I’ve only ever been to a handful operas over the course of my life and I have to say, I’m not mad keen. I’ve tried to understand why so many people are moved to tears by the great tragedies but, opera philistine that I am, I just don’t get it.
I couldn’t wait for Mimi to hurry up and die at the end of La Bohème just so it could be over. I nearly walked out of The Marriage of Figaro in the interval due to the cringe factor of this ‘comic’ opera, highlights of which included some crossdressing and lots of hiding in cupboards. Maybe it was funny in 1786. I almost enjoyed Verdi’s Nabucco and an opera adaptation of Il Postino, but the extended periods of ‘recitative style’ (singing with the rhythms of ordinary speech) made me want to claw my own ears off. I’m all for the arias, the duets and the big choruses, but speech which is sung instead of spoken cuts right through me. I’m not into it. Take me to the ballet over the opera any day. Or so I thought. Continue reading
There is no one, in my very humble opinion, who writes more beautifully about the world of nature than Thomas Hardy. Some choose books which allow them to escape to fantasy lands across distant galaxies but my preferred location for escapism is the inside of a Hardy novel. Perhaps not Jude the Obscure, but certainly the green, rolling hills and meandering lanes of Wessex, the semi-imaginary county which features in many of his novels. I do love a descriptive passage about nature, me. Especially when the charming landscape clashes so violently with the human tragedy unfolding within it. I read a Hardy novel every summer. He’s my fave. Continue reading
November and December seem to have passed in a blur during which, at any given moment, I had a small notebook full of tasks I should have been getting on with. Time seems to be getting faster and the days on the calendar are being eaten up alarmingly quickly. How on earth is there only a week left until Christmas? At least I haven’t had the time to dread an impending birthday…
Horror of the passage of time aside, here for your reading pleasure (or not) is my November and December combined in music. A tiny bit Christmassy and apparently a lot melancholy, singer-songwriter-y for some reason. Happy Christmas! Continue reading
I read recently, in a feature in The Times Magazine about the ladies who work for Tatler magazine (have you seen the trailer for the documentary? It’s on tomorrow night and looks totally brilliant), that one of the supposed ‘rules’ of being posh is the ability to be self-deprecating. Now, I have no clue how to be posh and I certainly don’t claim to be any kind of poster girl for how to behave. In fact, I put my foot in it so often that I might as well leave it hovering close to my mouth at all times. I am, however, quite self-deprecating by nature.
Just in case you hadn’t noticed, the clocks changed a couple of weeks ago. This was great in the immediate short term, because it meant an extra hour of sleep, but upsetting when it began to get dark at around 5pm and I realised that we’re now, inescapably, in winter proper. From here on in, it’s only going to get colder, wetter and darker as we head towards the shortest day of the year on 21 December. Every year I forget just how cold and miserable this country gets in winter. It’s understandable that we have made such a hoohaa out of Christmas. It breaks up the six month slog of sleet, icy gales and grey puddles reflecting grey skies with something twinkly and cheerful.
I recently came across this article in The Guardian by art critic Jonathan Jones, which ran with the headline:
‘The Tower of London poppies are fake, trite and inward-looking – a Ukip-style memorial’.
I’m one of those types who lives their life to music. I listen to it in the morning to wake me up, I have it on quietly in the background while I work, I put the radio on in the kitchen while I’m cooking and occasionally I have a little sing-along while I do the washing up. What a wild life I lead.
When Spotify announced, many, many, moons ago that it was going to start charging, I was torn. All of those carefully curated playlists, the time spent browsing the ‘recommended for you’ section, could I bear to let it all go to waste? A wise friend told me that the company had done it on purpose, reeled me in and hooked me with a free service before starting to charge for it out of the blue. It was a clever ruse and continuing to use it would mean I’d been swindled. Now, Spotify Premium is one of my monthly direct debits, as essential a payment as my phone bill. Continue reading