Sunshine

Is somebody trying to tell me something? Here I am, gradually trying to re-establish myself as a singer, and the concerts I’ve been hired for so far include one set of evening vespers and three performances of Verdi’s Requiem. What is all this doom and gloom hinting at? The death of my career perhaps? Or maybe, given the way I feel after twenty minutes on the rowing machine I’ve borrowed from Bockers, my impending actual demise. Meanwhile, and perhaps just to rub it in, I’ve been written to by Harrow school, asking if I’m interested in working for them as an English teacher. My life is beginning to resemble ‘Mr. Chips, the tour’.

In the interests of retaining focus, I finally managed to arrange a singing lesson last week. The first since the accident. Not, perhaps, surprising, seeing as the route there includes three separate tube lines, and rather too much escalator and stair involvement for my liking. But I got there, and it was a glorious hour. Not only was I gratified to learn that breaking my face hasn’t, at least, rendered me utterly voiceless, but I was hugely glad just to feel my old sense of purpose flooding back. David, my teacher, was phlegmatic about my chances of making an early triumphant re-entry into the world of opera, but seemed encouraged that my first booked engagement is as an armed man in The Magic Flute. I’m guessing my robotic leg will only add to the effect.

In the meantime, William has returned home from his latest hospital stay. He is delighted to be back, mainly because he has been reunited with his box of ‘engines’. He has started to notice the few gaps in his Thomas collection too, and is dropping the sort of subtle hints that only two-and-a-half year olds can get away with. ‘Where’s Henry?’ ‘Henry on the table.’ That sort of thing. Unbeknownst to him, I’ve been carrying Henry in my bag for the last week, and am now less than convinced that I should give it to him and seem to be acceding to his demands. I’ll probably give in though. And risk producing a horribly spoilt toddler. Damn my weakness.

On a day like today, however, it is difficult to reject feelings of the milk of human kindness. I am out in the garden in Tooting, enjoying the sunshine that is flooding everybody else’s gardens, but not mine, as it is in perpetual shade. Still, I have smeared my skin grafts in factor 50, put on a pair of shorts, and intend to go out on the streets soon, and scare the locals. And, as I write, a small patch of sunshine has illuminated the corner of the moss-ridden, cat litter tray that I like to call my garden. So I’m off to go and stand in it.