It has been a very long while since I have blogged. I have been busy, and will certainly be in trouble for blogging now, when I should be typesetting a newsletter. However, there are certainly things worth recording. Exactly one year and four months after my intimate introduction to the front end of a BMW, I have finally been discharged by the St. George's fracture clinic. For once, and despite the raised eyebrows of the radiologist when she looked at my slides, I felt a fraud as I queued up for x-ray. I have been offered the exciting possibility of a series of operations to try and close up my skin grafts, but given that each procedure would need two weeks off work, and that the most gory scar would probably prove too stubborn to treat, I have a feeling I am going to pass. So, barring an appointment with an 'orthotics' specialist who will try and sort out my limp with some exotic insoles, and my monthly meetings with the lissome beauties of the physio dept, I am released into the wild. Which is surely worth celebrating. Except, typically, I shall be doing it on my own, as my Mum and Dad are throwing themselves on the mercy of the NHS for a cataract and hip replacement operation respectively, and Sarah and William are back in William's Chelsea pad. A.k.a. Mercury ward, Chelsea and Westminster hospital. Rarely has my tax bill seemed more justified. And not to be left out, Hope and Ellie have decided to go down with the flu. So the champagne remains on ice.
William has been practising being ill. This is an early attempt:
And after some practice:
He has clearly perfected his technique. We were fairly sure he had a bit of a sniffle. Then a blood test revealed four separate bacterial infections, and a fungal growth just for good measure. He was blue-lighted to Chelsea and Westminster, and is now on three different IV drugs. William does a great line in Man flu.
I am still teaching at the City of London School. If I wanted to stay in teaching, I would certainly be applying for a job there. The pupils are certainly more savvy than Tonbridge, and, if I am to properly understand some of the more oblique references delivered in class by some of my sixth-formers, they have discovered my online presence. As I said, a great school.
I have, however, been planning my escape, and have been auditioning frantically. It has not been ideal, bellowing at 2H in the morning, and trying to sing Handel runs in the afternoon, but I do feel that I am singing well. Unfortunately, it does not appear that the key audition panels agree with me. Glyndebourne seem happy to have me back, but all of my attempts at further advancement seem to have fallen on deaf ears. Or at least I like to think that deafness is the problem. Annoyingly, the big companies refuse to give their reasons for not considering you for work. This creates an unfortunate vacuum where the rejected auditionee can either construct an enormously elaborate conspiracy theory involving masonic blacklists, or shut themselves in a darkened room bewailing their obvious complete inability to cut the mustard. The truth quite possibly lies somewhere in the middle. I like to believe that I now find myself in the unfortunate situation where I am too long in the tooth to be the next young thing, and yet have not enough experience to sell myself as an established pro. All very frustrating. So much so, that, in desperation to sing something other than 'messenger' (a role I recently sang to great acclaim in La Traviata at the Birmingham NEC), I am considering trying to put on my own production next year. I will be trying out for a significant role. I bet that bloody masonic blacklist gets in the way though. Did I mention that?
November 15, 2007
October 07, 2007
Mummies
Sarah has been in Loch Ness this weekend, running another marathon. And finished in just inside four hours. Very impressive, and we have some champagne in the fridge to celebrate. I didn’t quite get around to sponsoring her this time, which is fairly poor, but I have provided the celebratory champagne, so fingers crossed that this evens the score. Especially as Sarah’s running habit is clearly designed to highlight my own immobility, and the champagne had been bought to celebrate my own return to walking unaided. Not that I’m bitter. She’d better bloody well bring me back some whisky though. A Johnnie Walker Black Label at least. And given that I’ve also done all the family washing, tidied up and looked after all three sprogs for three nights, I’m sure I’m worth a decent bottle of Glenmorangie. Though this might be a dangerous precedent to set if I ever get touring again. So maybe I’d settle for a Loch Ness Monster key-ring.
