So, where have I been? you are asking (aren’t you?). Nowhere but here, dear reader(s), but sans computer and therefore of no earthly use to the blogosphere. The other machine-from-hell objected so severely to the dust and dirt of a mighty re-wiring enterprise that it turned up its tabs and expired thus leaving me without any means of cyber-communication (which annoyed me more than I would ever have thought possible given my Ludditey-loathing for anything containing a micro-chip and a search engine).
But I am back now and ready to tussle with technology on your behalf (-halves) like the battling blogetteer I will ever be.
Much has happened since last I had the opportunity to address you but most of the much has disappeared into the black hole of my mind along with all the other stuff I’m supposed to remember but don’t (such as where I put my glasses, when I’m supposed to go to work, the names of my children...) and, anyway, when was the last time I blogged? That information has been sucked into the bottomless abyss as well. Sometime shortly after Christmas, was it? Whilst I was in the midst of kitchen refurb? (Still not recovered from that and still not finished either!! Floor going down next week – I think. Aaagh!) Progress held up by above-mentioned re-wiring. Now the whole place needs re-decorating (which means choosing paint, which means aaagh! again).
You must be very glad indeed that I have been incommunicado all this time so that you have not had to suffer all the nightmare of the disruptions along with me, week by week, are you not? However, if you feel you’ve missed out atall I’m sure I could fill you in on all the agonies I have undergone over the last few months in the next few blogs...? No? Ah well. No doubt I’ll find something else to moan at you about at great length before too long.
This is confession time. All the above was writ as an introduction to last week’s blog and that is as far as I got. Too many distractions and not enough brain. I am off down south in a few hours so will endeavour to get something down here and sent off to Christopher before I go (though why I allow him anywhere near it I don’t know - he admitted to editing my work from time to time if he thought I’d used too many ellipses or succumbed to any other disgraceful habit of authorship and just who is he to decide which of the ellipses or other such is unnecessary? [I'm the Editor! As long as it has to pass through me I'll play with it.] Each one comes from the heart I can assure you).
The choir as a whole – or nearly a whole, perhaps a four fifths – is heading to London this weekend for a couple of concerts in the annual London Stavanger (that’s spelled wrongly, I know but I can’t think how it’s supposed to look right now) [it's Sangerstevne], a Scandinavian-sort-of choir festival. Non-competitive. Most important that it’s non-competitive or we wouldn’t go. Not very many of us are leaving today but I am off to spend a couple of nights with the aged parents (who look and act anything but) in Sussex. Lovely. We all meet up at about 3.30pm (I think/hope) in Ealing on Saturday. There are several concerts in Ealing on Saturday, each with several choirs performing and we are singing in one that starts at 5.00pm (St Matthew’s Church, for any southern types who fancy such entertainment free of charge, which is always a bonus) and we will be singing for about 10 minutes somewhere towards the end of the programme. We have to hope that the other choirs are good or there could be an empty church by the time we get to have a yodel. Well, empty except for my Aged P’s, Helen Miles and Oliver Henderson – Rudsambee members of yore (the latter two, not my parents) who are both coming to see us, so I’ve heard. At least those four will constitute an appreciative, if rather bijou, audience.
On Sunday we get a whole half a concert to ourselves - which is a bit more like it – sharing with some Belgians, if I’m not much mistaken; and we are singing first so that if the inhabitants of West Hampstead turn out in force to support us, we have a better chance of an audience even if we sing like hell and spoil it for the others. Emmanuel Church, Lyncroft Gardens NW6, btw, just in case Free again and again, we can be assured of four looker-on-and-listener-inners. Perhaps if that’s all we get we can cram ourselves – and them – into the front two pews so it all feels cosier. That’s if there are still pews there. The church in my parent’s village where I got married and my girls were both baptised has got rid of such old-fashioned furnishings so that they can get all friendly and confidential once or twice a month and discuss things while having coffee and croissants!! Most peculiar. And a really good way to ruin a beautiful, ancient church. I suppose they think it better to have it full(ish) though despoiled rather than untouched but empty. I don’t care very much about what goes on in churches but I did rather love that building. Sob.
So – we have a good mix of things to sing this weekend. Some old, some new. We will be starting with Tormis on Saturday which may well confuse people not familiar with our repertoire. Ollie is expecting them to think we’re mad and indeed they may well do so. Especially as we are singing Kiisu Miisu (about an cat) and Susan is going to do her brilliant cat impersonation here and there when she feels like it (while Robin sings the words and the rest of us sing a meouw-y sort of sound underneath). After this we move onto Lulling which is very pretty and straightforward and then Desh, of which I have spoken before though so long ago you may not remember. This is the piece based on an Indian raga and we sang it at our first concert this year – in the National Gallery – where an Indian gentleman jumped to his feet at the end of it and came bustling up to us enthusing about the song/our performance/the arrangement and, in great emotion and excitement, demanded extra applause from the other audience members – which was gratifying to say the least. A shame we didn’t kidnap him in order to take him and his enthusiasm with us whenever we perform this piece but I suppose that behaviour would be unacceptable. Desh will be followed by a new piece called Fog Elna Khel – a traditional Syrian/Iraqi song,
And on Sunday we do all the above with the addition of several old favourites and a new Debussy, Quant j’ai ouy le tabourin, with a lovely solo from Marie-Claire and lots of rhythmic (cross yer fingers wontcha?) la-la-la-ing from the rest of us. Should be good. Should be fun. Dontchoowanna be there?
Once this is done with we will start preparing for a concert at the Reid Concert Hall on June 25th. Think we’re going to make it a charity event so do come if you’re in town. More info later, of course, now you have your blogetteer back, yey!
I will end here as I must get this to Mr Scott for his unwarrantable ministrations and if I leave it all too long I will be in a panic and forget to re-pack my music or something horrendous. If I don’t have my music and Jenny has only half of hers [and that trampled through mud most likely], as usual, where will the poor three available altos be? Yes, there will be only three of us so we have pinched Rachael (she moved up to soprano, if you remember) for a couple of the songs to swell the manly-lady chorus. We have to sing a high ‘E’ at one point, all by ourselves in a very exposed fashion and, although I can get a high ‘E’ perfectly well when not so exposed and not trying to sing it on an ‘-ing’ sound which is really, really tricky, Jenny admitted last night that she can’t sing it at all so that would leave poor Heather trilling away all alone (perhaps with yours truly in squealy accompaniment) and this would not do. Rachael knows the part for this song and whichever other one it is we decided we needed her for so, please, touch any available wood right now so that she doesn’t develop a cold or any other undesirable buglet before the weekend.
Now I shall really stop. Next time I shall try and give you more amusing anecdotal info – this has all been a little bit catchy-uppy and boring. Note to self: Must do better.
Here’s to success and laughter in the big smoke. ‘til next week. Adieu.
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