I’m always thinking about my work, it fills my head. I’m on a quest to solve things but also to get that click internally that tells me I’m onto something – that I’ve made, written or performed something magical. It’s a rare sensation but the desire for it drives me and my thoughts onward. Little things spark me like the label on my pillow with ‘carelessness causes fire’ writ large in red. Perhaps I could do something with that, I thought. I look for external clues, as if they are laying in wait for me to discover them. Is it like that? Or is this day-to-day just doing what it is really about? It takes so long to finish things, to see my ideas come to fruition, that I had better enjoy the getting there. And I do, mostly. That is if I can allow myself to do so. It is OK to be this, this mish-mash of emotions, fears, doubts and certainties. I think about making bespoke gifts, a gift of work like Richard Strauss making an offering of a piece of music to the city of Vienna when they awarded him the Beethoven Prize. My range, my scope is a small one these days. I think of individuals rather than the crowd. And that is fine, isn’t it?