Musical mirth.

(Before I start – what a smug title that is. I mean, it’s like something a retired, specialist magazine contributor would come up with; imagines it’s clever and wry but is actually a bit up itself in a fairly boring way. I apologise, if you care; it was conveniently lazy.)

ANYway.

Two quick thoughts related to music and maybe worth some mirth. One: saw a fab title for a band at the weekend. Was actually a Daily Echo newsagents’ headline hoarding all over town but I’d pay to see this undoubtedly hairy, sullen, noisy outfit if they appeared on the rosta at Mr Kyps – Sex Trade Police Raid. STPR to their fans. Not that I instantly bipass concern at local social problems for amusing myself with words of course.

Two: WHO, I mean WHO thought that the King of Saudi Arabia should be heralded onto British tarmac – as he and forty tons of baggage and entourage streamed across our robustly upholstered diplomatic red carpet all afternoon – WITH DARTH VADER’S THEME FROM THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK! Did you HEAR? (I’m running out of typographic enhancements to convey my disbelief.) Jeepers. Is the royal band of the Coldstream Guards trying to make a walloping satirical point before they’re hastily dispatched to the Falklands indefinitely? ‘Here comes the sinister leader of an evil Empire’ music ? I mean ?

I would like to launch into a detailed debate with myself about the rights and wrongs of this visit of course, but I just know I’d never get past the patently fake facial disguise issues that distress the international diplomatic community so. Besides, I need to talk to my wife as she walks the lonely late night streets of London. Poor sausage sounds exhausted.

Perhaps STPR will turn out to have a social conscience and put sarcastic satirical lyrics to an angry indie version of John Williams’ tune for Mr Vader.

Crikey, I should just set this up, shouldn’t I?

Auditions in a fortnight people. Not being funny.

Dad is home.

Simple headline, to the point – I’ve just spoken with Dad who has been finally let out of Bournemouth hospital this afternoon. He said to me on Saturday that the rather more walloping meds they’d started him on already seemed to be having an effect, but a chest x-ray this morning apparently confirmed it – he’s improving. Slowly.

He’s tired, of course. Hospital is all at once a long time in bed and a long time without proper sleep. People all around you are off-puttingly sick it seems. Falling over noisily and re-enacting Sean of the dead in the middle of the night with little consideration for others. And, as far as I can tell, the tea trolley visits the ward on an hourly cycle, morning, noon and night.

Still, the significant answer to many people’s prayers appears to be that they’ve properly diagnosed and prescribed, at last. I’m hoping it will give Mum a little mental rest too. But, of course, Dad is home – so maybe we need to pray for the woman all the more.

Will keep you posted.

x

Late words, old tunes. And the old man.

No, I shouldn’t be up. Amazing how hard it can be to knuckle down during daylight hours sometimes, but the late-night glow of the studio jelly lamps has enticed me to keep going with a particular job that needs sending to press tomorrow. Daft. But the wife’s away for a second night.

One reason I’m at the Mac late is that I saw Dad again tonight. Yesterday he was looking almost chipper – rested, tested and no, not bare-breasted, a little reassured that the shadows on his lungs were probably not nearly as sinister as the GP’s suspicions that had shocked him into hospital. However, today, on the phone, he sounded very down after having had a Funny Turn. One of the nurses had to help him back to his bed from the washroom and I think he was pretty worried by it.

By the time I saw him in the evening, though, he seemed more himself again. Frantic ECG’s and blood pressure tests and yet more blood tests showed his heart and system in bizarrely fine fettle.
“You’re in good shape, Mr Peach” said the young doctor, staring quizically at the the machines strapped to my pale-looking Dad.
“Good shape?” I can hear him saying, “Good shape? But I feel like I’m about to meet my maker?”
“Yes I know” replied the doctor with a cursory smile, “– odd, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t there, of course, but this was the gist. What did come out of it though, is that they’ve ascertained that the shadows on his lungs are likely to be a build up of fluid – and that’s what’s causing his funny turns. Probably not directly a heart thing. This might be progress.

Mind you, a potentially life-threatening condition is a potentially life-threatening condition, I guess – who cares what they’ll end up feeling confident about putting on your coroner’s report?

