I was in the kitchen cooking vegetarian sausages and listening to the Scherzo from Shostakovich's first violin concerto, and Adam commented that it was "horrible", which rather took me aback. Pressed further, he said it was high-pitched and "jangling" which I take to mean jarring.

Sometimes I wonder about my taste in music. There was a point at which I took especial delight in acquiring music which was "difficult". It wasn't to impress anybody, because, frankly, no-one was. Perhaps it was something to do with working out my identity (this is my music which you don't understand). At least consciously, I reckon I'm past that sort of thing now, but I still like my awkward music, having developed a taste for it. It's based on nothing other than the fact that I've listened to it - I know how it works. I think I understand.

Retrospectively, I find myself agreeing with Iris Murdoch, a great philosopher of art in an age which, by-and-large, doesn't know what to do with art. Art-appreciation is a moral challenge. Like morality, it points beyond itself to universals, ideals that are for all humanity, and not the exclusive reserve of the artist or the recipient. If you try and work out what an artist is trying to "say" in a work, you are already doing a-good-thing, appreciating the significance of something beyond you, which connects you to other people and to a whole world of value.

I like my awkward music, not for show, but because I genuinely see value in it.

Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favour to the men of skill; but time and chance happen to them all.

There is a chaos, hurt and pain which only point to goodness. I would have described myself as a cynic in earlier days, and probably still would at times, but true cynicism demands meaning. I am under the sun, looking out for a better thing to justify my weariness.

And it chances to be a beautiful day, under the sun. Make of that what you will.