Being a single parent has not exactly played to my strengths. I have, however, so far managed to avoid the comedy disasters of last time. One highlight (and there were many) of that episode was patching up a cut above Ellie’s eye with a bit of tape and sending her to school telling her not to make a fuss. Two hours later, and still losing blood, she was in casualty. Sadly, even this masterstroke of incompetence failed to put Sarah off entrusting me with her brood. The girls have, at least, been on pretty good form. They have spent most of the weekend playing in the street outside. Obviously, my own experiences of playing with traffic have proved less than exemplary, but they seem to be able to keep out of trouble in the cul-de-sac.
William has been less keen to give his daddy a quiet life. As proven by the attached video (This is a new experiment, and should be watched sideways!), he has been developing worrying daredevil tendencies, and, in fact, celebrated the temporary absence of mummy by pulling out his gastrostomy tube, thus requiring the intervention of his home nurse within hours of me being left in-charge. At least she had the decency to point out the encouraging sign that the washing machine was on. I like Anna. She knows the score.
Today, and on the advice of my mother, we went to the British Museum. As somebody had chosen to end it all on the East Croydon line, the journey took rather longer than planned, and by the time I was able to change William’s nappy, things were already pretty messy. Our cultural visit then lasted approximately 20 minutes. We saw some mummies. “Look William – it’s a mummy!”
“No it isn’t.”
“Look William – it’s another mummy!”
“No it isn’t – mummy’s in Scotland.”
Repeat. Several times. Then a good deal of whingeing from the girls about being hungry, and endless upset from William that he had the wrong Thomas book. I gave up, and took them to McDonald’s and the park. These are, of course, attractions that can be found nearer to home, but then we would have missed William’s comedy routine with an unsuspecting passenger on the number 11 bus. “Are you asleep lady?” Etc. So, I was glad of my mum’s advice – I did ask, after all – but should have remembered that we spent some of the most happy weekends of our own childhood playing with Lego from a bucket.
Sarah is back tomorrow. I can quite understand why she went to Inverness. Though not entirely why she seems keen to come back.
Being a single parent has not exactly played to my strengths. I have, however, so far managed to avoid the comedy disasters of last time. One highlight (and there were many) of that episode was patching up a cut above Ellie’s eye with a bit of tape and sending her to school telling her not to make a fuss. Two hours later, and still losing blood, she was in casualty. Sadly, even this masterstroke of incompetence failed to put Sarah off entrusting me with her brood. The girls have, at least, been on pretty good form. They have spent most of the weekend playing in the street outside. Obviously, my own experiences of playing with traffic have proved less than exemplary, but they seem to be able to keep out of trouble in the cul-de-sac.
William has been less keen to give his daddy a quiet life. As proven by the attached video (This is a new experiment, and should be watched sideways!), he has been developing worrying daredevil tendencies, and, in fact, celebrated the temporary absence of mummy by pulling out his gastrostomy tube, thus requiring the intervention of his home nurse within hours of me being left in-charge. At least she had the decency to point out the encouraging sign that the washing machine was on. I like Anna. She knows the score.
Today, and on the advice of my mother, we went to the British Museum. As somebody had chosen to end it all on the East Croydon line, the journey took rather longer than planned, and by the time I was able to change William’s nappy, things were already pretty messy. Our cultural visit then lasted approximately 20 minutes. We saw some mummies. “Look William – it’s a mummy!”
“No it isn’t.”
“Look William – it’s another mummy!”
“No it isn’t – mummy’s in Scotland.”
Repeat. Several times. Then a good deal of whingeing from the girls about being hungry, and endless upset from William that he had the wrong Thomas book. I gave up, and took them to McDonald’s and the park. These are, of course, attractions that can be found nearer to home, but then we would have missed William’s comedy routine with an unsuspecting passenger on the number 11 bus. “Are you asleep lady?” Etc. So, I was glad of my mum’s advice – I did ask, after all – but should have remembered that we spent some of the most happy weekends of our own childhood playing with Lego from a bucket.
