Word for today - tephrochronology

Since my punting adventures, I’ve taken to having the occasional after-work pint with some of the Oxford Uni Centre for the Environment crew, courtesy of an invitation from Simon-The-Wet-Punter. Most of them are archaeologists – not surprising, since Simon is one himself.

Actually, he’s a Tephrochronologist – someone who works out the history of volcanoes (and climate change, and other climatic stuff) by studying layers of dead volcano ash. Cool huh? Anyway, for a bunch of science boffins, they make surprisingly brilliant conversation. Take these excerpts from a single evening session.,“You can’t say that to me - I’m an early bronze age metallurgist!” or “You remember Phil, Professor, he once sat next to you in a dress” and the diamond of them all: “Aaah yes, another brilliant dead archaeologist, ruined by Canberra”…

It’s not every day a girl gets called a goddess…

And even when it comes from a pissed bloke who’s about to fall over a table, I still think it counts.

How did such a thing come to pass? Well, you'll remember that I found an open mike night courtesy of Charlie and Ed-the-Aberdonian. After much mustering of courage (aided by a few pints), I've started doind unaccompanied stuff, braving the use of a mike for the first time ever... and last week, by some total fluke, I won!

My prize was my very own gig the following Friday - my first ever. Aided by my very talented chum Guy Pearce, (12string, vocals, sound guru – and looks fab in high heels and hotpants – oops, sorry, wrong Guy Pearce…) we made our way through 2 x 45 minute sets of classic rock and new stuff, a little bit o’ soul, and a whole lotta laughs. Guy is a sound engineer by profession and managed to make even me sound good, and I had so much fun!

Apparently, I’ve been asked to have another crack this weekend, supporting Pete (aka Trigger) who won this week… watch this space.

Black is the colour indeed, today...

Every so often, the Universe graces us with the presence of a perpetually cheery, lively, generously giving soul. My friend Ciarra, who died in a motorcycle accident in County Kildare on Monday night, was one such soul. Regulars on this blog may recall my St Patrick's day antics back in March - Ciarra was the feisty Irish lass who took me out to some of the best pubs and sessions, ensured I was well supplied with ciders, and later tipped me into a spare bed in her granny's house, with a post-it note on the door to warn Nana Norah that the house had company. When Anthony and I went back to Dublin in May, she was still asking for help to sing 'black is the colour', because she never could remember the words. I don't think I'll ever listen to those lyrics again without hearing her clear, lilting voice, warbling over the high notes when the hour was late. It's one of life's horrible truths that we often don't stop to consider what matters in life until part of it goes missing. I realised, as I bawled my eyes out on the bus home yesterday, that I've never heard Ciarra say a word against anyone. I know that couldn't be said of me. Perhaps it's time I try to make it so. My grandfather used to say that no-one is truly dead while they are loved and remembered by even one person who knew them. Ciarra, in her short 26 years, shone her sunny disposition into hundreds of lives, and those memories will never leave us. That doesn't help with the sense of 'gone-ness' just yet, but in time, I think, her spirited cheer will be a good thing to try to carry forward in the world.