It is with considerable surprise and no little remorse that I discover it’s four days since I last lifted the lid on my laptop to burst into bloggish print. I can only apologise to my legion of followers and explain to both of you that sometimes the trials of teenage children usurps all else and that, combined with frenetic partying, has caused my lapse. Pathetic I know, but after the Safari Supper on Friday night when far too much very rich food was consumed, combined with an equal excess of alcoholic refreshment, mind and body needed longer than normal to regain their equilibrium. If you’re not familiar with the ritual of a Safari Supper (and I wasn’t), it doesn’t mean chasing wildebeest in a hot air balloon across the Serengeti with some chilled bubbly and a Fortnum and Mason hamper at the ready, but more prosaically it’s a large group of people being split up into smaller groups to dine in different people’s houses. You change venue and group for each course, starter, main and dessert, before all meeting up together in one place for cheese, port, more wine and the final nail in the coffin. We, Alison (my wife) and I, had volunteered to host pudding, which is a bit of a speciality of Alison’s. She served a ridiculously rich chocolate mousse which all went, some delicious lemon posset, which nearly all went and her very own trademark speciality, a Strawberry Crump. This is billionaire rich and those greedy pigs who had two helpings deserve no sympathy for the severe ill health they suffered later. Personally, I have spent the last two days, walking, umpiring hockey and asking Michael (my Archangel) for absolution and forgiveness, which thus far has not been forthcoming.
Another really interesting thing that’s happened this week is that I’ve joined a choir, after hearing about it from a lovely friend. When I was young and in my salad days I sang in Ely Cathedral and later with the Brompton Choral Society in London. The latter required you to pass an audition which I just about scraped through. They must have been short of basses at the time. In the intervening thirty plus years my musical contribution has consisted largely of belting out the melody of Christmas carols an octave below the intended. With creaking voice box and and a deteriorating ear I had rather thought that was it. So what inspired this Damascene transformation? Mainly I suspect the need for social interaction and the fact they don’t audition! The delightful Director of Music, Jane by name, announced my arrival to the expectant masses in eulogistic tones, “and he’s a Bass”. To which the rows of blue rinses (and the odd beautiful blonde) responded with a hearty cheer and slight note of surprise. Needless to say I was overwhelmed and not a little embarrassed. Particularly as I knew and they didn’t, that my contribution was liable to be imperfect at best and tunelessly cringeworthy at worst. They are preparing for a “crossover” concert of works by Vivaldi, Handel, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Abba and Queen. From “Gloria” to “Bohemian Rhapsody”, from “Phantom of the Opera” to “Dancing Queen”, the potential for disaster is apparent at every turn. The good news is that the rehearsal room is conveniently located a mere fifty metres from the pub, so any damage sustained in the preceding two hours can quickly be repaired with a bottle or two of vin rouge extraordinaire. I actually survived the first rehearsal with the help of some talented performers around me and a box of Nigroids. Lest you think I am being politically incorrect, heaven forbid, these are little black, liquorice tasting pellets that are much used by opera singers, which seem to oil the inner workings of the larynx. I confess that I’ve had this box for quite a few years so there’s every likelihood that they have since been rebranded. If Wing Commander Guy Gibson’s real life lab ended up on the ‘Dambusters’ cutting room floor, what chance for Nigroids? Interestingly, (no this is really interesting) in my RAF days I was based for a while at RAF Scampton, home of 617 Squadron, who’s predecessors had undertaken that breathtakingly daring raid and it’s a historical fact that their Commander really did have a black Labrador called “Nigger”. Perhaps we should rewrite our history books to delete any mention of Henry VIII beheading his wives. We shouldn’t allow our children to be subjected to such violent, mysogonistic, chauvinist, sexist behaviour after all.
Now that the cobwebs have been cleared from the typewriter and words assembled in roughly the right order, it is my intention to bore you with my mindless drivellings on a daily basis. However, the reality is that there may be the odd day when inspiration takes off like a saturated firework and the muse remains gated and locked in Eastbourne’s equivalent of Fort Knox. With that shameful admission, I’m required on bar duty.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 