# 12

"The bus driver slowed down, though he did not stop; he seemed to be hovering over Time. In the slowed-down silence no-one spoke and nothing moved - except for the river, which to all observation was moving backwards." Jeanette Winterson, Tanglewreck. Time is the strangest thing because it just is, it ticks away and we roll with it. We get up, go to bed, watch the football, start and finish the matches to it. And then one day every spring, always a Sunday, the powers to be just steal an hour from us. They tend to give back in the autumn, but here is what I worry about - what if they decide to take us off the treadmill of time changing and leave us without the hour we lost? That could have been it, couldn't it; the time when all our dreams and thoughts and creative ideas came to be realised - which then find themselves naught but shadows on a cobbled square in Barcelona. Pablo Neruda wrote, 

This time is difficult, wait for me:
we will live it out vividly.

Happy Sunday one and all - don't forget the clocks went forward (or did they really...) its time for this - who knows where the time goes - you use up every thing you've got, trying to give everybody what they want:

# 11

Another 4.30 am start, its dark but warmer than its been - spring is surely trying hard. This weekend the clocks change to British Summer Time and goodness but am I ready for it. Walking under the blue viaduct rampart into Brighton, I was trying to think why a man flying to Barcelona would get so desperate as to lock his friends out of the cockpit and then deliberately crash the plane with a hundred and fifty people on board? It doesn't seem to make sense to me that we grow out of a generation of people who fought wars for our freedom and then we use our freedom in this way. I had a terrible sleep last night, couldn't get this idea out of my head and knowing I was getting up at 4.30 didn't help. So finally falling back to sleep around three and knowing I had more time felt good. Then Abbi 'whatsapped' me at 4.15 to tell me she was reading Tennyson's, Idylls of the King. What did I think at that time? That's my girl, it seems to be a good time to get the kettle on. And so here I am, four thirty is approaching five, the early grey with citron tea is hot and reviving, its a new day and I will be re-reading a new book at the weekend - Idylls of the King, of course. I can barely listen to this song without it giving me goosebumps every time. Just one of those that seeps into our bodies, grabs hold and never seems to let go, happy Friday...

# 10

I stole this picture from my sister Angie - I knew she wouldn't mind. As I was sitting composing this post Bob Dylan singing Mighty Quinn came into my music machine, on shuffle in the kitchen. Coming from that 'lived through the war generation' when men wore suits (my Dad did when they went out dancing on Saturday night) and singers sang like Frank Sinatra (having heard him on the radio she and Nina (my Auntie Jane) were disappointed when they saw pictures of a skinny wee man whose hat almost looked too big for him) she hated Bob Dylan. Of course her musical taste changed with time - like most things - but she liked it when I would play my guitar and sing a Bob Dylan song for her, that was a different deal altogether. And the last time she was in Brighton I sang this - one day I will record my own version, just to remember that time, though I suspect I will never forget - don't think twice, its all right...

# 9

Its that day of the year, the winter clouds have pulled back, the sun is just up, crocuses are peeking through the grass, yellow, pink and purple flecks, blue tits are flitting in an out of the fruit trees and rose bushes, a mahogany coloured, female blackbird is scouting for a nest space, while the coal black male with the yellow beak watches her driving the cats mad with frustration; and old faithful, pictured, will get its first rub down of the year, tyres pumped, gears checked - spring, its like welcoming home an old friend. As I sit typing this, Van Morrison is singing, Rave on John Donne - ooh, and I am so tempted to post that but not this morning. This morning the citrus early grey is reaching parts the winter had forgotten existed, the senses are awakening, the creases unfolding, creaks oiling out, not a day for maladies. I know I have posted this clip before - some time back - but I absolutely adore it, Mali Sadio by Toumani Diabaté and Mangala Camara. It makes me feel like spring is here and summer is close by. If you are near my house around four this afternoon, ring the doorbell, come out back, we can flip open a beer and sway...

# 8

The first of March, where has the year gone? As I get older the years seem to speed up, is this an affliction of ageing or the plight of a busy person? And although I also sleep much less than I ever did (and I have always been a bad sleeper anyway) I still don't seem to have enough hours in the day to do stuff that needs doing. This year I have written five new songs already - but when will I have time to record them? And more worryingly too, the postman left a 'you were out card' to say my new books are ready for picking up at the post office. I neither have time to pick them up, or indeed read the books I already have waiting - and don't start me on Kindle, its fatal, I even forget I have downloaded them. I am off to America in April and am determined not to travel with paper, but alas, I do want to read the new Ali Smith, Claire Fuller... and then there is the activity going on in this picture; writing and rewriting and writing and rewriting, time is such a fickle friend. I can't believe its March already. Thus, I am going to stop this blog, pick up the Martin and find a tune for the boy from Barcelona, who plays a broken-heart stringed mandolin.