And this does nothing to pin down exactly what is wrong with other issues he’s dealing with. One thing I’d like to see really is hospital consultants actually consulting one another…

—

Funny, as a nice diversion, I had a note from Tim Colthup last week telling me he’s been listening to an old album of mine – Outrider. What a mate, eh? I mean, what a mate. Made me pull it off a forgotten shelf and listen to it – sat there in bed last night, headphones on in the dark like a teenager. 1995 I recorded that album; a dozen years ago. And, though I’ve always had a special, vaguely prophetic-feeling affection for that album in particular, it does now seem like another time and mindset, listening to it.

Not to be put off such splendidly distracting whimsy, however, it made me dig out the follow-up album, Worship the system – 1997. And then a couple of live recordings from the same time. And then a couple of old DATs of random stuff from as far back.

I can’t help feeling a strange affection for all of it, actually; for the small truckload of tunes and songs I laboured over in the pre-Momo years. The confidence and the creative youth mixed into those pieces; bless me. I had more of a different head on my shoulders then than I had previously realised. Plenty of worthy work along the way I think, but it certainly belongs behind me, paved into the little track I’ve tromped through the daisies.

You see? Whimsy.

I’m not a big look-backer. Prefer to look forward, generally. But, as I prepare to hit the sack at last, I am distressed to consider that the finest revelation tonight was from a DAT from ’98 or so – and the coolest version of the Knight Rider theme I’ve ever heard. I’d completely forgotten it. I arranged it, I recall, for guitar legend chum Greame – had a funny thing about it at the time it seems.

So there you are. My father is pondering lying in state and I’m wondering if my finest musical hour in the first twelve years of my ignominious recording career was an electro cover of the Knight Rider theme. Goodness, my Dad feels proud for good reason.

Think I’m ready for some new tunes now.

Late night cooking.

It feels like we’re both students. Or both running our own businesses. Whichever, we’re drinking so much tea it’s a wonder we’re not saving for a dialysis machine; our kidneys must be overheating. We neither of us leave our Macs to cook or clean or see the outside world.

So, tonight, I decided to make sure we ate something fresh. Caroline had mused about pizzas so I set-to while she continued doing things I’m normally doing while she entices me with food – PDFing, EPSing, InDesigning and Photoshopping. She said to me tonight: “In the last five weeks I’ve traded being a planner for being an urban designer, graphic designer, accountant, project manager and some kind of professional traveler.” All I know is, we need a cleaner. And a travel agent. And a benefactor.

It’s all good. And, having visited Dad this afternoon, I’m happy that he’s stable and okay. Tests and more tests and waits and hopes that an ultrasound will prove his lung shadow to be less threatening than his doctor had made it sound on Friday. People are helping him feel loved. I’m hoping Mum can feel some of it too.

So the pizzas looked divine by the time they emerged from the oven at nine tonight – worth the wait. But Caroline is burning the midnight it seems, in a very Momo stylee. And I have much to push on with too, if I could only find the will after so much late night pizza. We’re okay. But we both want a cup of tea.

Tolkein and trophies.

I’ve written the first To Do list and I’ve batted away the first emails but, as I start a new week, I can’t help wondering how last week might affect it.

The beginning.
I’ve mused many times about how strangely Silly tends to rub shoulders with Serious – and this week had them quietly sashaying together for sure. It saw both of my parents called into hospital unexpectedly at either end of it, while Caroline and I found ourselves sitting in a VIP area of an awards ceremony in the middle of it.

Dad called early on Sunday morning sounding uncharacteristically worried.
“We’re in trouble,” he said quietly. Quietly is always worse. Mum had woken up with some kind of bad reaction to something and was looking very odd; “Can you come over?” he said.

With the industrial cocktail of medication they’re on between them, it’s impossible to know what might be liable to react with what in their groaning pills cabinet, but this looked like some kind of allergic response; Mum was clearly anxious about what had confronted her in the mirror that morning. As I opened the car door to take her to the out-of-hours GP at the hospital, I could tell, however, that she was almost as anxious about leaving Dad to worry about her.

Dad’s health over the last fifteen years has been a complicated folder of doctors’ notes. Any one of his deteriorating conditions would be trial enough, but this formally active, kinetic man has been steady tied down with complications and random health discoveries. I won’t list them here, but we try to laugh about how ridiculous it sounds when you do.