Sarah is back tomorrow. I can quite understand why she went to Inverness. Though not entirely why she seems keen to come back.
October 01, 2007
Gym
Lordy! My last post was in high summer, and it’s taken me until after the equinox to post again. Oddly, the weather doesn’t seem to be any different. On the plus-side, I’m imagining that any of my friends, family or acquaintances who had developed a habit of reading this blog will now have given up entirely, leaving me free to pontificate, talk nonsense, or libel at will.So. What has been going on? Firstly, of course, and slavishly adhering to the initial premise of this blog, there should be leg news. And it’s still there, and unencumbered. The plastic boot is in the bin. Metaphorically, of course. It’s NHS property. So significant progress has been made. I still limp, and can’t run yet. I am missing a lot of buses. But I am now thoughtfully reminded by every medical professional I have the pleasure of meeting (professionally, of course) that I should feel lucky that I have a leg. So it is my lucky leg. Though perhaps a tattoo of a rabbit’s paw would be in bad taste. Or even a discreet horseshoe.
William has been out of hospital for some weeks. This appears to mean that his morning and evening routines are Daddy’s responsibility. Proof of this, were it required, is provided by the dawn chorus that typically wakes me up. “Change my nappy Daddy!” I think it’s great that he is home.
The flat is now empty, and 90% of my possessions are in a skip in Croydon. A poetic end. The carpet has gone, but the drying machines are still not doing their job, as there is nowhere to plug them in, and no electrician in Tooting who seems able to attend an appointment when he says he will. Nearly three months on, and I am tempted to try and dry the place out myself with kitchen paper. That advert for ‘Bounty’ makes some fairly extravagant claims.
Despite all of this progress, I’m still not back to where I was with my job. I suppose there’s quite a lot of confidence to be won back from potential employers, even if I was as sprightly around the stage as I ever was. Which, of course, I’m not. So it’s a slow business. And as mortgage rates have thoughtfully chosen this moment to rise, my only two chances of avoiding skid row have been the ongoing legal case, and the possibility of picking up teaching work. And the legal case is proving interminable. The other side seem to think I should have factored in the possibility of meeting a wannabe Stirling Moss in an aged BMW into my road-crossing calculations. So I was a relieved man when the City of London School rang and offered me work until Christmas. I had been weighing up the relative benefits of a job in Starbucks or McDonalds. It will be difficult to look the head of English at Tonbridge in the eye again though. I left him with the distinct impression that the reason I couldn’t take on the job there full-time was because I was busy establishing my international operatic career. And one of his first jobs of the new term would have been to write my reference.
At least the city is a great place to work. Over ten years ago, I did part of my PGCE there, and tiptoed in with a shaky idea of the principles of English teaching, and a determination to account for every minute of a forty minute lesson with a detailed plan. Now I waltz in with my bullshit valve jammed permanently in the open position, and an accidental knowledge of my subject. It’s a different job. And rather more enjoyable, even if it isn’t my job of choice. However, there is an integral contradiction to being an English teacher in the City of London. It is not a job that sits obviously in the same space as the unfettered capitalist. Pinstripe suits don’t have leatherette elbow-patches. So, in order to feel suitably city-boy and to please my physiotherapist at the same time, I have joined a gym. I haven’t been there yet, though. I don’t own a pair of shorts.
