See, see the Word

It's finally time to take my finger off the Self-destruct button.

This has been a long time coming, obviously. Work, the inability to sleep, heavy drinking patterns and good old fashioned apathy have been the main elements of the radio silence around here for the past few weeks. To be perfectly honest, I have been quite busy... Which I shall detail over the next few hundred words and however long of our lives I spend writing and you spend reading.

I sit, wrapped in a sleeping bag in an apartment on the Prince of Wales road, Norwich. Yes, I rise from furthest west to find furthest east once more... Until my return journey which must either commence at 9 in the morning or not get back on time for evensong. This is an immense gamble with delays and the chance of getting stuck through London (is it warmer down in the tubes because they're closer to hell? Discuss for 40 marks) but who knows! It'll probably all work out just fine, and I'll roll down the hill straight into rehearsal, ready to resume my rightful place as the first Decani Alto Songman... No sorry, Lay Vicar. What is in a name, after all? It's going to be a long trip back though, that's for sure. As much as this weekend has reminded me that as much as I hate the actual act of travel itself, the value of doing so is inestimable, and that Norwich truly is a Fine City. The fact that I couldn't get into what must be the scummiest nightclub in town in shorts and sandals reflects the fact that I have simply spent too much time in Cornwall, where no such dress code exists in the many pubs that surround not only Truro but also around the wider Cornish land as well. That and I tend not to go clubbing as I got tired of being surrounded by crowds of sweaty people gyrating to music that is just far too loud, being ripped off for a pint of foreign lager a long time ago... Christ, how old am I?

Let's step back a week or so though, and take a sea voyage to the Isles of Scilly. Truro Cathedral Choir's bi-yearly tour to the islands rumbled on in traditional fashion, with a well-attended concert and a non too strenuous evensong on the main island's church of St. Mary's, and a short hop over to the sparsely populated island of St. Agnes, famed for its miniscule chapel and a fine hostelry, The Turk's Head. Pink Gins, annoying the locals with Brahms' Requiem, and a good helping of Barnsley banter are my lasting memories of this year's trip, and as usual, lasting sunburn is my only real souvenir. It's not as hilariously bad as the battenburg legs from the UEA Haydn day, but the difference between my burnt and unburnt skin is almost as extreme as you can get. Think Lobster.

One episode saw myself and a companion stuck in the shop on St. Agnes for some twenty minutes, while the rest of the choir headed for pub lunch. It's as if we were somehow transported to the 50s (Pepsi Max notwithstanding), as this wondrous place served not only as a general store, the post office, but also where the good folk of St. Agnes come to talk about the weather. As experiences go, being on the Isles is rather surreal for me; the number one oddity has to be not locking your bicycle up on the street. Look, I know I know I know... Everybody knows each other so it's not as if you could ever get away with knicking anything, but still...

Thankfully though, the tour seems to have been a great success once again. A personal highlight was my introduction to the Barnsley Rap, which ought to be required listening for just about anybody really, but mostly for Midlanders, for whom it should be a telling and witty satire of a typical bloke. Another fun moment was being told to quieten down as an inpromptu Deutsches Requiem love-in moment interrupted the local folk night in the Bishop and Wolf on the second night. Also, the so Great White Sickbucket was surprisingly... Survivable. For all the talk of necessary sick bags, acupuncture bands, travel pills and staring at the horizon, it seemed that the Gods smiled upon us, as it was possibly the smoothest crossing of the whole week, even between the islands. But who wants to hear about boats?

Anyway, this long Bank holiday weekend has really been all about one thing, and one thing only: the celebration of The Chief's wedding. As usual, nothing is quite as it seems, as I gather the actually marriage happened months previous (not that I knew at the time), much like the birth of his first born son (also another surprise (although presumably not to him)). This weekend has been somewhat of an emotional rollercoaster. Even being back in Norwich is amazing, especially when you consider the ridiculous journey it took to get here. I hate travel at the best of times of course, and having to sacrifice the best part of an entire day to crossing the country. There's also something weird about sitting in one place transporting you to another place... Okay, enough navel gazing. I also know that it isn't really that ridiculous, but this is about me hating long journeys so I don't care. I've never been a fan, but eh, it's kind of alright. The biggest problem is money, not distance after all.

