Tiny Head

A shocking number of my old schoolmates who have recently surfaced on facebook have babies. Some of them even have babies old enough to be classified as children. Some of them even have more than one.

So. To deal with the situation as best I know how, I'm getting a cat. A lovely, neurotic cat with a tiny head.

There's just one problem. The British seem to be much more concerned about a cat's freedom to roam than the Canadians. Everyone I talk to brings it up: it is, to them, nothing but cruel to have an "indoor" cat. Meanwhile, I was always led to believe that indoor cats will live longer and be less traumatized than their outdoor counterparts. But maybe this was just some humanist-fascist balm applied to make us feel better about not wanting to invest in a cat-flap and flea-powder.

Quick, blog-readers, I need some opinions.

He that brings them together

I'm sorry. I've got to do just a little tiny Harry Potter post. More of a comment, really, on the social phenomenon created by a book.

A book!

How wonderful is it, that a book can make over 300 people go stand in line outside in the rain for three hours at midnight? In costume!

So, yes, I went, my friends went, most of Bath went, to the official releasing of the last Potter book last night. The bookshop was nicely located between high-street bars so that all the late-night drinking punters could heckle us as they stumbled home. Nothing like a confrontation between a stag party and a load of adults dressed as owls.

(For the record, I only had ten minutes to make my costume, between the end of a gig and the beginning of Potter fun. So. I was a wand.)

Kids love to be naked.

Kids, they just love to be naked. They really do. Little kids, like, under 6, let's say. I visited the home of some students this weekend (after cycling to their village, which happened to be on top of a mountain, almost) and it was naked, naked, naked.

The little boy, 4, answered the door naked. The little girl, 2, had lunch with me naked. They showed me toads and bean-plants in the garden, naked. We danced the hokey-pokey and turned ourselves around, naked (them, not me).

I know it has to do with lack of inhibition and/or the concept of bodily shame at that age, but there's more to it than just plain oblivion. These kids had clothes on, and took them off. They love being naked!

So, the question is, why do kids love to be naked? Is it because:

a) They know they're being slightly mischievous, and kids love that business.

b) They're most comfortable that way.

or

c) They know something we don't.

Old socks live on air

"If your band was a cheese, what kind of cheese would it be?"

Ah. Interviews on top-40 radio stations: simply charming. That said, before this week, I'd never actually done an interview on a top-40 radio station. The few scattered bits of radio experience I have are all of the staid, CBC/BBC type, the type that focuses a bit more on content and a bit less on sound effects.

Bandmate 1 said, "Blue cheese."

I said, "Disgusting. Definitely not blue cheese. Camembert, maybe."

Bandmate 2 said, "We're not a band that tastes like old socks."

Bandmate 1 said, "Well, really, if we were a cheese, we wouldn't be here."

I said, "No, we'd be in the fridge."

The announcer/interviewer said, "Great, that's a take."

And that, my friends, is the message we proudly passed on to the youth of this great nation.

BBC by the sea

I guess really famous people have to get up pretty early. I guess that's probably the price of intense fame. Take today, for example, when my string quartet and I filmed a commercial for the BBC. We had to be in Cardiff at 7:56am, meaning having to catch the 6:56am train, meaning having to get up in the 5's. I hear some people do this sort of thing everyday. Wow. They must be pretty famous.

We shot the commercial on a windswept cliff overlooking a blue-and-grey sea. It was meant to look like they caught us in the middle of an everyday rehearsal. In our full ballgown blacks. On a cliff by the sea. With microphones in our bras. Playing the themes to television shows we never got in Canada.

The best bit: having the director choose me to be the boy-crazy one who can't stop talking about Mr Darcy. 'Emma, talk about Mr Darcy and his wet shirt for about a minute, go. Oh, and can you play while you do it?' Just your everyday rehearsal.

manditory introduction post.

Well, here it is. The manditory introduction post. Just like it says, there, in the heading. A small sort of celebration for the birth of just what the cyber-universe needs: another blog. Another blog about telling every sound engineer from Bristol to Brighton that it's not a violin and other heart-stoppingly entertaining tales of a professional freelance violist. Here's a sample, based on true facts of today:

Today we played a festival in a small sunny town. There were a lot of children at our show, more than usual. And less parents, maybe none at all, as no one seemed to want to take responsibility for baby one - who entered stage left, climbing up and onto the stage during the set. I smiled at it. It smiled back. It climbed back down and into the crowd. No parents involved at any time. - or baby two, entering stage right, putting small stones into its mouth gleefully. A photographer (not a parent) moved this one out of the way. In any case, we now have a nice new band slogan:

The Cedar, as appealing to babies as stones.