August 10, 2007
Food
Three weeks into what shall become known as the ‘plastic boot’ period, Hopefully not too long to go. I have got away with a couple of small roles ‘without boot’ too. There’s not a great deal of moving around in the role of 1st Armed Man. It rather defines the phrase spear-carrier. Then learning Ravel’s l’Heure Espagnole on two weeks notice and three days rehearsal. Quite terrifying, even though my role was a minor one. The attached photo shows the cast on their way to performance. You will notice the various coping strategies. Learning the score, whistling the tune, or giving in to apparent mania. I am due to sing the Count in the Barber of Seville on Sunday for a different group. This is a little more substantial - I am only offstage twice, and one of those exits is for a quick change. It shall be performed with boot. I doubt the company will be too impressed when they realise that my footwear makes my every move sound like the arrival of a cyberman. The swordplay involved may prove quite interesting too.William is back in hospital - this time at the Chelsea and Westminster for a longish stretch. The idea is to try him on food. Sadly, this will not mean the boy tucking into a burger and chips, but rather Mummy and Daddy preparing amino-acid soup to pump overnight into one of his tubes. Hardly Gordon Ramsey. Meanwhile, William has developed his own unusual take on eating. It consists of plucking imaginary foodstuffs from the air, then either eating them, or offering them to me, so that I can pretend that the sausage, chocolate or strawberry calls to be let go, and has to be rescued from my mouth. All rather surreal, especially when he starts eating elephants, triangles and colours. So, in celebration of William’s new-found propensities for imagination, I took him out to the Tate Modern. This was an education for him, me, and for the countless gallery-goers that he chose to regale with his insights.
“What’s that, William?”
“Colouring in. An orange rectangle” (Mark Rothko)
“What’s that, William?”
“Cutting out.” (Matisse)
Surely pretty astute. It normally takes a degree in Fine Art to get to the stage of wondering what constitutes a stripe in Rothko’s Four Seasons’ murals. William was straight in there with a decent opinion, armed only the basics of crayon usage in his skills set. He’s the man.
After the gallery, we went to Borough Market. William was not as impressed with the cheese shop as I was, and insisted on clasping my hand over his nose. In fact, he has decided to frame any feelings of general malaise in terms of food. “I’ve lost my biscuit,” seems to be William-speak for “I’m generally cross, and haven’t quite figured out why.” It’s fair to say that his biscuit was missing as I sat him in front of the goats’ cheese counter of Neals Yard Dairy. Goodness only knows what he would make of the less-than fragrant mushrooms I recently discovered growing on the carpet in my flooded flat.
July 22, 2007
NHS
Hurrah for free state healthcare. My leg has been freed from its cage, William continues to be kept going, and with a smile on his face. And we have father and son splints. Mine is temporary, and needs to be worn whilst walking around. William's need to be worn overnight, and will most likely be a semi-permanent fixture. But they have tractors and helicopters on them. Which makes them far superior.
It has been a while since my last blog. All sorts of things have happened. Term ended at Tonbridge, and I once again have given up English teaching, to try and return to my old singing job. At the moment, I have approximately four confirmed dates in my diary when I have paying work. Two days after I left paying work, I went to Lille for an audition, where, outside the opera house, I turned down a particularly tenacious beggar, who told me that I was rich, and that I should f-off back to England. Bi-lingual beggar he may have been, but his grasp of the realities of my finances were about as sound as his understanding of the Entente Cordiale. And I didn’t get the part. I did come back with a decent bottle of St. Julien though. Some things are worth dipping into the overdraft for.
Things may temporarily look up on the cash front when Direct Line finally cough up the insurance payment for my last flat flooding. Although they will be unimpressed by the fact that it has flooded again. I have yet to figure out what I have lost, as it is still inches deep in foul smelling South London effluent, and I haven’t been able to get in. Odd that I spent at least a year as an undergraduate living in conditions only slightly less squalid, and never felt so fussy. However, now that my leg-metalwork has been taken off, and I am sporting my plastic open-toed orthopaedic boot, I’m guessing that squelching through raw sewage isn’t the way forward. Especially as I am still sporting open post-surgical wounds. Ideally, I need an NHS wellie. Which hasn’t been forthcoming, so I have been unable to explore. Even so, I do know that my copy of John Humphries' book about English Grammar has bought it – I saw it floating by the front door. I’m not sure I needed my recent career choice illustrated in quite such a graphic fashion.
