A Day Rich in the Wrong Kind of Incident

 

. . . My brain is hoarse.  I won't say that two and a half hours of choir practise fly by but they do chunter along pretty briskly, and you don't realise that you've been through the wringer till you walk (feebly) outside afterward and the wind blows you away like a piece of paper.*

            When I joined I thought Thursday was going to be a good night for me to be going to choir rehearsal and then all these things keep happening.  I've already missed the Thursday when district bell practise was at Crabbiton. Next Thursday Peter and I are going to The Cherry Orchard.**  The Thursday after that I'm going to be in London signing zillions of copies of PEGASUS, right?  Because you're all coming.*** 

            And two days later, on the Saturday, is the Muddlehampton Choir's summer concert.  Frell.

            I went up to Ravenel at the break tonight and said er, um, I need to beg your something or other, it's not enough that I dithered around for weeks being cowardly and so started rehearsals late and have already missed one. . . but I'm about to miss the last two as well.  I realise I won't be in this concert, and that's fine, but I hope you'll let me start up again for the winter concert and I'll try to improve my attendance record.†

            He looked at me for a moment and said mildly, you could sing in this concert if you wanted to.

            Ah blah, I said.  Blerg.  Gah.

            I'm giving you permission, he said.  Think about it.  We'll have a final rehearsal on the day.  You could come to that, and make up your mind [and I quote] if you feel you have something to contribute.

            GAAH.  Gaah. 

            With the exception of the dreaded off-beat plink song, which we've had a whack at all the rehearsals I've managed to get to, I'm still seeing some of this stuff for the first time.  Tonight included two Vaughan Williams arrangements—one for Greensleeves, and while I love Greensleeves, still, it's a frelling great cliché, but also The Turtle Dove††, and . . . I would love to sing The Turtle Dove.  I think I may have made the mistake of saying this out loud. . . .

Meanwhile . . . this morning I had an email from marketing at Penguin UK saying, just checking that you're sure you're not coming to our summer party next Monday.  Your what? I said to my computer screen.  First I've heard of it.  So I answered slightly irritably that I wasn't much of a party goer but even if I wanted to it's too late for me to drag myself together about a party in London four days away that I knew nothing about.  I copied both Merrilee and my UK editor.

            By return electron I received a distressed email from the marketing person saying, the party invites went out months ago, do we have your address wrong?  (No.)  Didn't you receive the follow-up email a fortnight ago?  (No.  But my email is possessed by demons, although this is the first time in a while that street mail has been any worse than late.  I suppose the invitation could still arrive.)  And then I had another distressed email, this one from my editor saying that she should have followed up on this herself but since she knew it was difficult for me to get to London, etc, and if I should suddenly take it into my head to canter up to London on Monday they'd be delighted to see me.

            This email—also copied to Merrilee—came in while I was on the phone with her.

            Go, said my agent.

            I don't want to!  I said.  I hate parties!  Ugh!  Parties!  No!

            Go, said my agent.  Go.

            I think I'm going to a party in London on Monday.  

* * *

* I still wish we stood up more.  Nadia asked me if we spent most of rehearsal sitting down and I said YES and it DRIVES ME CRAZY.  Especially because I've made myself a first soprano.  I need a run at some of the top end.  So she told me how to sit to give your voice as much room to move around in as possible and . . . the frelling benches are so close to the frelling screen—we're in the choir stalls—that there isn't ROOM.  I've got my feet jammed up against the frelling kneeler as it is, and my knees, speaking of knees, want to stick out through the gaps, leaving them judiciously arranged to be clobbered by the tenors stampeding for the tea urn.  I'm sure there's an answer to this too.  Little old English churches are thick about the landscape, and I imagine the architecture is frequently similar.^  I will, of course, ask Nadia.  But she says that choir directors have to let you sit down a lot so you don't get too tired.  Fie.  It's a lot more tiring longing to stand up.   

^ In the old days, potential choir members were carefully vetted for the possession of short thighs.  

**  The National Theatre has started experimenting with live relay broadcasts, like the New York Met Opera.  They're doing The Cherry Orchard next Thursday.  Long before the Muddlehamptons were an issue I informed Peter that we were going.  He was inclined to writhe and squirm but I told him it would be good for him.  I've actually never seen The Cherry Orchard—or any other Chekov for that matter—which is of course very embarrassing and proves that I'm a barbarian really.  I did read it in college.^  But I liked Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead^^ better.  This production at least sounds interesting.  http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2011/may/18/the-cherry-orchard-review

Peter is not an 'I told you so' type, but I prefer not to listen to him not saying 'I told you so'.   I should be able to hold my head up after having forced him to see this.

^ I didn't have to.  I read it because I wanted to.  Doesn't that count for extra?

^^ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosencrantz_and_Guildenstern_Are_Dead

*** And zillions of people read this blog.^  The link to the Forbidden Planet signing is right there,  at the top of right-hand column on this blog. 

^ I am creating my own reality here.  I am creating a reality where this blog has ZILLIONS of readers.  Who then rush out in their zillionhood to buy copies of my books.  The hellhounds need to eat, you know.+  And I'd quite like to finish the work on Third House.  And possibly buy more sheet music.  And yarn.

+ Whether they will or not is a separate matter.  

† There's also a choir party the following week.  Last rehearsal there was a lot of discussion about the date of said party, and the date that was finally chosen is out for me, because Peter and I are going to see Simon Boccanegra as a Met Opera rerun at the cinema.  My Views on the Attendance of Parties are well known and furthermore there is NO WAY I would go to what is in effect a cast party for a performance I'm not anticipating being in AND with a group I have only barely joined and know the name of about one person and that only because I've heard someone else using it.  But it interests me that none of the regulars said, no, not Wednesday the 13th, we're going to the opera. 

†† http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IgaHvHxCXVw   There are a remarkable number of really excruciating performances of it on YouTube.^   This is a good one.  But if you want a reason to burn your sheet music and enter a convent with a vow of silence, try this one:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKncDIeqfck&feature=related  But then I think Bryn Terfel (mostly^^) walks on water.  Usually listening to a bass-baritone is, you know, free:  I'm not a bloke, and I don't sing baritone, and I don't have bother beating myself up about it.  But Terfel . . . well.  Terfel is a universal principle.^^^ 

^ If anyone tries to tape the Muddlehamptons I will run away and disavow all knowledge. 

^^ I'm a snob.  And he sings a lot of crap too.  The Impossible Dream.  Spare me.  

^^^ Also I've sung several Songs of a Wayfarer—speaking of Vaughan Williams—and Finzi's Let Garlands Bring.  And I've got Terfel on CD singing all the above.  I am a glutton for discovering new possibilities of self-punishment.