I’m not the greatest eco-warrior in the world, not by a long shot, but I do try to do what I can to contribute to a more responsible way of interacting with the planet: I walk to work most of the time, I recycle everything the local Council will take as part of their recycling scheme, I try to keep plugs switched off when I’m not using them, yadda, yadda, yadda. That being said, I do try to think about other ways I can feed into a greener lifestyle.

A few months ago, I found myself presented with a slight problem. I wanted to compost the vegetable peelings and tea bags I ended up with each day; the problem being that I live in a flat without a garden. This was causing me no end of irritation until an idea dawned on me – what if I took my green waste to a friend who DID have a garden and a compost bin. So, I texted Talis, who is very clued up on a greener way of life and self-sufficiency, and she very kindly agreed to be my compost buddy.

This has now resulted in ‘Compost Buddy Wednesday’ when I scoot over to Talis’ to drop off the compost in my compost caddy and generally chill out, chat and knit. It’s also a good way to make sure I don’t add ANOTHER exercise class to my week; I’m one of those people who doesn’t slow down easily so spending time with the tribe makes sure of that and I get to hang out with people very close to my heart.

I do wonder if this sort of idea would encourage others to do the same. There are so many people using their gardens to grow plants of several varieties, not to mention people with allotments. Would it be feasible, perhaps, for households to collect their compostable waste then pass it on to those who would benefit from it? Not only would it be better for the environment, it would also help to forge ties in communities and break down the small unit society we seem to have turned into.

It’s at least food for thought, I guess, right?

I used to be disappointed with my voice, both when speaking and singing. Spending seven years of my life at an all girls’ school, I quickly became aware that most of the girls around me had voices with a higher pitch than mine; most of the others would stand in the soprano section of the school choir whereas I was a regular feature of the alto section. There was nothing quite like squeaking out high notes or, on one occasion, almost passing out while hitting a note far past the comfortable end of my range to make me realise that I just wasn’t meant to be in the choir section that got the recognisable tunes.

In a way, though, singing in the alto section helped later with playing the euphonium. I had already learned to listen for cues in the higher range tunes so that I knew where to come in on bass lines. Conversely, playing the euphonium in bands helped me to realise how important the lower ranges of a musical arrangement are in driving a tune on, adding texture and colour to a piece of music, and ‘adding some welly’ to a piece of music that might otherwise be unsuitably ethereal if only the higher range voices/instruments were present.

I guess I realised my voice was more suited to folk-style songs when I was about 10; my junior school choir were learning a version of The Skye Boat Song for a school concert and I got to sing the third verse as a duet (it was supposed to be my year singing that verse but only me and one other girl were singing loud enough and the teacher got fed up with asking the rest to sing louder). It was a bit of a revelation because singing that style of music caught me more deeply than any choral music had ever done. I went on to sing that song at the autumn concert when I joined my secondary school and was known for the next 4 or 5 years as ‘the girl who sang The Skye Boat Song’ (not a bad thing!).

Why it then took me 14 years to start singing folk songs in public, I don’t know. Well, no, I guess I do know and that would be because the right reason hadn’t come along. Said reason sat next to me at the Lower Shaw Farm knitting circle last year and started to chat to me out of the blue – there are very few people I connect with so instantly but she is one of them (yes, Talis, I’m talking about you)!

I find I can connect with Talis’ contemporary folk songs on many, many levels so when she asked if I’d be part of her floating band a few months ago I didn’t hesitate to say “yes”. It was only about 5 minutes later I finally clicked that would mean singing in front of audiences of an unknown quantity/variety and a small voice in my head said “Oh, boy, this is pretty important stuff”. Despite the worry of not wanting to screw up my friends songs, I was still excited and flattered to be asked.

So, the past couple of months have involved band practice at least once a week and I am loving it! I get to sing songs I adore about things that mean a lot of me, I get to make music with people who have become a second family to me and I get to see audience’s faces light up when they hear Talis’ songs. It’s magical!

I’m waffling, though, which means it’s probably time to bring the blog post full circle.

I used to hate my vocal range, to think that it limited me and made me less than those girls and women who could sing high into the soprano register.

Now? Now I love the fact I can sing as low as I am able to do (and as high as I am able too as well – I’m not as much a ‘low into the boots’ girl as I thought). If I couldn’t sing in my range and with my voice’s timbre, I would be able to bring what I do to Talis’ songs, our voices wouldn’t compliment each other as well as they do. Most of all, I wouldn’t be able to see Talis’ broad grin as my voice joins hers and my cheeks wouldn’t hurt from grinning back with just as much soul-soaring happiness.

Folk music’s helped me to find a voice for my soul and, most importantly, it’s helped me to love another part of myself.

Ok so this is a little silly blog post about changing rooms – I hope you’ll indulge me if you’ve decided to follow the link and look at this blog category.

People’s attitudes in changing rooms amuse me – there’s always a mad dash for the changing cubicles at the end of the exercise classes I go to; to be honest, I don’t mind changing in the communal section if it means I don’t have to hang around waiting for one of the showers to become free. Even more amusing is the whole putting-clothes-on-under-a-wet-towel rigmarole that some people do when they can’t get a cubicle.

I’m not saying that I’m about to run off and join a nudist colony (I like clothes too much) but, to be honest, I don’t see what the problem is. I do tend to turn my back on the room when I’m getting changed because I know the whole getting-changed-in-public thing bothers other people and I’m sensitive to that; I just suppose I lost my sense of prudishness when I went to China and had to use the public baths. It’s surprising how getting stared at by a shower room full of women can give you a ‘to-hell-with-it’ point of view. Even when I’m not feeling my most attractive (i.e. I’m having a ‘fat day’), I don’t particularly feel the need to become a contortionist to get changed.

The thing is, it’s not like we have different parts, so to speak; ok, maybe we’re different proportions but I doubt anyone is going to ogle anyone else in the changing rooms because usually you’re a) knackered from working out and b) trying to get yourself changed (funnily enough). I just find it a little unsettling that people seem to be so ashamed of nakedness around people of the same sex – what are we saying about ourselves with that kind of attitude.

Then again, maybe I’m the odd one out (I did seem to have an intense dislike of wearing clothing as a baby so maybe this is just a throw-back to that). Still, I’d rather be the way I am than waiting around in sweaty clothing for a spare cubicle…