I glanced at my phone some 10 seconds early, and turned off the alarm as I leant my guitar against a nearby tree. Turning to see how people in the fairly busy market were behaving, I could see that most people had come to a halt, some it seemed frozen mid-action, and a definite hush had descended on the town. To be sure, some people carried on regardless, apparently oblivious of the stillness around them. Mostly though, small groups, couples and single figures alike remained still and absorbed in silent reflection.

A small group of pigeons were bustling around each other in front of the town hall. At almost exactly 11.02am, a white dove swooped in low across the square and landed among the pigeons. A second later, a trader shouted, “…apples 49p a pound…”, and everyone resumed talking and moving.

None of us could have scripted such a scene.

Originating post: white dove

There were a few sympathetic messages about the Japanese disaster. The rest were as follows; invitations to gigs, dinner plans, complaints about partners, “I’m so lonely….”, an offer of ukelele lessons….you get the picture.

Its hard to say if this is reassuring or deeply disturbing. A bit of both I guess. Life goes on, as I’m sure we would all want it to. What can we do? If you think prayer makes a difference, as I do, then a few minutes praying for the many people affected would be time well spent.

Originating post: banality & disaster

Not for the first time I am aware that what I am denying myself is all stuff I’m better off without anyway. So apart from all this detox, I am planning to spend more time praying or helping other people. Which it has to be said, will also improve my well being.

In some ways, Lent is a time to get a glimpse of a better life one could enjoy all year round.

Originating post: Ash Wednesday

Much has changed. Then it was cheaper, more dangerous, funkier….The likes of me could afford to live here. Today it is very different. Yet much of its unfathomable centre remains unchanged. A friend once described it as ‘….like a big old snake….regularly shedding its skin, but continuing to crawl and slither on…’.

I’m sure I have nothing original to say about it. But it continues to affect me, whether I’m here or not. To me it represents a tumultuous crossroads between the old and the new, a resounding now that includes yesterday and tomorrow, but is bogged down in neither.

In a way I cannot begin to explain, I am more able to be myself here than anywhere I have ever been. This may seem fanciful and sentimental. So be it. I am grateful to the town and its wonderful people for helping me feel this way.

I have been in the US since November 20, and in New York since December 6. I fly home to Cambridge England on Wednesday Jan 5.

Originating post: my spiritual home

Originating post: not feeling great

At different times, two of us said, “I dont want to die in….”, followed by our current places of residences. I have lived in the same town on and off for many years. Its a town I know too(?) well, and don’t like living in very much. Several times I have been geared up to take my leave, and something has happened to postpone my departure. Still I remain convinced that the day will come.

I am not at all convinced that leaving will be the antidote to my dissatisfaction. Although there are a number of places I believe I would be happier in, I don’t know that I will ever find somewhere to settle. Perhaps I am doomed to wander back and forth until the time and place of my demise present themselves.

What seems clearer than ever this morning is that for all of us the location is not the problem. If we were living our lives to the best of our ability, doing only the things most important to us, then where we were wouldn’t concern us. I am loathe to admit it, but I remain up to my neck in procrastination.

So although I remain as determined as ever to move, in the mean time I pray for the resolve to change my life right where I am. I can do better, and that being the case, there is no excuse for not doing so.

When death comes to claim me, I pray my house is in order, and I am in the middle of doing things I believe to be good. Then where I am at that time really wont matter.

Originating post: I don’t want to die here

In these dire times it may seem both foolhardy and a little sick to covet and own such a thing. Like many people, despite serious reservations, I have accepted that for the moment I cannot do my thing without a car.

Throughout my life, I have owned old cars. Usually I am the final owner. That being the case, I have mostly had decent old cars. Why drive an old Ford when you can drive an old Volvo? An automatic diesel Mercedes has always seemed to me the very best car I could ever hope for. Now I have one!

So welcome, Maud, into our family. Your superior engineering and the very comfortable ride you provide are much appreciated. We shall do our best to maintain and care for you in the times to come. Long may you run.

Originating post: Maud

My family moved to Cambridge in 1967, the summer of love(!). At seventeen and fresh out of boarding school into a student town full of pubs, my drinking career took off without a hitch. For the next several years, despite passionate affairs with most of the available recreational drugs, drink remained the undisputed protagonist in my hedonistic heart.

