Opera and handbells
It’s the Queen’s birthday and everybody is going nuts over the World Cup*. I went to the opera.
It has been an unnecessarily exciting day. Well, it started last night.** I was looking forward to a nice weekend’s gardening, because it’s not supposed to rain and it’s not too hot, and I glanced in my diary because I just wanted to check that there weren’t any weddings this weekend that I had to ring bells for. There aren’t any wedding rings*** but my first Grange Park opera of the season was tonight. Which I had entirely forgotten about. Thank the Goddess of Agenda that diaries were invented.
It seemed like a good idea last autumn or whenever it was when us season subscribers were being harassed to stop mucking about with membership fees and book tickets. The only opera I thought it was worthwhile to compel Peter to accompany me to is Tosca; that Peter goes to the opera at all is pretty much an anthem† to his good nature, since opera is not Peter’s Nanki Poo.†† And there isn’t anybody I want to bully into spending a lot of money on a ticket to go with me instead, since I’m one of these if-I-can’t-get-a-good-seat-I-don’t-want-to-go people. So I bought two single tickets, for Richard Strauss’ Capriccio and Prokofiev’s Love for Three Oranges—which is next Saturday, so I get to do this all again. Gah. I love opera, and it’s thrilling to see it live occasionally instead of just you and your CD player†††, however adored the recorded performance. I just don’t like the faff of going.
So I was stomping around the kitchen creating an early hellhound lunch because I was going to have to give them their afternoon hurtle early‡ when the phone rang. I felt a light premonitory chill when Peter handed me the phone saying, It’s Niall.
Niall doesn’t ring me up frivolously. He only rings when he has cause. He also spends a lot of time leading up to whatever his cause is, which is almost fun to watch, except that I know when he gets there I won’t like it, and the longer it takes him to get there the less I’m going to like it.
They’re laying on a special service at the cathedral tomorrow. Fine. Whatever. The cathedral is always having special services. It’s one of the things cathedrals are for.
They’re laying on a special service at the cathedral tomorrow for which they want handbells.
WHY?‡‡ The cathedral has millions of bells. And ringers. I don’t ring there because, you know how I’ve said that while good towers welcome everyone, other people’s beginners are not wildly popular? Well, I count as a beginner at the cathedral. Niall claims not to know why they want handbell ringers. This may or may not be true—the latter depending on how Niall thinks I would react. And we don’t even get paid—we’re just doing this for the greater handbell good and because we’re wonderful human beings. I am not a wonderful human being. I wanted to spend tomorrow afternoon gardening.‡‡‡ And furthermore our handbell third is not Colin, but one of the handbell gods. I can’t ring with gods: they go too frelling fast.§ Niall said hopefully, but we’ll get tea! Tea and cakes!
Yes, I said yes. I am a masochistic fool. And I can probably get a blog out of it. Whatever it is.
So, all you readers who were here last year, you remember Grange Park, right? 
Note the opera-loving dog. The bloke in the naff white dinner jacket is actually the owner and chief patron. And he comes out on stage with the dog to thank us all for coming. And I’ll take that car over a McLaren any day.§§
* * *
* The what?
** I say this a lot. There should be a second footnote to ‘Days in the Life’ that reads, ‘usually starting the night before’.
*** Not that this has saved me. Keep reading.
† With organ accompaniment
†† Okay, it would be Yum-Yum for Peter.
††† I’m having trouble not obsessively reading up on the just-released iPhone 4. One of the questions near the top of my list is, am I going to be able to copy multi-CD operas on it, without the little ratbag copying CD 2 over CD1, which is why the Walkperson chiefly contains every Steeleye Span ever cut.
‡ Which didn’t work at all. When I got home they were all over me. We want to go out! You missed our evening hurtle! Whatever that was in the afternoon doesn’t count!
‡‡ Sorry, those of you who follow me on Twitter. But this is the full, complete version
‡‡‡ I wanted to spend this afternoon gardening.
§ I’ve met this particular god before. And I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to try to make me ring faster, and he’s going to ask me when I want to ring my first peal. Full peal. You know, two or three hours.
§§ And the opera? Um. Here, read this. http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2010/jun/07/capriccio-review
I’m even a major Susan Gritton fan. And it was not only sung fabulously, it was also acted immaculately, which is still an unfortunately rare thing on an operatic stage. But—all you Richard Strauss fans, look away now—I found the story irritating and (sacrilege) almost twee, and the music surprisingly disposable.
But it may not be Strauss’ fault. I was sitting next to a woman who took up not only all of her seat but about a third of mine. I am, in fact, so angry about this, I’m thinking about writing to the admin about it, although what can they do? Tear out the expensive new armrestless seating and replace it with the kind that has barriers? It’s a small hall; I’m sure they did it this way to save space. But it is intolerable to spend all this money on a cultural event and then essentially not get what you paid for because the person sitting next to you stole some of it. If you don’t fit in a normal sized seat, stay home. Or buy two seats.
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