It Is Way Too Small A World

 

Finding my frelling new voice teacher was (almost) the worst part.*  I had left lots of time to get lost** which is a good thing.  Nadia had given me directions but I managed to drive straight through the village and out the other side again without ever seeing the road I wanted.  I turned around and went back . . . and stopped at the pub.  Village pubs know everything. 

            Not in this case.  The publican looked bemused, admitted he lived in the village, but had never heard of Anaconda Row.   The man standing next to me, sinking his pint, laughed.  That's reassuring, he said.

            It was now hailing.  I bolted for the car and dove through the driver's door, narrowly escaping serious bodily harm.  I couldn't get a signal on Pooka, of course, so I couldn't ring up for further instructions.  I waited till I could see through my windscreen again and then crept out on the road to peer despairingly at street signs.  Eventually I caught sight of an intrepid grandmother airing her descendent in a steel-framed pram with a titanium hood.  I pulled over and asked her if she'd ever heard of Anaconda Row.  She turned around and pointed to a street sign about six feet away.  You've already been through the village and turned around, haven't you? she said sympathetically.  There is no sign from the other direction.

            I was still on time, even if once I got to the further end I had to get out of Wolfgang again and run up people's driveways in the rain in search of invisible street numbers.  This quest was not assisted by the total absence of the red Volvo that was supposed to be parked in front of the house I wanted.***

            Nadia is small and brisk.  She teaches (I believe) a lot of school-age kids trying for their A-levels in voice (one of them was going out as I was coming in) and she has that headmistress no-nonsense edge.†  I liked her a lot.  She kept me sort of crowded up against the edge of what I could do, didn't allow any pauses for second thoughts and misgivings . . . and in forty-five minutes had me sounding better than I have since Blondel left five months ago.  Which includes the part about getting me to sing at all.  To begin with she sang along with me:  she has a lovely clear warm soprano voice herself and I was aware of the Blondel Effect which is that you just want to shut up and listen to them.  But the truth is that I was ridiculously eager to be singing again and barely did my dying goldfish impersonation. 

            It was all going, uh, swimmingly, when there was a knock on the door and . . . Wild Robert walked in.  New readers of the blog, or persons who have better things to do with their minds than remember the minutiae of my life:  Wild Robert was the ringing master at Ditherington, my Wednesday night tower, for about four years, till the practise was folded up for lack of local attendance.  Wild Robert has taught more people to ring bells than I have had hot dinners.  He taught me Grandsire and Stedman;  he taught me my first tiny incursions into conducting.  Of the ringing masters I have laboured under, he has probably had the greatest influence and I miss him horribly.††

            Oh, this is my brother, said Nadia, as Wild Robert and I stared at each other in disbelief and perturbation.  I know—er—Robert! I squeaked.  I ring with him!  I was just trying to ensnare him into my practise-quarter plans the day before yesterday!  Eeeep! 

            I emailed Oisin when I got home again, saying, YOU DIDN'T TELL ME NADIA IS WILD ROBERT'S SISTER.  I DON'T SING IF THERE'S ANYONE I KNOW IN THE HOUSE.†††  Oisin, who is a stony-hearted brute, emailed back:   Oh, and by the way—someone who reads your books lives in Greater Footling and has VERY acute hearing …

            Feh. 

            Maybe Wild Robert will develop the habit of ringing peals in London on Monday afternoons.  And there was a good deal of hilarity at Old Eden tower practise tonight when I told this story . . . I may also have been bagged for someone's Christmas concert. . . . um. . . . 

* * *

* BY THE WAY, you guys, I did not buy more yarn.  I admit I fondled a few skeins.  But give me a break:  The only thing I know how to do is knit squares^ fourteen stitches by twenty rows.  That's all.  I can't even purl.  This includes that I cannot read a knitting pattern.   Wait'll I have half a clue, all right?  Wait till I know how to get in trouble, so to speak.  Wait till I've knit at least one legwarmer,^^ preferably one that looks like a legwarmer, quacks like a legwarmer, and can be made to function like a legwarmer.^^^

            Yes, I did buy my spare set of needles.  But—I'm sorry to be so disappointing—I didn't buy another knitting bag either:  the little ones are all boring.  Or covered with cats.  Where is it written than only cat people knit? 

^ Which aren't square.  Sigh.

^^ I do not insist on a pair.  But one.  With, you know, ribbing and so on.  And sewn together.  Okay, I either have to have knit both of them or sewn one together. 

^^^ Some of the yarn I was fondling today would make great legwarmers.  —See, I'm on the right track.  I'm sure you won't have to be patient long.  

** Even after buying knitting needles, fondling yarn, rejecting second knitting bags and buying Peter a Valentine's Day present.  Arrrrrgh.  My husband who hates Valentine's Day.  I had been thinking about buying him flowers—I went so far as to stand consideringly in front of the florist's for several minutes this morning while the hellhounds sighed over the regrettable habits of humans, but I decided it would make him cranky.  He has this getting-up-and-rushing-out-of-the-room trick when he doesn't like something you've given him.  Peter does not receive presents well.  And then I got down to the mews for lunch and there are three yellow^ roses with a ribbon around them by my place at the table. 

Mmmm. Roses. On a Valentine's Day that features hail, sunshine-coloured roses are a very good thing

            Turnabout being fair play, on my way to the fabric shop I stopped at a shop that is good at silly—silly is generally rather hard to come by in Mauncester—and bought. . . .

 ^ sic

 *** Because Nadia's nine-month-old daughter has managed to secrete the keys somewhere.

† And Nadia Boulanger sounds terrifying. 

†† He is still teaching at other towers but none of them is practical for me.

 ††† I don't sing if there's anyone in the house, full stop.  Blondel had to send his wife away if she happened not to be at work that day.

Peter tends to fall asleep after supper a lot. I think a little silver glitter might have a beneficial effect.