I moved to London, then the streets of Paris, where hours of playing music every day began in earnest. Still a drink of some kind was never far away. Life’s essentials were reduced to a minimum as all surplus funds were offered up at the altar of Bacchus. Fortified with ‘Dutch courage’, I embarked on one adventure after another throughout my 20s. Having lived to tell the tale, I cannot honestly say I regret my alcoholic exuberance. Without the booze, I may never summoned up the nerve to do many of the things I did.

Nonetheless, as I turned 30, though my lifestyle barely skipped a beat, I began to suspect that my tireless enthusiasm for intoxication was perhaps a little misguided. So I began to take short breaks from the drink. At first this was a miserable business. So ingrained in my psyche was the daily intake of something alcoholic, that the lack of it seemed a pointless denial of my essential nature. Despite moments of clarity, usually early in the morning, these brief periods of sobriety achieved nothing.

In 1982 I moved to New York, and a year later my twin sons were born. By this time I had managed once to stay dry for 6 months. During this period, for the first time I had glimpses of a life beyond or without alcohol. I could begrudgingly accept that I was a nicer person, less prone to anger, and less self centred. I also saw that I was far more able to rise to the challenges of improving as a musician, of doing my job more effectively. I realised that I was never going to write anything of lasting value under the influence of alcohol. And perhaps most of all, I could see that whatever parenting skills I could muster were bound to be handicapped by booze. Still I found it very difficult to sustain, particularly in the late night bars and clubs my line of work took me to. So I began drinking again, with a vengeance.

This pattern established itself for the next 20 years or so. I would give up for up to 6 months, then fall off the wagon with a bang. Feast or famine. Finally in late 1997 I had to admit to myself that what was left of my brain was turning to mush thanks to beer and its pals. In early 1998 I stopped and didn’t touch a drop for three and a half years. For the first year or so I smoked pot nearly every day. Eventually I had to concede that I had just substituted one drug for another. Also, I was not helping myself smoking every day, especially as a singer. So I stopped that too.

This was new territory. As the months went by, I barely thought about drinking any more. My brain was clear and full of ideas. I was obliged to admit I had been regarding life and human society through blinkered vision. I was now appreciating moments and details in a whole new way. There was more simple joy in my life!

I went to a couple of AA meetings but I did not feel comfortable. I am full of respect for what they offer and how they have helped so many people. It just was not my cup of tea. What I agree with them about is that no one can beat addiction on their own. It was during this period that I began revisiting my Christian faith.

Thanks mostly to my mother’s tireless, devout example, I had never entirely abandoned my belief in God. As a teenager intent on having as much fun as possible, I turned my back on my Catholic upbringing, and gave myself up to pursuing my own version of the rock and roll lifestyle. Still, when it suited me I turned to God, or at least acknowledged in my mind his undeniable presence.

There will be another time to chronicle in detail my journey for the last 11 years towards a better understanding and relationship with God. However I can think of no explanation for the transformation in my attitude to drink other than that I have been blessed with supernatural guidance.

When my mother died, I quite suddenly began drinking again. I drank a lot, but even so it was not the same as before. I had come to realise how much I enjoyed NOT drinking and treasured the time thus spent. In the last several years I have drunk less and less to the point where now I might have a drink every few weeks or so, in celebration of something or other, and maybe even have a bit of a party on that day! But I never drink the next day, and on a day to day basis, I am happier being sober and enjoying all the benefits of that.

In the bad old days, I more or less refused to suffer a hangover, and any time I awoke with one, I’d jump back in the river of booze as soon as possible. It took me a very long time to wake up to the fact that postponing suffering of this kind merely ensures greater suffering down the line. For me it is similar to the way society encourages us to work hard to acquire and maintain acceptable levels of comfort. La Grande Illusion!

In his most readable autobiography, ‘Music is my Mistress’, Duke Ellington writes of a moment in his late 20s when after a particular bout of partying he resolved to ‘retire undefeated’. Later in the book he describes enjoying vodka and caviar in some exotic place. This does not indicate that he had weakened his resolve, but rather that it was no longer a habit.

