The end of Tosca

Tosca has finally taken her last death leap at the Albert Hall, and thank goodness she seems to have stayed dead this time. Cavaradossi died too, of course, but the effect was somewhat diminished by his later appearance in the pub. The suspension of disbelief had been rendered difficult anyway, as in an early performance his dodgy wig had fallen off just as the firing squad dispatched him. Sadly, the wig was not given a separate bow.

The full glorious experience of the Gubbay chorus was neatly captured by a Times Journalist who briefly shared my dressing room desk. ‘Like a rugby changing room, but more camp’ apparently. There was not a lot for us to do in Tosca, but despite the enormous amount of wasted time, it was great to find myself back with my chums, as well as making some new ones. Glyndebourne starts in a fortnight, so the treadmill really gets going in earnest then. And a full twelve months of back-to-back Carmens begins. At least there’s a lot to do in that opera, but I suspect that by this time next year even the sniff of a toreador will be enough to bring on palpitations. And they’re a sweaty lot.

My flat looked briefly as if things were getting sorted out. The Poles moved in, work was done – it was great. And it was never going to last. The guys dealing with the contents seem to have gone completely AWOL. Five minutes before I was due to meet them in Tooting, they rang to say that they were in Brighton. I am not at all sure that this can be put down to the failure of a Sat Nav. As things currently stand, these guys have thrown away 90% of my belongings, hidden the other 10%, not showed me any paperwork to show what they’ve done, and then proved impossible to find for four months. My gathering nervousness is perhaps not entirely surprising. Still, Thames Water is due to have a look at the drain tomorrow, so perhaps I shouldn’t relinquish any belief in miracles just yet.

William is enjoying a pleasantly bizarre period of development. He has just run up to me and asked if I had a big face. I have also been required to provide the voice for pretty much every inanimate object in the house. His taste for anthropomorphism has even extended as far as having conversations with his buggy. These are episodes that must surely tempt a few passers-by to consider calling the authorities. And this might not necessarily be a bad idea. George Phillipson at the City of London School has just sent me the department photo taken last term. An alarming transformation does seem to have taken place recently.

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For a boy brought up as an atheist, this is a worrying development. Especially as I've had to intone the litany at church for the last fortnight. "From fornication and all sins of the flesh, Good Lord deliver us". Indeed.