ChildLine Rocks rocked. Jon Lord is a friendly chap. A cool and unaffected sort of guy. He played a clever set with Steve Balsami singing to the Lord Hammond B3. They travel to European cities, just the two of them, and meet there with a full orchestra and rock band, comprised of local players, rehearse for a day and then play big cross-over concerts to 3,000 or so people. I thought it all sounded a little nerve-wracking, like arriving to find your backside has gone south for the winter, as the leader calls the first beats. Jon Lord is made of the sort of stuff that makes a man a man, for all tha’. No, he said, it’s exciting. And I understood: the adventure, the gamble, the risks all make it worthwhile. And it probably seldom, if ever, fails to score. Thunder played like the virtuosi of aol rock that they are. My new agent, Danny Bowes, has an amazing vocal range. I hope he proves to be as convincing and sensational an agent as he is singer. To Bury St Edmunds (not praise it.....), for Battle Of The Bands, held in the Abbey grounds. Gave up a place in a box at Epsom Downs for the Derby. Giving back, I guess it’s known as! Some school/college age fellows played (no females in any of the 5 bands) 15 minute sets, and all, ALL, thrashed it with electric guitars, riffing like the 60s their own dads can only barely remember. It shocked me. I wanted melody and harmony, and I got unison thrash. I expected and hoped for Coldplay, The Killers, Elbow. I got Uriah Heep and The Edgar Broughton Band in short trousers.

I enjoyed the youngsters and their playing immensely. They offered, some of them, good repartee, too. But don’t they listen to the radio?

There was a winner (it was a battle after all), and they get a free day’s recording at The Leeder Studio, a residential place in Norfolk. Lucky them. It’s a fabulous studio, and I think we’ll arrange a sojourn ourselves soon.

Tomorrow (Thursday), I’m due to sit for a portrait, painted by the brothers Bingham, Tim and David, in Shropshire. The great Mike Callow gets 20 minutes of my fidgeting in order to capture a decent shot with his camera. The immortal Mick Rock might squeeze half-an-hour out of me with a bit of flannel. I get bored so readily with the posing. But the Binghams want 3 to 4 hours! That’s half-a-day, for Chrissakes. Will they let me sit with The Telegraph crossword while they etch, sketch and daub, I wonder? They plan an exhibition in London later in the year. I feel privileged, of course, but apprehensive. What to wear for this frame of posterity? And how to endure? They must keep the strong tea coming, and allow for regular loo breaks. I don’t want to look like my own backside has gone south for the winter when this canvas is exhibited.
And the young have fledged around the garden. Baby blackbirds of, so far, indeterminate gender; baby starlings, so far of stripeless plumage; baby great tits, and a pair of jays showing off like they have confidence few jays can baost. They sit in the open for at least a minute, whereas the usual jay’s span won’t go beyond a few seconds. It’s been a sweet and sunny spring so far in East Anglia. The blossoms have come and gone, and now the fruit starts to take tangible form. I see apples, I see cherries, I see plums, all in embryo. The woods are alive. And at a metre high now, even the singing nettles don’t faze me. All part of nature, I keep telling myself. And it works.

SH