It’s peaceful here.  I can hear a couple of birds still singing, at 9.20pm, but nothing else except the tap of my keyboard as I type and LT’s pen writing answers to the Guardian crossword.  I’ve less and less capacity for sound except in its place.  Tomorrow night, we’re off to the Aldeburgh Festival again – Aaron Copland’s music features, plus a couple of composers I’ve not heard of, one of whose piano concerto is a world premiere.  That means the composer will, very likely, be there and take a bow, which is rather a joy to me.  I think myself into his place, hearing the piece I spent so many hours on being played by a wonderful orchestra – the BBC Symphony Orchestra, in this case – and the applause from the audience, and I feel warmly towards him.  Or her, of course, but I’ve never been at a premiere for a woman composer’s work.

On this day last year, we were in London at the funeral of my goddaughter, daughter of my dear schoolfriend, and I think of their grief which hasn’t started to feel less raw.  Lynn wrote a book of poetry in Sophie’s memory, which she’s selling on behalf of St Martin in the Field’s fund for homeless people.  It’s the big church in Trafalgar Square and does a lot of good work.  Lynn and Adrian were married there, their children were christened there.  They thought Sophie would be married there too, not buried so young.

Last night a year ago, we were at Aldeburgh (the concert hall is at the village of Snape, in fact, a couple of miles away) too, for a performance of Britten’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.  It was excellent and we enjoyed it, but I can’t remember much, the events of the next day have driven it from my mind.