In my next life...

I'd like to be a musician, or possibly a dancer. If, we get a choice in such things, and I do believe in some hopeful, abstract way that one's soul might return to this wonderful and messed-up place we call The Earth.
I think I've been a reasonably good person, so far - at least enough not to return as a dung-beetle, a leech or a self-obsessed, narcissistic, country-ruining politician. Hopefully.
Over the years I've photographed my incredibly talented (I am allowed to say that, even though I am British, as it's true) pianist husband in his various groups. Working at a Conservatoire now, he has been fortunate to meet several wonderful fellow musicians and I've visually recorded them all, with various degrees of success. I have a degree in photography but also have an inbuilt tendency to feel fear at any sign of new technology, so the workings of my Canon have been mysterious for a long time.
So, yes. Being a musician. I have been, to a very small extent - sang in a rock band, played snare in a samba group, but to really have that deep musical knowledge I regard through the lens as I snap away at their postures and expressions, suspended somewhere in another world of music, is something else.
Which instrument in this imagined new life would I choose? Probably the cello, or double bass, maybe a bass bassoon. Something with a woody resonance that creeps through into your core. Alas, in this life, I'll probably have to make do with singing a few covers, or perhaps my own stuff - novels and songs. Why not?
Here's a bit of a blues song written years ago when Ezra, aged about four (now twenty) became obsessed with train journeys. and asked me if we could go on that Dirty Train to Wallsall. I presume we must have been standing around in Birmingham New Street at the time. Can't recall now.

I'm on a dirty, dirty, dirty train to Walsall, a dirty, dirty train to Walsall.
Man, it is so far and there ain't no restaurant car, I'm on a dirt, dirty, dirty train to Walsall.
Lord, I'd give my soul for a hot bacon and tomato roll, I'm on a dirty, dirty, dirty train to Walsall,
etc, sung in a mournful blues façon.

Anyway, back to the real thing and here's some photos of Mark playing with talented colleagues: flautist, Julie and percussionist, Julian; and in another group, Viola player, Yesault.







And possibly my favourite photo: Mark, Yseult and dancer, Yuko.

The afterlife.

Been thinking a lot about what happens after we shuffle off this . . . mortal thingamy lately. Only in an abstract way, while hoovering or walking the dogs, sorting through bills . . .
There's nothing like someone you know departing from this life to make you think about - what's next. To put it into a happier form of pondering I have developed a theory.
If you are a relatively good person in life - kind to others, non-complaining, etc, and you get to sit around in heaven or wherever, perhaps you will do so with people you really like and/or, admire/are intrigued by. A sort of sliding scale of numbers: one or two nice folks if you were well behaved enough, up to twenty perhaps if you were an early angel. It could be loved ones, friends or people you have admired. Here are a few bods I would very much like to encounter in the next episode - so to speak, apart from my own friends and family. Kenneth Williams, see classic film clip: Jane Austin, Alec Guinness, Bette Davies, Fanny Craddock, Douglas Adams, Picasso, John Lennon, Will Self,  - just a top of head list, but I think it would be an interesting melange: plenty to talk about . . .