The choral rehearsals were great. Edith de France got me onto the stage where we all sat in a seance-like circle of white plastic chairs. The two lead singers are nurses during the day and have voices like treacle...but...wow...a temperamental bunch. The guy in charge of hooking up the sound systems and player of the cajon (wooden box) had a screaming hissy fit when the guitarists pointed out he had everything hooked up so the audience would only be able to hear him playing. He unplugged everything and stomped off while the guitarists continued to chew gum and rattle off riffs.
"He's not the shiniest spoon in the drawer," Edith whispers at my side. "He does this at all the rehearsals, especially when he's had a few."
Voz the caretaker of the community centre starts a vitriolic attack with a hammer against the water pipes just offstage. The singers are sighing and rustling their song sheets. They are so agitated they remind me of a pack of wild turkeys that belonged to a long departed neighbour of mine.
A highly entertaining evening culminating in a very surreal walk home alone. I didn't see a single person or car. Just streets lit up with orange lights. I could have been in a film.
