where there were already others clothed as if not from the local area. The darkly clad man with the triangular hat and the large and slightly disturbing sock puppet were the first we noticed, followed by another puppet with black buttons for eyes. We were entering a zone where Brechtian punk cabaret seemed to be intersecting with a few characters who would be at home in Coraline or Struwwelpeter.
A Guinness and some fancy Belgian beers later and we'd spotted the pedal operated piano navigating the Islington traffic system. Eventually after the piano's return and hearing applause from an impromptu song from Amanda outside the chapel, we decided it was time for us cross the road from the pub to the event.
Two lines, so we joined the shorter one, soon to be advised by one of those very puppets that we needed to change to the longer queue, which now snaked out of the building, along the road, down some steps and finished somewhere in the gyratory system. We good-naturedly walked the smiling faces, many people clearly dressed for the occasion and as we did so, the pianist started to have trouble with the piano which by now was belching orange flames from its interior, along with clouds of black smoke. Undeterred, he played on, accompanied by a vocalist similarly unperturbed by the change of circumstance.
Inside the chapel, we realised that those ahead of us had now filled most of the seats. We remembered the side staircase and found our way to the gallery. Ideal for a perfect view.
First was Essex-based Polly Scattergood, shimmering in silver, accessorised with pink, playing quirky songs of pills and vulnerability accompanied by a small band with some rather loud drums. We applauded in all the right places as Polly delivered around five songs from her debut album. The audience was warm, but as she mentioned the name of the act to follow there was a noticeable burst of added appreciation.
Before the main act, the chapel's organ was played by a shadowy maestro who had to sit behind the stage. A delightful interlude.
And so onto Amanda. Palmer. Neil Gaiman had already taken a spot near the front and Beth Hommel was doing things with papers and water on the stage.
Amanda appeared, moved to the front and sang 'The wind that shakes the barley', unaccompanied.
Total silence from the audience until the end of the song and then a reverberation to lift the roof from the church. We could sense we were in for a great show.
Sure enough, the KurtWeil keys were then caressed and Amanda' poise became at one with the instrument which she could coax or attack as the song and mood demanded.
A blend of well-known songs from her recent excellent album and an equal mix of other choices, from other works and from friends with whom she collaborates. "Oasis" was introduced with a comment about us all going to Hell and although "Leeds United" was omitted, I'm including a video link to it anyway.
The set ran smoothly, interspersed with chatter, questions, a picture auction and a chance for Polly Scattergood to perform an unusual rendition of Puff the Magic Dragon with Amanda on keys.
There's a magic to the venue and even Amanda admitted that she'd decided she had better think out a 'proper set' for the performance, which came across as polished but with a strong rapport engaging the audience from the very start. There was an endearing moment whilst she remembered the chords for a song someone requested. At another time, she invited her partner Neil Gaiman onstage and he sang a short 'hymn' which Amanda accompanied on piano. It certainly didn't fall flat on its face either.
Amanda ran the timing right to the 10:30 curfew wire, but then still managed to finish with another unaccompanied and wrenching version of 'the song nobody else can cover': Tori Amos's 'Me and a gun', from which I sense more than a few tears were shed. Then to boost it back up for the final number with stabbing keys and a suitably rousing finale.
After the houselights, we headed back to the bar for a further Red Stripe and a chance to chatter about the concert. Much later we left, and as we walked out, there was still a line of people snaking through the chapel towards the seat where Amanda sat signing and chatting, accompanied by Neil.
Amanda Palmer makes her own unique path through the world and music and it is great when this spirit alights even momentarily to allow us to share in the experience. I predict scaffolding and roof repairs to the chapel following the level of applause.
Some might think I've had a few lazy days with my feet up not posting much although the reality is that I've been busy and out until late in the evenings.
From last Monday when I had a six a.m. start, right the way through to last night, its been meetings, trips and some modest social moments included.
I still prefer to post something most days and so when such a gap occurs I even sometimes back post. I know its only really for me and that sometimes its just a picture or a few sentences, but it keeps a stuttery narrative rather than ponderous gaps.
It also helps me to put down brief markers for things which I may return to later. Today I'm soon to head for Camden. We're meeting in a pub for a late lunch and then much later some of us will head across to Amanda Palmer's gig.
The small padded envelope arrived just as I was about to head out for a meeting. I assumed it was a CD or DVD or similar and din't have time to open it.
When I returned much later, it turned out to be the first printed copy of The Triangle. I fear the English language is in for another shock.
I've been around the back streets of Euston and St Pancras today, in an area once referred to as Somers Town. I arrived for my evening liaison rather early because I had conference calls to make and needed to be somewhere static before I headed for the appointed wine bar.
The instructions to navigate to the bar involved alleyways and a pole dancing club as a landmark. I sipped my coffee whilst on my phone calls and was seated outdoors across the way from the roped entrance to a massage parlour, complete with blackened windows and flashing lights.
When I finally met my accomplice for the evening, she commented that there had perhaps been people in the flashing light place wondering if I was planning to go in.
I'm bemused that Gordon Brown stayed quiet about the Libyan bomber release as long as he did and created several situations where the UK Press wondered at Brown's lack of voice. Then a topic he chose to use to make an apology and use the "S" word was the treatment of master cryptographer Alan Turing, who famously cracked the codes being used in World War II but suffered harsh treatment in post War Britain.
Turing is well known for the Turing test, which postulates that a computer can be considered to think if sufficient people are unable to ask it questions and deduce it as a machine, rather than a human. The CAPTCHA test used on some blogs (where you have to recognise some letters in order to make a comment) is a Turing derivative standing for "Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart”.
I'm wondering if the Labour Party have done something odd with Gordon now, and that there's a separate box somewhere with some special springs and cogs in it, attempting to run the UK?
But, at last, the problem has been fixed, along with a Service B, some new brake bits and a walk with an umbrella.
They say nature abhors a vacuum so within minutes the usual random collection of stuff re-submerged into the recesses of the newly pingy boot as if some giant electro magnet had been switched on.
Tomorrow there will be a further test, when the little Ka returns and no doubt huge further amounts of luggage will be temporarily moved into the boot for onward transportation.
Reboot universe, as they say on some traffic lights.
The large Termite Mound which has sprung up along the South Bank is part of the Pestival celebration of insects which runs through this weekend.
I happened to be passing it whilst it was being created and thought the combination of bars, construction workers and little crowds of onlookers was itself quite a spectacle. Now, of course, it is suited to far more artistic views.
And the related exhibits include all manner of bug and particularly the dwindling bee.
Some of the creatures get to that uncomfortably large size that turns them from cute into eversoslightlyscary. I haven't quite worked out the turning point, but maybe its whether or not all the legs could be contained within an upturned coffee mug?
I always think of September as spider month, because it seems to be the time when they decide they've had enough outdoors and start to patrol the carpets again.
I was listening today to someone on the radio talking about how to watch nature by sitting still on a rock and waiting. The generally wary wildlife stops computing one's presence after a while and returns to the area.
I guess that works better in country areas than in the city. Like the difference between country hedgehogs and townie ones. The country ones try to stare down the car headlights. The city ones run.
Like crossing Traf Square to wave to the plinther. As usual, the pigeons don't care. They fly so close I can feel the wind rush from their wings.
