60 Going On 16

In which Glastonbury prompts me to action

I lost my blogging mojo rather, at least for a few weeks. But I tried not to get all angsty about it. The mojo, I thought, will either return or it won't. Que sera, sera . . . 

In truth I had been exceptionally busy with my two jobs (freelance writer/ editor and purveyor of high quality dog care- ahem) and grappling with shingles and the dodgy shoulders. Jobs now come into the 21st century category of income streams so I have been busy keeping the income streams flowing, which sounds marginally more professional than than merely working. 

I slipped into 'oh, must blog about that - mañana' mode but mañana never came. Does it ever? Until, that is, my daughter and her husband went on their annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury. The Dear Daughter sent regular updates and photos from her iPhone so that, whenever I found myself feeling wistful and wishing that I were there too, I would look at the pictures of deep, deep mud and realise that Glastonbury, this year, would not have been a sensible choice.

That is where the BBC came to the rescue, as it does most years,  with plenty of Glastonbury coverage and not just of the megastars. So, from the comfort of the sofa, I was able to watch: Coldplay, who - truly - played a blinder of set, with amazing lighting and effects; the first half of U2 until I got bored, all of Paul Simon (who was suffering from some wretched infection that didn't do his voice any favours - but Paul Simon is Paul Simon), some Plan B, and absolutely all of B B King. At 85, this extraordinary man is still performing - and brilliantly, even if he has to sit down on stage these days. Well, at 85, it's allowed. I'm afraid that I gave up rather on Laura Marling after just one song, which was more than enough. Apologies to those of you who adore her.

I haven't caught up with Beyoncé's set; to be honest, her style of music and presentation doesn't do much for me but I will say no more, lest I find myself cast out into the exterior darkness, like poor old Zane Lowe. (But at least Zane's reaction proves that it's not just an age thing.)

There was, however, a single performance by the Raghu Dixit Project, an Indian group, who were new to me, that had me quite spellbound. So much so that I immediately emailed the Dear Daughter and the Friend in New Zealand (AKA the Finz). 'You must listen to this', I cybersqueaked, sending them both a link, not to the Glastonbury coverage but to an earlier performance of the same song by the same group on Later . . . with Jools Holland.

The three of us share a passion for India; we've all been there and the Finz was my travelling companion on the quest for my Indian family roots a few years ago. She is also my constant point of reference on matters musical; If she loves a particular singer, musician or piece of music, the chances are that I will too, and vice versa. And we particularly love the thrill of live music. She hadn't heard of Raghu Dixit either but, ever since I sent her the link, she too has been working her way through everything that is available on YouTube. I suggested that she might also like Adele - and she does. In fact, Raghu Dixit and Adele have provided the soundtrack to the bag-packing that is now under way in New Zealand, as the Finz prepares to fly halfway round the world for a month's stay in the UK.  

She'll be here in just over a week. Can't wait. And, by the time her train pulls into Tiverton Parkway station, the Raghu Dixit CD will be here too. (Yes, I'm still old-fashioned enough to buy CDs). We'll be whizzing along Devon's lanes listening to this and smiling rather a lot. No words needed.

A brief encounter, an unwelcome diversion, and a bit of a rewind

The last time I wrote a post, I fully intended to write several more in quick succession; I was off for a brief break in the Chilterns and London; I was enjoying myself; I saw some wonderful exhibitions- and then . . .

And then I got shingles and a frozen shoulder (adhesive capsulitis, to give it its proper name).The combination is a common complication, said my GP, after breast cancer surgery. However, the shoulder is not, as it turns out, frozen. My wise and highly experienced chiropractor who, in a previous career, worked in an oncology unit and at a breast care centre, explained that my shoulder joint had dropped and rolled forward. After breast cancer surgery, we tend to sleep on the opposite side from the site of surgery (assuming that we've had unilateral surgery) and continue to do so as long as we experence any discomfort, however slight or spasmodic. (And then, I suppose, it becomes a habit.)

So there we are: post-Massive Inconvenience shoulder compensation. The chiropractor held up a mirror so that I could see the difference between my two shoulders. I could. Still, a minor setback; the shingles are now gradually disappearing and I have (more) exercises to do and more manipulation to come next week. 

Right, having got that out of the way, I can now get back to the 'what I did on my holidays' post.

* * * * * 

So, I went up to London, didn't see The Queen, but did see this inspirational bronze sculpture:

Union (horse with two discs), by the prodigiously talented, Christopher Le Brun. Read more about sculpture and sculptor here.  It stands at the entrance to the Museum of London, which I was visiting to see one of its current exhibitions, London Street Photography, of which more in another post. 

Even though I studied art history (and English literature), these days I feel less inclined to spend time intellectualising exactly what it is that appeals to me about one particular work or another. One can be too cerebral about these things sometimes; now, I just want to be in the moment, experiencing my response, rather than analysing it. 

But back to Union. I found it quite mesmerising and, as sculpture can so often be, profoundly moving. If you have the opportunity to visit the Museum of London - a wonder in itself - do not miss the horse.