Arriving on Friday, I felt like a tourist in my old city. Dressed in a particularly Cornish flavour (shorts, sandals, heavy cable knit), I made a break for the Norwich branch of the Gourmet Burger Kitchen, which I actually felt paled in comparison to Truro's own HUB Box, before reporting to the Bell Hotel for a swift pint... Where I had to leave my luggage in the middle of the floor while I waited for service... Just who does that?! I used to drink there every week and now I feel like a tourist! Thank God I didn't have a camera around my neck. I actually walked through the Lamb Inn first, on a fruitless search for Blue Moon. I must have looked like a right pillock, dragging my huge red luggage around town until Sensei came to pick me up.

The Wedding of the Century certainly lived up to the hype. I've been saying it with a wink ever since I was invited, but you know... It really was. A choir of eleven, a brass quartet and an organist filled the delicate confines of St. Peter's, Merton with sublime music and some very loud hymn singing. Having donned Doctor Bond's Morning Suit especially for the occasion, I even chose to accessorise my outfit by matching my phone case to my tie. I'm in on the official photos and everything! Even the weather was with us, and glorious sunshine greeted us as we left the church at the end of the ceremony. It seemed that fortune was our friend rather than foe, as the reception continued on apace, with a sung grace of Our Boy Billy's Ave Verum Corpus, complete with the pre-requisite English cadences, and a fine sit-down commenced after, itself complete with plenty of fine wines; perhaps the finest wines available to humanity? As the evening drew the Best Man's speech really was the speech we deserved, and the speech we needed. After service, a Jazz band assembled, which led to the usual 'dance until you can hardly walk' routine, but by 'eck is it worth it!

Okay, enough with the recounting of every detail already. Some of the finest things this weekend have been focussed on being accepted by people I've never met. I seemed to fit in quite well with The Chief and Toon's Durham pals who served as ushers and the choir. I even managed to accept compliments (just say thank you first, even if you don't quite believe it) about my voice! Having recently turned away from my old 'lightening countertenor' image, maybe it's time to turn back and actually believe in myself. The Christening in Spamcroft the next day was a bit of an opportunity to let rip, even though my raw throat stopped me going full tilt. Good ol' Bill to the rescue with his Mass a 4, and the mighty Cwn Rhondda at the end to really storm some barns. 

Over this past weekend, I have been reminded what it feels to be a whole and good person again, and it's as welcome as it is surprising. I cannot stress it enough and I couldn't put too fine a point on it, but don't have adequate tools at my disposal to express it. And there's no point in rushing after all. Verily, I say unto you; a total revolution, like a huge whirlwind that has shattered and uprooted some deep seated issues and uncovered feelings long buried, I thought once for my own good, but have finally managed to change my mind which is nothing short of a miracle in itself. Even though I want to feel angry and annoyed for always punishing myself, it's time to stop that, and learn to move on. If I don't... well, I really will be consumed utterly by my bitterness. I've had long enough finding out if self destruction really is the answer (seems inconclusive), and at least try something else entirely. It'll be tough, because that's all I'm used to, but I might have more success if I try another way. Because if there's one thing I've learned, there's always another way.

It's time for something new, yet familiar. I will no longer lock myself away. One thing I slowly worked out that was a problem with my last blog especially, was that I would spend a couple of thousand words unpacking my issues, but then never doing anything constructive about it. In a way, this has been an incredible act of self-sabotage, and critically I must, I have to, it is my duty to turn away from this. Rather than defining myself by my limitations, I must define myself by my victories, by what I have earned and what I have accomplished. Heavens, I might even start traveling more often...!