I have more than stretched the feminist muscles in the past couple of weeks; thank God that's not the only think my life consists of. I am furious that I have to be one, but there is no alternative!
It's very strange at this time of year, because this is when most of my lecturing and tutoring happens. It is easy to forget that I'm a musician and artist. I have not played any 'proper' (i.e. full length set) gigs in London for a long time and I am beginning to feel like doing that again.
However, I am completely out of the promoter and venue loop. All suggestions gratefully received!
In about a month I am going to start recording again. The pressure-cooker of work has had the usual effect of making me write lots of songs in the tiny gaps between writing lectures and delivering them.
At night. my imagination takes me into the studio and as I sing and play a raft of ghostly musicians floats through, landing as softly as gossamer on pale wooden floorboards, blowing life into gleaming brass, sawing away at feather-light fiddles or strumming silently on cedar-scented guitars before fading away again.
In reality, I scrub the bathroom sink and rise at six to head into the Eastern sunrise through the chill of dawn, running through my lectures in my head and wondering at the textures of the skin of russet apples and the colours of autumn leaves as I travel.
When I get to Bank Station, the labourers' fluorescent jackets, dusty boots and copies of The Sun give way to cross pink faces and navy blue coats as the City workers push me out of the way on their journeys to Nastywork.
I don't know what they do, but it makes them money/doesn't make them happy simultaneously.
Then I gaze out of the window on the Docklands Light Railway at the cormorants drying their wings in the pale, weak sunshine.
Life, life... what is the meaning of it all? I don't know, but I can tolerate it all so long as the cormorants can.