Christmas

Perhaps it’s the lack of focus that’s delayed my blogging of late. Or perhaps it has been the return of the prodigal, and all that entails. William is back, and I have had to re-adjust my orbit to his gravitational pull. His subtle approach to life at home includes such discreet measures as shouting "DADDY WHERE ARE YOU!" every morning at six o'clock. It's great to have him back. In fact, his return has been just one of many extraordinarily positive recent developments. Whilst various middle managers have been squabbling incompetently about their share of Direct Line’s payout to sort out my flooded flat, the Poles have moved in, and are quietly actually doing the work. And if that wasn’t enough, another seriously grumpy call to Thames ‘nobody can speak to you now, as we’re all on lunch during February’ Water, has finally yielded results. Engineers are coming to see if they can do anything about my flat being the sewage outlet valve for SW17. Wonders will, apparently, never cease. And the final steps in the treatment of my leg have been taken. In fact, they were steps into a box of polystyrene beads, as this was how I was measured for my special insoles. As a special treat, the kind orthotics man in the white coat pointed out that I was flat-footed on the other foot, so would throw in a bonus insole on the NHS. Hurrah for the welfare state. I really must sort out that tax return.

All of this good news is entirely appropriate, as today has been designated Christmas day in Sarah’s house. The overall effect was slightly spoilt by spending this morning intoning twenty solid minutes of dirge-like lentern responses at church, but once I'd pocketed the cash it was a little easier to summon up a degree of festivity. So after consuming an enormous roast, I am now sitting surrounded by the detritus of Christmas; looking at a tree, tucking into a mince pie, and surveying the minefield of discarded wrapping paper that I will later have to try and avoid if I am to not to suffer significant personal injury on the way to the bathroom. My present from the girls was a box of aftershave samples that they mistakenly won on a 50p tombola in the belief that it was perfume. It is, as we all know, the thought that counts. William was finally able to take possession of the train table that I’ve been working on for the last three weeks. He took to it immediately, which was hugely gratifying. Within seconds, engines were crashing all over the place. I was contemplating a re-touch within half an hour. I think I need to let go.

Perhaps the most significant development of the last few weeks, however, has been my return to the treadmill of opera work. I have missed it enormously. Though I did have to remind myself of this constantly as I sat through rehearsal after three hour rehearsal in a freezing warehouse for the dubious honour of striding on, singing three words and then hiding in the shadows at the back of the stage for the rest of the act. And after I’d spent an entire afternoon playing a small role in ensuring that Tosca’s suicidal 30ft leap from the battlements of the Castel Sant’ Angelo went smoothly, I was beginning to wish that she would consider doing the job properly so that we could all go home.

Raymond Gubbay’s Tosca should be a good show. It is a great opera, and with some cracking performances. There is not a great deal for the chorus to do though. We come on at the end of Act 1, pretend to be in a church with as little camp affectation as possible, and leave by the nearest exit. Annoyingly, a couple of offstage moments mean that we have to hang around until the end of the third act, which means that we can’t go straight to the pub, and have to loiter for two hours playing card games in nineteenth century ecclesiastical costume. If that didn’t ensure enough time-wasting, I am covering the role of Spoletta; a scarred henchman who has virtually nothing to say, but manages to pop his head into every scene in the opera. Act 1. Come in, look scary, agree with the bad guy, loiter. Act 2. Come in, gabble key plot details over 30 seconds, look scary, loiter. Act 3. Come in, loiter. A pattern emerges. I have pondered over a number of crosswords during cover rehearsals. There are highlights. Spoletta gets to torture the lead tenor in Act 2. The risks presented by this are usually minimised by doing it offstage, but it’s all spelled out in this production, so it’s not a role for anybody too ambitious. But the crowning point of the role is as he gets to run/limp after Tosca at the end of the opera. This means that I have had a clear view of the most astonishing feature of the piece. This is the booth half way up the ramp to the battlements where Tosca enters as a well-endowed dramatic soprano with life experience, and exits as a twenty-something gymnast ready to take the death-defying thirty-foot plunge. If anybody was ever looking for the definition of the magic of opera, then this is it. It’s great to be back.