Saturday, 27 November 2010
One of the male guitarists breaks into a gutteral song. His eyes shut and his fingers grasp invisible birds flying by. The ladies giggle softly but they cannot move their eyes.
The woman in charge of the choir announces...
"It's the real deal tomorrow, everybody. Ladies...the matching flowers to be placed exactly in the centre of your hair . Check your earrings"
She is wearing Dick Whittington leather thigh boots, as are all the ladies in the village now.
Edith de France is trying to cure me of agoraphobia or give me a heart attack. I'm not sure which. Magic night.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
I bumped into Mia the postlady who actually had the courage to play with the group last week.
"How did it go?" I say.
"Well, I got stuck on the one chord because I was nervous. Edith de France got lost. Maria de Andalucia was on the wrong page. Raul hit a string too hard...and when we stood up and bowed the audience didn't realise we had finished. Do you want to be in the Christmas show?"
I'll think about it.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
The wind is howling, my hands are frozen but I have a big batch of Scoth Broth bubbling. I'm sick of soup, actually.