Thankfully, his sense of humour is one organ that’s still functioning, though it’s taken a beating.

Caroline stayed with him that morning and was the perfect soothing company, while I tried to distract Mum in the terrible tedium of an unexpected medical waiting room with stories about the casting for the new Star Trek movie and the timeless joy of reading The Lord Of The Rings. Mum is still gutted that she had no idea Tolkein spent the last three years of his life right here in Bouremouth, during the first three years of mine. A literary hero, just across town; I think she’d have forced her way through his front door and had him bless my forehead if she’d known.

Two hours of trivia calmed down her allergic reaction. Her breathing never seemed to be threatened, thankfully, and by the time we saw the doctor she seemed herself again. Turned out to be the antibiotics she’d been taking for something else. A slowly growing relief on a Sunday morning, but it would need more tests for other health matters and these were potentially serious developments for her.

But not for today. We went home. We finished the dinner and relaxed together, all in one piece. Then Dad said to me: “Are you doing anything Friday?”
“I don’t know.” I said.
“Only, it’s the one day next week that your mother and I aren’t have hospital tests somewhere, so we’re looking for some good ideas to make the most of the time off.”

The middle.I looked at the clock and hmmmed. If I was going to go, I’d really have to go now.

I looked at the mobile and wondered about calling Mike again. In the middle of trying to sign off a particularly large print job to be delivered overseas, I’d agreed to pop up into London to catch up with Mike at a little music event thing that he’d been involved with. Doing so, though, would also afford me the chance to have a drink with good chum Julian, who was not only account handling said large print job’s client, but who was and is also kindly offering my wife some regular accommodation in the capital; he and Angela have been lovely about looking after her. The idea was that I could show off the shiny new brochures to him, share a little tangential banter without having to explain to to anyone else, and then wander across Milly bridge to meet Mike in Oxford Circus afterwards. Later on, Caroline could join us there after her studies and we could all get a late-night falafel from some Obese By 2050:SIgn Up Here takeaway. Good plan.

Well, it went according to plan but with a bit I hadn’t expected. I picked up the mobile that afternoon and called Mike and basically said: “I’m up to my eyeballs, do I really need to meet you tonight?” You know, subtle and friendly like. He paused and said: “Mate, I think you should be at AKA tonight.”

London looks at its best at twilight. The river looks almost planned, although as we’ve long known and as Caroline is learning in detail, we shouldn’t be so cavalier with such a silly notion. Still, it’s relative calm put me in a good mood as I tubed up to Holborn and wandered in search of this little bar or whatever called AKA. “Two blokes and a dog” I said to myself; “if there’s that many people in the audience, we’ll up to par, I think.”

There was, as I rounded the corner off Drury Lane, a queue of queuers and a small throng of hangers-on outside AKA. People with clip boards on the door; a throb of noise inside. I joined the queue and found myelf at the front of it suddenly.
“Name?” the lady asked.
“Tim Peach” I said, “from, er, Momotimo.”
She scanned the sheet and then brightened quickly.
“Oh, right – come on in.”

In was a wall of hairy young musos. A typical wall of humanity at the bar; another queue of fancy-dressed hopefuls up the stairs to the VIP area. What was it – could I put my finger on it? – an actual atmosphere of sorts. I checked the phone and scanned for Mike but no contact. So I bought a San Miguel and wandered around wherever I could actually move, feeling a little like someone’s dad.

“Welcome!” boofed the PA after a while, dimming the music.
“Welcome to the Glasswerk New Music Awards 2007.”
Rumbled cheers.
“We’re celebrating all types of music tonight, the brightest and best – with me, some bloke from Fame Academy or somesuch, and him, a bloke from Actual Band, Terravision.”
These aren’t his words verbatim, you understand, but gist enough.

I found Mike downstairs somewhere, out of signal range. We chatted as the ceremony began overhead. Cheers, bumps of sudden music, then quiet, then applause; someone was evidently receiving something for something.

After a while, we decided to wander upstairs again into the back of the crowd. As I rounded the bar, a sea of backs to me, I saw something odd. My band’s name across the large screen at the front. Now, when I say ‘band’ I don’t mean ‘band’ because I have no band, and when I say ‘my band’s name’ I don’t mean that either because they hadn’t spelled it right. But I’m pretty sure they meant me in some guise.

