'Tis the season of choir rehearsals and general preparation for carol concerts, both in and out of school. I am wondering quite why I thought it would be a good idea to agree to host a children's rehearsal at my house in the final days of term when I am already running on empty and liable to bite anyone who comes within ten feet of me. But I hear myself agreeing to writing out cello parts, and copying out three part harmonies, with a blitheness of spirit akin to that of Scrooge's nephew, whilst inside I am seething more darkly than the crusty old uncle himself.
My poor, unfortunate children are at the receiving end of my bad mood, and suffer the worst of it on the way into school this morning. Small Boy has done his best to be merry and bright, but even he has had enough of me by the time we pull up outside school.
I stomp off to my own singing group's rehearsal with a face like the dark December sky above, and vent my frustration on an inappropriately lusty rendition of "Silent Night".
"Er, anything wrong?" asks my friend, as I belt out "All is calm, all is bright", my brow furrowed.
I tell her about the list of commitments that is overwhelming me and the fact that I have just won Vilest Mother of the Year Award.
"Things could be worse!" trills my friend. "You could be in charge of the whole village carol concert with a bunch of crumblies who labour under the illusion that I am put here on this earth for the sole purpose of spending two hours a week in a freezing church hall after work with a crowd of over-seventies whose last attempt at singing was a good thirty years ago and who believe their voices are on a par with those of the dulcet angelic hosts, rather than actually sounding like a combination of fingernails scraping down a blackboard and a chorus of belching banshees!" She pauses to draw breath.
"Oh," I say.
"And then there's Mr R. Oh. My. Goodness. He is the Only Bass in the Village, and by God does he know it."
"Right," I say.
"He tells me he's only got time for one rehearsal, turns up and criticises my Latin pronounciation, telling me it is 'too Cambridge', and then barks, 'Is this going to take long, only I've got a quail in the oven.'"
"A quail in the oven?" I repeat, baffled. Is this some kind of West Country euphemism I haven't had the pleasure of hearing until now?
"Yes," says my friend. "Mr R has roast quail on a Monday night, apparently. And then he tells me he doesn't need to see the music anyway, as he was a chorister at Westminster for seven years. Sadly that was about seventy years ago, but I can't comment or complain because--"
"He's the Only Bass in the Village?"
My friend nods, her face a worrying shade of purple.
She's right, I think as I gather my things and head back to my desk for a day of writing-as-therapy. Things could be worse.
My poor, unfortunate children are at the receiving end of my bad mood, and suffer the worst of it on the way into school this morning. Small Boy has done his best to be merry and bright, but even he has had enough of me by the time we pull up outside school.
I stomp off to my own singing group's rehearsal with a face like the dark December sky above, and vent my frustration on an inappropriately lusty rendition of "Silent Night".
"Er, anything wrong?" asks my friend, as I belt out "All is calm, all is bright", my brow furrowed.
I tell her about the list of commitments that is overwhelming me and the fact that I have just won Vilest Mother of the Year Award.
"Things could be worse!" trills my friend. "You could be in charge of the whole village carol concert with a bunch of crumblies who labour under the illusion that I am put here on this earth for the sole purpose of spending two hours a week in a freezing church hall after work with a crowd of over-seventies whose last attempt at singing was a good thirty years ago and who believe their voices are on a par with those of the dulcet angelic hosts, rather than actually sounding like a combination of fingernails scraping down a blackboard and a chorus of belching banshees!" She pauses to draw breath.
"Oh," I say.
"And then there's Mr R. Oh. My. Goodness. He is the Only Bass in the Village, and by God does he know it."
"Right," I say.
"He tells me he's only got time for one rehearsal, turns up and criticises my Latin pronounciation, telling me it is 'too Cambridge', and then barks, 'Is this going to take long, only I've got a quail in the oven.'"
"A quail in the oven?" I repeat, baffled. Is this some kind of West Country euphemism I haven't had the pleasure of hearing until now?
"Yes," says my friend. "Mr R has roast quail on a Monday night, apparently. And then he tells me he doesn't need to see the music anyway, as he was a chorister at Westminster for seven years. Sadly that was about seventy years ago, but I can't comment or complain because--"
"He's the Only Bass in the Village?"
My friend nods, her face a worrying shade of purple.
She's right, I think as I gather my things and head back to my desk for a day of writing-as-therapy. Things could be worse.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.