There’s a bit of a problem with this emergency phone I came across whilst walking down to a beach in West Wales this afternoon.

With no 9 on the keypad, I doubt it gets used very much.

Very busy week ahead, so it was down to Sussex again yesterday to take Silva back to her sausagey mates for a few days. I felt quite tired when we got there and had a quick nap but knew I had to get back on the road quite quickly in order to get back to Oxford at a reasonable time, so once I was back in the car I sifted through the box of randomly selected CDs I'd thrown in the back and found - wait for it - The Greatest Hits of Petula Clark... I'd filched it from my mum's CD collection a few years ago when 'Colour My World' was being used in a TV ad and I liked the snatch of it played on that commercial enough to want to hear the whole thing. Anyway, all I can say is, thank God for Pet - I put it into the CD player and sang along full-voiced to at least six memorable tunes - 'Downtown', 'Don't Sleep in the Subway', 'The Other Man's Grass', 'This is My Song', 'Call Me', and of course, 'Colour My World' - and that got me to the M23, by which time I felt refreshed and OK for the rest of the drive. There are a lot of very dated tunes on that CD too, admittedly, but those six at least are real feel-good songs and sooooo singable along to. In fact, I realised that Pet and I have about the same range, and then got to fantasizing about doing a Petula Clark tribute act. Not sure what I'd call myself yet though. Maybe 'Petulant'? That's more a description of me, I hasten to add...

Off to London Songwriters Group today - haven't been for a while and looking forward to reconnecting with friends there. I have a new song I'm wanting to try out too, and this group is a great place to get honest and valuable feedback about new material.

'Life is never what it seems, We're always searching in our dreams, To find that little castle in the air...' That's been going round in my head ever since yesterday afternoon... Name the song if you can!

I shared this cartoon that a friend in Nashville put on Facebook a couple of months ago, and it remains as relevant as ever. Especially when even artists themselves - in this particular case, poets - are criticising others of their kind for expecting payment for their work and comparing them unfavourably with famous icons who have occasionally given away their work for free... Some, too, seem to find the desire for recognition of one's work derisory. So it seems that, unlike any other professionals, we're supposed to do what we do for no payment and purely for ourselves - even when we're performing in front of an audience that wants to be entertained - and somehow do it to the highest possible level whilst managing to exist on what we don't get paid for our skills. No, it's no good, I still don't get it...

Driving down the M40 this morning on my way to Chertsey for my car's MOT, I was singing along to that song from the 70s, 'Miss Grace' - remember it? As I sang the second line I realised that despite that song being so familiar to me, I haven't a clue what the first bit of that line is: 'Oo-oo-oo Miss Grace, ??? the human race...' It does sound very much like 'sat nav', but it can't be that because they hadn't been invented in the 70s, and anyw ay it wouldn't make any sense. Not that making sense is a guiding principle in a lot of lyrics, I grant you. Anyway, without looking the song up and cheating, anyone care to have a stab at what the actual words are? I still haven't a clue myself...

I didn't intend to end my Holy Island diary quite so abruptly, but problems with getting the pictures through and then a day of throwing up in Glasgow (there's nothing like a vomiting bug to thoroughly purge the system) resulted in the final entry being put off to a point where things have taken on a different hue. That week on the Holy Island was like stepping into another world, one where day-to-day realities could be put on hold yet still mulled over in a productive way. On the day we left, a perfect and dazzling rainbow formed over Arran, stretching from one hilltop to another. At that moment, viewing it from the shore on the Holy Island, we took it as a sign that we were meant to return, and everything seemed very lovely. Now, though, back in the real world, it feels like the rainbow was our exit sign; an hour later the little ferry took us under where it had been, leaving the island's magic behind, and in front of us the harsh realities of life as it actually is.