Reflections on a curate's egg

My mother and I have come to the conclusion that the French don't do subtle when it comes to theatre - a little odd when you consider what wonders their cinema industry comes up with. The production of Private lives we saw was incredibly overblown, the wit sacrificed for the sake of farce. To anyone who didn't know the original (the woman sitting directly in front of me among them), this was tremendous stuff, but it left those of us familiar with the wryness of Noel Coward distinctly underwhelmed.

That said, I should be glad that I got to France at all, having overslept on Saturday morning and woken up a mere hour before the departure of my flight - all praise to the taxi driver who got me to the airport in twenty minutes!

Putting to one side the disappointment at the theatre, I would be hard-pushed to speak more positively of my stay. Never mind how enjoyable the recitals we went to were: even though Cédric Tiberghien and Hervé Billaut's piano duets and Felicity Lott's high spirits were a joy to behold, it was spending time with my mother, brother and Pluto (the dog) which really made it. True, taking Father's place at the theatre was the impetus for the trip, but the lack of a holiday or commemoration made all the difference - which means July to October, which encompass most of our family anniversaries, will be another matter.

We're all enjoying the greater sense of family unity. How much better it would be if it hadn't been at such expense ...

(My train of thought, when writing about my family, is by its very nature repetitive, so if you're expecting me to avoid the subject of my father and the continuing effect of his death on my family, tough luck. While I am apt to spend some time on the language I use in these entries, I will not censor my thoughts.)

Break no. 1 coming up

Right, I'm off to France first thing on Saturday, getting up at 4am or thereabouts to arrive in time for the first bit of culture - Cédric Tiberghien in recital. (He's playing at the Edinburgh International Festival, which'll be a good way to start a conversation.) Then we've got Felicity Lott on Sunday and Private lives on Tuesday.

Back on Wednesday ...

Possible job news

I applied for the position of Assistant Box Office Manager at one of Edinburgh's main music venues a couple of weeks back and should be hearing back from them next week. To be frank, I'm not really expecting to get very far with this - my lack of experience is my weakest point - but it's got to be worth a shot. After all, I've no idea what sort of person they're after.

The Scottish Chamber Orchestra is after a Marketing Assistant, yet I have to say I'm not even sure I want to give it a go: it's the third time in less than a year that a position has come up in their marketing department. Such a high rate of staff turnover is a little discouraging, to say the least, but it's not prevented me from requesting an information pack. Again, there's no harm in looking into it.

Don't take this to mean that I'm unhappy in my current job: it's more a case of wanting to make headway in arts administration sooner rather than later. At my age, I should be doing better than low-paid jobs, however fun they are.

That said, I'm starting upon a new venture, looking into writing programme notes; not that I'd expect to make pots of money from it, but it's still a worthwhile pursuit. My years in classical CD retail taught me how to speak about music in such a way as to make it accessible for novices without losing the interest of the most passionate music-lovers - very much a case of "same subject, different medium".

A bookworm born of circumstance

Things have been so quiet at work these last two weeks that I'm halfway through my fourth book. I'm not a slow reader, but it's not usual for me to spend the vast majority of my working day with my nose in a book!

First up was John Buchan's The thirty-nine steps, which I only knew by the reputation of Hitchcock's film. It's quite a slim volume and a little episodic in nature, but great fun nonetheless. Most pleasingly, the descriptions of the Scottish lowlands - in which a substantial portion of the novel is set - are beautifully evocative, without falling back on clichés about windswept heather. It's an absorbing read too, taking me a mere 24 hours to get through.

I kept to the classics and turned to Harper Lee's To kill a mockingbird next, a book I'd studied aged 13 and not read since. It was wonderful returning to it, all the more so as I could only recall the bare bones of the plot; I suspect a good deal of the humour had passed me by as a child, while the elegiac tone which follows the trial of Tom Robinson was fabulously moving. Many was the occasion I thought back to my English teacher's declaration that he wished he could be as good a father as Atticus Finch.

After two classics, a change of mood was needed so I picked up James Gaines' Evening in the Palace of Reason. This is perhaps best described as a simultaneous biography of J.S. Bach and Frederick the Great, built around the latter's challenge to the former which resulted in the composition of the Musical offering. A fascinating examination of both men, their backgrounds and temperaments, written in such a way as makes light of the author's scholarship - never mind the musical content, this is recommended reading for anyone interested in the history of ideas.

Andrew Greig's The return of John Macnab, which I'm currently reading, brings this bout of reading full circle. It's a delightful read, telling of three friends resurrecting this John Buchan character's challenge to poach from three Royal estates. Like Buchan, Greig is a master at describing the Scottish landscape but also succeeds in engaging the reader's emotions. This goes beyond mere tribute to stand on its own terms as a fine modern Scottish novel.

Next week is likely to be on the quiet side too, so chances are my reading won't stop there ...

Simple joys

You pour some oil into a tall jug, add an egg and a splash of vinegar, then season. Then get your liquidiser into action, and hey presto.

Who would have thought making mayonnaise was so simple?

A hairdresser's nightmare

I'm going to be on holiday four times over the space of two months:

(1) France towards the end of May. My parents had tickets booked for a production of Noel Coward's Private lives (in French) on the 27th and, being of a more theatrical bent than my brother, I'll be accompanying my mother instead. As it happens, my visit will also coincide with Les nuits romantiques, a local music festival with some pretty starry names to its credit, so we'll be going along to that too.

(2) Norfolk towards the end of June. A dual purpose here: I'd been planning on visiting my uncle, aunt and cousins for some time, so when the opportunity came to sing at Norwich cathedral (even if for but one afternoon), I jumped at it.

(3) Jersey in early July. My mother's parents retired to the Channel Islands and we've got family business to take care of. It's been 19 years since I was last there and I'm looking forward to it tremendously.

(4) London in mid-July. The Proms beckon again, despite there being far too much Mozart for my and Luke's liking - though to our delight, the sublime Così fan tutte is among those works chosen.

Just as well I don't need a haircut for a while. Right now, "where are you going on your holidays this year?" ranks alongside "where are you from?" as a question I can do without being asked.

A first time for everything

The unprecedented happened at my birthday party on Saturday. Peter had mentioned to me during the course of the evening that I had a gift for bringing groups of disparate people together, and a couple of hours later a huge disagreement arose between two of my friends. Coming as the proceedings were drawing to a close (at around 4am), it could have spoilt the evening as a whole, but thankfully things had gone so well until that point that my memory of the occasion is, on the whole, as a happy one. It just saddens me that tempers should have got the better of my guests ...

My mother and brother returned home this morning after a short week here which took in a walk around Arthur's Seat on my birthday, a trip to see Les liaisons dangereuses at the Lyceum on Friday, the party on Saturday and, considering the Pimm's and G&T I'd drunk the previous evening, some pretty good solos on my part at the eucharist on Sunday. I arrived at the church just in time to launch into the Agnus Dei from Kodaly's Missa brevis which opened the rehearsal - soaking wet, my glasses steamed up and (crucially) my voice not in any way warmed up. I'm still not entirely clear how, come the service, I managed top G sharps mezzo piano without going into falsetto.

Now I'm back and ready to blog on the delights of Lully and his contemporaries, whose music I'm singing this Saturday.