Retire undefeated. I like that.

Originating post: to drink or not to drink

As the aviation industry lurches tentatively back into action, its future seems more than ever suspended between desire and reality. How much longer can we expect to zip around the world with such ease?

Doubtless I will be labelled a doom monger when I itemise some of the factors stacked up against the indefinite future of air travel. While population growth is generating a demand for more and more planes, oil is running out, and the effect on the planet is unsustainable. This is miserable but well documented information that we are all to some extent in denial about.

What is more interesting is the value people individually place on travel. There always have and always will be those who travel in earnest. For them remains the endless quest of experiencing first hand other cultures and ways of life, of spending time among them, the better to understand our strange and wonderful world. Whether they are artists of some kind, writers or musicians, or just pilgrim souls committed to the itinerant life, they will continue their journey by any means available, often suffering privation and hardship. By their very nature they are effectively homeless. The road is their home.

This is not the case for most of us. In this jet age, so many of us cross the planet for short periods to get away from our everyday sedentary lives and return with a suntan, photos and trophies to show off to our neighbours. I suspect airports are full of people who have been dragged away by family or friends, when truthfully they would have much preferred to stay at home. I certainly know some who fit this description.

For the moment airlines and package holiday companies continue to seduce ordinary people into paying for trips, vacations and excursions. I wonder if that may begin to change soon. With TV and the internet providing better and better access to events and places worldwide, the casual traveller must be having second thoughts. Flying certainly isn’t glamorous any more. Unless you can afford first class, it is uncomfortable and tedious. Also, the age of cheap air travel is drawing to a close.

I have definitely taken advantage of this modern facility. I have moved about a good deal, and lived for periods of time in a number of different countries. However there is a downside. I now have family and friends scattered throughout the world. Most of them I rarely see. A hundred years ago, all the important people in my life would probably have been within a few hours of where I live.

Its my belief that in a hundred or so years from now, people will look back on this period as a peculiar blip in human history. Hurtling round the globe in winged, metal tubes? What for?

Originating post: fear of flying

I remember flying through the air, then the next thing I recall is yelling in pain. Almost immediately, a woman with her young daughter and small dog came to my assistance. They were so nice. I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask their names, but thank you whoever you are. How often it is that something bad happens and almost immediately something good happens too.

They helped me to my feet, and after assuring them several times that I was OK, I hobbled slowly home. I spent the rest of the day doing very little except putting off going to the hospital in the hope that I really was OK, but I wasn’t.

That evening a friend was good enough to drive me to the hospital. In Addenbrookes, we Cambridge folk have one of the best hospitals in the world. We are very lucky. I have waited for hours in other A&E/Casualty departments, but never here. Soon enough, they had me X-Rayed, and a nurse practitioner had a prod around, established how to hurt me(!), and pronounced that I had most likely slightly torn the ligament at the back of my knee. She showed me a slightly fuzzy white area of my X-ray to validate her claim. She strapped me up in the peculiar armour you can barely see in the photo, gave me a set of crutches, and sent me packing with an appointment to come back and see a consultant the following week.

I returned a week later and was examined by the qualified gentleman. He had a good poke around the distressed joint, and declared there was no way to say for sure what damage had been done. “Carry on as you are for another 4 weeks or so”, he said, “and then we’ll give you an MRI scan.” So rest, regular ice packs and elevation are now my key activities.

I have never before had to use crutches. At first it was awkward and difficult. Two weeks on and I have become quite adept. Nonetheless there are a great number of things that I either cannot do at all, or only do with great difficulty. The upside of this is that I can turn my attention to things I have been neglecting. Reading and writing immediately spring to mind. Since I am effectively under doctors orders to keep my feet up as much as possible, I might as well enjoy it.

All my advisers, qualified and otherwise, have said that injured knees take time to heal, and that above all patience is required.  I am not very good at this. Yesterday I did a bunch of tidying, cleaning and moving stuff around in my office/studio. I was determined to get to a certain point, and in doing so, overdid it. My knee was not happy. I will try today to make up for it, by doing, at least physically, the bare minimum. Wish me luck.

Originating post: wounded knee