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Two years after I phoned in sick to Glyndebourne, and I am finally back. Surely a contender for the world record sickie attempt. An odd feeling. It partly feels as if I have never been away, and partly as if I am coming back as some sort of veteran, battle-scarred but not bowed by my years in rehabilitation. That it was my 30-xth birthday last week didn’t help this last sensation. So, in attempt to make the best of it, and as my birthday happily coincided with the beginning of Glynditz rehearsals, I instigated an evening in the pub. I then spent the evening carefully cultivating the next morning’s hangover whilst enjoying the ageist taunts of the Glyndebourne whippersnappers. I enclose a photo of a whippersnapper. Of course, I had a great time, and am delighted to be back. Even though there are now potentially 11 moths of Carmen stretching ahead of me. And after the smoking ban, it can only have lost its magic.

Glyndebourne does, however, present a slightly difficult issue for the continuation of the blog. The more comic anecdotes – and there are plenty – are really best kept off the web in the interests of maintaining the mystery of the theatre, and, more importantly, in the interests of me maintaining my job. Only yesterday I sat down for a cup of tea, and was told that a colleague’s wife had found my blog, and that a decent score had been logged on the ‘shoot the tenor’ game on my website. I guess a little discretion is required if I am to talk about work at all. And it will be difficult to talk about anything else for a while. We are working six days a week for the foreseeable future.

William has been less than impressed with his Dad’s new extended absences. To make up for it, he has been indulging in dirty protests, and cramming his more bizarre behaviour into our morning slot. This morning, he came out with the memorable comment that ‘Spoons don’t smell of snowflakes.’ Yesterday, having provided a voice for everything else within sight from his cuddly toys to his duvet, William finally got round to asking me the inevitable. That I provide a voice for his willy. For the record, it has a slightly high-pitched cockney accent, and is slightly grumpy. If William were ever to make it as far as requiring a father-of-the-groom speech, he may wish he hadn’t. He is currently snoozing, surrounded by his ‘friends’. I enclose a photo.

My flat continues to provide gainful employment for seemingly endless layers of insurance-related bureaucracy. Two days ago, a veritable committee of professionals working deep into the night were involved in an extensive email debate about the nature of my kitchen sink. I was copied in, but at no time was asked to contribute. I chose to anyway. I’d had a couple of drinks and was beginning to lose patience. The race is now on. Before the place is finally finished, will house prices fall and the rebuild/administration costs rise fast enough to make the place an insurance write-off before I can move in? So long as this doesn’t happen, I plan to have a flat-warming party when the job’s done. I might combine it with my 40th. And invite those whippersnappers.