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Fruit Radiance

And she’s off again, dismantling the treasures from her sweet Camden bedroom. Postcards and posters peeled off, books taken off for light to shine on the dusty shelves. Staring at this four-walled shell one comes to realise how even the scrubbiest of flats can always become beautiful with human inspiration.

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Review: Chick Corea Elektric Band, Barbican Centre

Did I just die in the stalls. If my pores were eyes they would have been crying crystals, and I would have made sacred offering of them for the Gods on stage.


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Marionette / Energy


Knowing I’m a puppet
bobbing along the canal,
Someone’s pulling on the strings
controlling my wheres and hows.

I feel I have some say
on how to hold my arms.
Even at the mercy and sway
of unforeseen harms.

Rest assured,
I can resist
the forces in my wrist,
but not enough to break that solid grip.
Rotating fist.

Marionette overlord.
I can’t find you in me.
But, I hear your footsteps!
Pounding the balcony.


Somehow it’s much more simple
to style myself in ink
than play those notes,
and hear my voice
in the sink.

I’ll wait for notes – Enter my head!
– but hear these words instead.

I seem to love notes
less (much less)
than muttering words in bed.

Don’t get trapped within yourself.
I promise!
I’ll look beyond my eyes.
But really,
I feel much safer on the page
than in my musical lies.

I feel more present when I write
than when I play violin.

I feel like I can show the world
the girl that lives within

the spectacles and photographs
suffering from lethargy,
until words come to rescue her.
Dancing. Energy.

Since I read Kate Tempest
I can’t help but rhyme my words,
and structure them in rhythms.
Pretty chirping birds.

“All the world’s a stage.” – A Letter to My Pre-University Self | An Ode to Life

Friday 21.04.17 – 10.27AM

I’ve just submitted a law essay which I believe has redirected me onto the path to Enlightenment, and I need to stop everything that I’m doing in order to write down what’s in my head. Brace yourselves…


And then he said to me, ‘Isn’t it funny we’re all just people walking around trying to put on appearances. . .’

‘I’m gonna grow a moustache and start smoking. It’s just another way to meet new people.’

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The Forgotten Youth – a response to David Nice (The Arts Desk)

Location: On the 9-hour plane from Helsinki to Guangzhou

My happiness of the weekend has diminished a little after reading someone’s written words. The good memories on- and off-stage, regardless of their emotive strength and permanence, are now partially smudged out by one particular 5-star review about our BBC Prom – quite ironic I know. Sadly, some of the review was not written in the right way, and I thus feel guilty for enjoying our success and accepting the praise. It also brought my attention to an even bigger issue – NYOS and Scotland’s reputation that has been largely ignored in the classical music scene.

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These thoughts have been brewing in my mind ever since I read it, muffling the glorious music I saw performed this weekend. Believe me it really takes a lot to beat Petrushka, Scythian Suite and The Rite of Spring. So, I am going to let it out.

The disappointing words were from David Nice, writing on behalf of The Arts Desk a joint review on both the National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain Prom and the NYOS Prom. Many nice things were said for both orchestras. He lauded them both. He rightly recognised the potential, standard and professionalism of NYOS that have been ignored for far too long by the BBC Proms and everyone else. NYOGB was given a much-deserved 4-stars. However, a few sections render it a distasteful comparative analysis of two fantastic youth orchestras, which bothers me quite a lot. I speak out against it as a young Scottish musician, as an alumnus, friend and former intern of NYOGB, as a friend to some of its current musicians, and finally as Leader of NYOS Symphony Orchestra. Continue reading

About a Violin

Part I

Wake up, wake up …

I wrote my final thank you card today and accepted the fact that I was going to cry very, very badly and uncontrollably in the violin shop. I buzzed the door, entered and greeted the lovely receptionists. Also there, by chance, was the lady who had made all of this happen. She was attending to another violinist – American, I think, judging from her accent – and took a tiny second to recognise me in my granny glasses and state of exhaustion.

Oh dear, I thought, this tragedy’s going to have an audience.

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A gift in Marylebone


I wish people didn’t visit Oxford Street, for there is little to see that inspires and only stress to be felt under your skin. It is hard to really see any thing when you walk along the pavements because all things that could be seen are blurred by herds of people walking around aimlessly and stubbornly, smudging themselves and all surrounding elements into unnecessary chaos.

It is hard to see Paul at the bottom of the stairs at Bond Street Tube Station, around 17:15 on Friday. He is one tiny, unassuming pebble in the vicious current of rush hour and London shopping mania, easily brushed away and avoided, easily dodged. I walked past him and felt a click in my moral resources* that halted me before I touched in with my Oyster. I wanted to give him some change but I had none on me at the time. Then I remembered that I had organic cookies and chocolate and decided there could be worser alternatives to sweet treats.  Continue reading

Tuesday 19 July 2016: Too hot to sleep


“I am burning, I am burning … “

Well, thank you London, for showing me you’re capable of producing summer, but I am not sure if I can handle it.

Today I was stuck to the Tube, or more specifically to the millions of green and blue poly-fibres sprouting vertically from my grimy seat, which always cause unexpected yet significant discomfort against the bare skin of my thighs if I happen to be wearing shorts or a skirt shorter than knee-length. All these tiny sticks of plastic pointed and poised defiantly on my skin, irritating it slowly but surely, burning as the sun does as you walk about nonchalantly, gently going about its job as a minor disappointment in my perfectly decent life. Continue reading