The mastering session for the two new albums is set for the 29th. This coming Thursday. No more changes to the recordings are permitted now so things have to stay as they are. Nor am I allowed to change the running order of the songs as I've given my erstwhile art and design assistant, Dave Graham, the go ahead to typeset the text for both projects. In fact, we're close to having the packaging art finished although I've just now sent Dave more images for possible inclusion; photographs I took at Whitby and Robin Hood's Bay earlier today. I made the trip specifically to gather photographic images and camcorder footage. I'm supposed to have video projection material ready for the November tour dates too but, at this moment, there's neither tour material, nor tour concept, to work with. I've simply not had enough time, what with everything else I've had to do these last twelve months.

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I think one of the problems is that everything seems to become focussed on a single point of time in the year, (i.e. autumn). There's the fan convention with it's now obligatory album, visual work and live performance, plus the tour schedule and it's equally obligatory new album and staging. But, it's not just that... Alongside these major projects are other tasks, some associated, some completely separate. Many of these seem to occur at the back end of the year also. Naturally, it all ends up being a sort of juggling act, a crazy attempt to keep various balls in the air at once. But, I shouldn't really blame anyone but myself. I guess I'm the sort of girl who can't say no. Hope I'm not in a terrible mess. I just feel drained and empty at the moment.

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Some information has been missing from this diary of late due to writing it in a rush, particularly when other things have been on my mind. In some ways, the music making part of my life should be the easiest. Why should I complain about workloads? It's a privilege, a sort of 'calling', a natural by product of my being. It's unavoidable, automatic, self-evident. It's essence.

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On the other hand... it's dangerously unhealthy, sometimes questionably unhinged and, whichever way you look at it, time consumingly hard work. For anyone else to understand just how hard, they'd need to be with me throughout an entire year, spending the same time as myself (in this tiny room that I'm audacious enough to refer to as my 'studio'), working constantly without reference to real time or real life, being totally immersed in the creation of something that begins with blind faith and usually ends up with what I can only describe as either self-doubt or godless despair. The former is preferable to the latter but neither are much fun. I wonder how many people would continue to put up with it, the boredom , the insecurity, the selfishness, the obsessive and remorseless attempt to elevate a meagre musical ability beyond its sorry limitations? (And why the hell do I do it?) How quickly would the fun wear off, the glamour be exposed for what it really is? A few months, or, as in my case, more than thirty years?

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And yet, despite all this angst-ridden, pathetic, mock dramatic chest beating, I still can't give it up. Sometimes I'm actually disgusted by the hold this thing has over me, how weak I've become in its grasp. Too eager to swoon, that's me. Too desperately in need of love from strangers... But, oh, how wonderful to be given the chance to try, to be given the gift of creating music from such dreamy weakness. What a stunningly beautiful two-edged sword I've been handed! Praise the lord and load the water pistols.

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You know, sometimes dealing with words is almost as much fun as making sounds. Almost. Everything is drama and our lives vain fictions that rarely advance beyond a short run at some local theatre. But, during the brief time that the footlights burn, we play the part to the hilt, believing every red velvet moment, playing it as if our lives depended on it. Which, perhaps, they do. Gilded fictions, beautiful illusions, fables made real by our sheer desperation.

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So what activities of mine have I forgotten to include in the last episode or two of this diary? Well... I omitted to mention my quite probably broken foot. It happened like this: A couple of weeks ago, I was reminded that, earlier in the year, I'd accepted an invitation to officially open a new recording studio at the College of West Anglia in Kings Lynn. The opening was scheduled for September 15th. At the time of accepting, I'd no idea that September would see me pushing things to the limit in terms of project completion. When I received the reminder about the opening, at the start of September, I realised that it had completely slipped my mind. However, determined not to let anyone down, I made plans to travel down to Kings Lynn to do the honours and to talk to the students.

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The night before the journey, I was dashing around the house trying to prepare clothes for the trip. I hadn't got my house slippers on and clumsily hit my right foot on the edge of either a door or a bookcase nearby, my toes taking the brunt of the blow. Instant pain but I thought it would fade after a few minutes. It didn't. That night, sleeping was difficult. The slightest contact of the bed sheets with my toes brought on more pain which kept me awake. The next morning I was a wreck, limping about the place and grimacing. My toes and foot were black and blue, badly bruised and it felt as if a couple of them might have been cracked or broken. For a moment, I considered calling Jon Lawrence (the tutor who had asked me to open the new studio), to beg off the engagement but I felt that this would not be a good thing. So I decided to go ahead as planned. Getting a shoe onto the injured foot was another problem. I had to force myself through the pain barrier but, once my foot was in there, I grabbed a walking stick from my collection and set off for the station by cab. Luckily, Emiko had taken time off from work to accompany me so she was able to support my injury, spiritually if not physically.

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It was a long journey from Yorkshire to Kings Lynn, involving a change of train at Peterborough and then again at Ely. It rained all day as we sat on station platforms awaiting our connections, gazing out at the grey skies. I felt like an old, old man, limping around, clinging on to my walking stick. I was also embarrassed to have to explain to the college staff why I appeared so decrepit. A stupid injury. Nevertheless, I managed to get through the event which involved an interview with local media, the opening ceremony itself and a question and answer session with the students.

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The tutors and staff were all very kind to me and I was glad that I'd made the effort to get there, despite the physical difficulty. Jon kindly gave us a lift to the station where we waited fifty minutes for the train before making the long trip back home. More long waits for connections at other stations required medicinal administrations of wine from platform bars to ease the pain. By the time I got home, I was pleasantly inebriated.

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Now, over a week later, the foot is looking much better although still bruised in some places and my little toe continues to be uncomfortable, particularly when walking. But on the mend.

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