Melancholia... like Insania, but without an eejit singing!

Roger D. Scott - far right. R.I.P.

I'm feeling a bit low tonight, or should I say this morning (4.50am!) Partly because I've had a few hard Uni days, but also partly because I've had to walk away from a project that could have been great, but I was mislead somewhat by the originator. So it means I have time now, at least for a few hours, when I can be self indulgent. Every day for the last few months, including weekends, I've worked an average of 12 hours. Yesterday 18 hours, the day before 16 hours. All for no money!

I'm usually always fairly positive. But when not driven by work, and having reached an impasse in a hectic schedule, I sometimes find myself taking a quiet moment to reflect. And as they are often rare moments they can sometimes be intense.

Like Roger Scott. Not the radio jock, sadly no longer with us. But Roger D. Scott, even more sadly no longer with us. Scouty person, who has been around it seems for all my life, who wasn't a best friend, but a friend; an adult who was always there - who took me to his sisters farm when I was 12, who occasionally would talk to our Mother and gossip till dawn, owner of various scouty awards, with an occasional mid-Atlantic accent and a love of anecdote. Dear Roger who became a vicar and then Maverick Theatre's Chaplin, because he liked to support me and be involved, if I'd noticed. Roger the toastmaster who gave me an award for Services to the Arts in the Midlands and who, I think, I used to smile at in later life a bit too much and ignore a bit more than I should have done. But a character who was always smooth and easy and then died a few months ago with the same easy smooth grace, planning his funeral service from his hospital bed and then passing smoothly away at... what age? I don't, to my shame, even know that. Although he died from one of the hospital super bugs and I'm ashamed for all of us for knowing about that.

And I heard in London he had gone and I drove to Birmingham for the funeral service and arrived late. And as as I was let in, the porter, who recognised me from my days at BRMB Radio, many days ago indeed, muttered how Roger seemed to have known everyone and a packed crem was indeed testament to that. And the soul-searing 'Last Post' played on a solo trumpet. And the service and the final song, dignified and moving, 'Time To Say Goodbye'. And my brother's tears, dignified and moving.

I'm so sorry Roger, I let you slip. Time to say goodbye.