Pantsman pax ’em out.

I’m just trying out my ability with tabloid headlines. Not a bad one there, maybe. The reason I think of the gussett troubles of the Beeb’s biggest news anchor is twofold:

1, we were remarking only moments before we heard the news of Jeremy’s already-infamous letter to the hitherto-be-shining-armoured Sir Stuart Rose – branding smarty-pants – that my recent purchases from the M&S; Symmetrical & Only Vaguely-Defined Men’s department were worryingly thin of fibre. Soft, I mark you. But disturbingly opaque. Bad timing to have tried white ones for the first time in twenty years…

2, my energy levels are pants. And thin. And worn-through.

A deadline-buried weekend just about floored me by the time Caroline and I were driving up to Horsham yesterday. The road was a blur. I found no reserves of personality to offer loved ones as we entered the crowded church in the old town. And as the funeral of another member of our wider family rolled past us in the pews, I wondered how to contribute anything to those we were standing with. I could barely stand for sudden fatigue.

David was an inspiration. A big smile of wisdom. To be there felt like a great privilege – but I felt only there in body.

Now, back so soon with another deadline to battle through before tomorrow morning, I am dreaming of time off. Time free. Time to think. Time to regenerate some creativity. Because I can sense things to be done coming our way – perhaps good things. But I just want to crawl under a rock at the moment.

Just a few days of french cafés and sketching. No deadlines. No schedule. That’s all it might take. Because I still feel a little overwhelmed by the people around me; their care and love.

So I guess, after all, I’m saying that I don’t think I’m in need of any extra support – I just don’t want to be quite so on show for a little while.

Back to normal.

Are we? Don’t know, really. Momo’s ramped up to speed this week, which is good, I guess. And Caroline’s back at college; the upshot of both being that we locked ourselves into the studio again lastnight with Pete, Annie and a fruity Rioja to try and Stay On It. Or perhaps, Get Down On It. All very nice; very funky and productive even, but we had to draw the line at Kissy Sell Out, who kept shouting at us how much the tunes he was playing from only about a year ago reminded him of school… Yep, I’ll concede you can only listen to Radio One for so long, even on a Friday night.

So we’re knackered. And feeling a bit old. And in need of time away; I’ve found myself trying not to cry at episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine this week – emotion that should not speak its name but be simply bundled off to Brugge for a recouperative weekend, I think. Working on it.

But right now, we’re having to work all weekend, despite pained eyes. Umpteen deadlines all at once.

Still, two nice things to wake up to: my first ever collection of Django Reinhardt plopped through the door this morning, and Fi Gawdblesser Glover made a joke to a cultural hero of mine on my behalf – “Nitin Sawhney is our studio guest star this week and listener Tim Peach tells us that someone once said it is easier to list the things you can’t do than those you can. He’d like me to ask you what they both are, respectfully…” He chuckled and said simply: “Cooking and driving.”

Hah! Knew there had to be something.

Hmm. But he also feels no need to write into radio shows and then blog the results.

..Don’t care, Fi Glover spoke my name to Nitin Sawhney while I lounged in bed. An auspicious start to Saturday…

New Year.

Amazon have declared our weird Christmas finally over, with two new CDs arriving in the post. New music helps to make a new chapter – but while I fug around to Herbie Hancock and swashbuckle Momo’s inbox, I think of last Wednesday and what a bizarrely good thing it was.

Dad would, I feel sure, have been bursting with pride. I was. Our family of friends were fantastic – thankyou for helping to give us a love-fest that was the best send-off we could have managed. The stories and the smiles around the sadness filled us up. Just thankyou.

Mum is in okay shape, and so is Melly. We’re all doing okay. But we could have talked for days to describe Dad properly.

Thinking of you, Dad. We all have been, very very fondly.

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