“Is he here?” said the PA. “Is Mom Timo here?”

I paused. Then found myself raising my beer bottle and calling forth from the back in my best stentorian tones: “Yes! He’s here. Halloo! I’m here…”

The crowd parted. They just moved aside and I found myself down the front all of a sudden, San Miguel in one hand, trophy in the other and a copy of Jerome K Jerome still in my pocket. Camera rolled.

“Say something good” said the bloke from Terravision with a smile. Or was it the other bloke?

I approached the mic. “Er, gosh.” I began confidently. “Er, blimey. I don’t know – you pop into Town for a little light dinner, maybe take in a show or something, then someone hands you an award for something.”

A sea of quiet faces. Rock and roll events –not the place for gentlemanly wit and whimsy.

“Thank you anyway. Can I get this gift-wrapped?” I turned and asked as the Get Off music faded up. I looked at the plaque: ‘Best Dance Act – Mom Timo’.

So, by the time Caroline hauled her massive Life In One Bag through the door of the VIP area upstairs, squeezing past back-combed teenagers and surly middle-aged music types, I’d already been cosying on a couch with a shiny lady from Avenue 11 Entertainment TV, trying to explain what this award would do for me. “I’ll let you know, just as soon as I discover what this award I’m holding actually is” I tried not to say through a five-minute smile.

Something to do with Momo’s place on a music website. Though I suspect my good friend Mike had a fair deal to do with this, the fact remains that Britain’s most unpromoted Electro Pop outift now has a gong. Or at least, Momo:timo is looking after it until Mom Timo appears to collect it.

The end – of the week.
Coming back from a printers on Friday, I received a call from Caroline.
“It’s Dad. He sounded pretty shaken up. The doctor called him and told him to get to A&E; straight away; they think they’ve found a clot on his lung.”

So, what do you do? You make some calls before you can get anywhere and work out what’s going on. Back in the studio I spoke with Melly and she said Mum and Dad had already gone to the hospital. Dad was fine really – this was perhaps a precautionary thing by the doctor. She seemed okay.

I wrapped up a few things and, after hearing no news, went down to Casualty to see if I could find them.

Waiting around is the hardest thing in a hospital. It was clearly hard on Mum especially and by the time Dad’s blood test results came through, the magical blood test machine had managed to fail the samples – so they’d need to take more. It was obvious that Dad would be in at least over night and that there was nothing to be done there in Acute Admissions. On another day, I might ponder what kind of admission might be desperate/illegal/embarrassing enough to be termed ‘acute’ – “OkayIadmitit! I’m not really a doctor’ for example. And for similar issues of tone and gravitas while my father lies in hospital, I’ll not explore the idea of ever visiting the Discharge Lounge just down the corridor.

As things stood, he was tired and unsure but immediately okay. I spoke with the reception nurse and ascertained the procedures lining up ahead of Dad and it was clear he’d be there for a while. She suggested what I’d been thinking – take Mum home.

Saturday rolled round and it sounded as if Dad had slept fine and been finally seen by a few people. That morning they seemed to think he had a small clot on his lung that might be dispelled by drugs. Better than the GP had imagined.

However, I spoke with him on the phone that afternoon and they’d changed their thoughts.
“We, ah. We, er – don’t know. Could be a, er, thing. We think.” they apparently said. Dad seemed concerned again, but reasonably okay. More waiting.

We went in that evening and he was still reasonably okay. Moved to a bed with a working TV. But it was clear he was finally giving in to the emotional weight of it all. My poor dad just feels like we’d most of us feel – useless. And unsure of what to expect. But we left him looking forward to the rugby final and praising the kindness of the nurses as he always does.

Sunday was more waiting without news. No one working any machines on a Sunday, of course. I found myself asleep on the sofa in front of Star Trek or my layout pad or Jerome K Jerome for most of the day. Caroline continued to work all hours on her college project. Somebody should really come in and do our washing up for us.

Today? Awaiting the news from Dad’s tests. I’ll be popping in after lunch. Will he be coming home or staying in? Who knows. But I do suspect I’ll be re-writing my To Do lists a fair bit this week.