They may not be able to provide wellies, but the NHS has come up trumps in every other regard this month. 24 hours after my frame had been removed, William had an extremely nasty turn, and I was in casualty again. He toddled over to give me a cuddle, and three minutes later, was shaking uncontrollably, going blue, and showing every symptom of ‘septic shock’. I phoned for an ambulance with my spare hand. It arrived in five minutes, and I was then astonished by just how quickly it is possible to drive from Addiscombe to Mayday hospital. Within the hour, William was sitting on a trolley regaling all who would listen with the intricacies of various Thomas stories. When you hear griping about the length of hip replacement waiting lists, it rather falls into relief when you know how impressively the health service can perform when they need to. Having said that, it did look briefly as if the nearest bed they could offer was going to be in Hampshire. And Dad’s waiting for a hip replacement.
William is home again now, and on familiar form, if a bit weary. He has mastered the phrases “I want,” and “I don’t want,” and is rather good at saying “Please!” However, he rarely, if ever, actually knows what he wants. It’s very confusing, approaching the age of three. It seems to have sparked a sort of mid-life crisis. “I want a cuddle!” “I don’t want a cuddle!” These are difficulties recognisable to all men. It was no surprise to come home yesterday to find him seeking solace in the arms of a nurse. When you’re a toddler, it seems, state healthcare can even stretch that far.
It has been a while since my last blog. All sorts of things have happened. Term ended at Tonbridge, and I once again have given up English teaching, to try and return to my old singing job. At the moment, I have approximately four confirmed dates in my diary when I have paying work. Two days after I left paying work, I went to Lille for an audition, where, outside the opera house, I turned down a particularly tenacious beggar, who told me that I was rich, and that I should f-off back to England. Bi-lingual beggar he may have been, but his grasp of the realities of my finances were about as sound as his understanding of the Entente Cordiale. And I didn’t get the part. I did come back with a decent bottle of St. Julien though. Some things are worth dipping into the overdraft for.
Things may temporarily look up on the cash front when Direct Line finally cough up the insurance payment for my last flat flooding. Although they will be unimpressed by the fact that it has flooded again. I have yet to figure out what I have lost, as it is still inches deep in foul smelling South London effluent, and I haven’t been able to get in. Odd that I spent at least a year as an undergraduate living in conditions only slightly less squalid, and never felt so fussy. However, now that my leg-metalwork has been taken off, and I am sporting my plastic open-toed orthopaedic boot, I’m guessing that squelching through raw sewage isn’t the way forward. Especially as I am still sporting open post-surgical wounds. Ideally, I need an NHS wellie. Which hasn’t been forthcoming, so I have been unable to explore. Even so, I do know that my copy of John Humphries' book about English Grammar has bought it – I saw it floating by the front door. I’m not sure I needed my recent career choice illustrated in quite such a graphic fashion.
They may not be able to provide wellies, but the NHS has come up trumps in every other regard this month. 24 hours after my frame had been removed, William had an extremely nasty turn, and I was in casualty again. He toddled over to give me a cuddle, and three minutes later, was shaking uncontrollably, going blue, and showing every symptom of ‘septic shock’. I phoned for an ambulance with my spare hand. It arrived in five minutes, and I was then astonished by just how quickly it is possible to drive from Addiscombe to Mayday hospital. Within the hour, William was sitting on a trolley regaling all who would listen with the intricacies of various Thomas stories. When you hear griping about the length of hip replacement waiting lists, it rather falls into relief when you know how impressively the health service can perform when they need to. Having said that, it did look briefly as if the nearest bed they could offer was going to be in Hampshire. And Dad’s waiting for a hip replacement.
William is home again now, and on familiar form, if a bit weary. He has mastered the phrases “I want,” and “I don’t want,” and is rather good at saying “Please!” However, he rarely, if ever, actually knows what he wants. It’s very confusing, approaching the age of three. It seems to have sparked a sort of mid-life crisis. “I want a cuddle!” “I don’t want a cuddle!” These are difficulties recognisable to all men. It was no surprise to come home yesterday to find him seeking solace in the arms of a nurse. When you’re a toddler, it seems, state healthcare can even stretch that far.
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