Fernando turned up this morning, in a rather subdued form, having had a serious quarrel with his wife and he is wondering whether they should separate, but may perhaps in the meantime seek some sort of counselling. It seems to be a volatile relationship. I hope he sorts it out, as break-ups are awful and take years to recover from. I speak from experience.
However, my own concerns being uppermost in my mind, I am glad to say that the power points have been put back together, the window winders and door locks are back in place, and much to my surprise Colin also turned up, and thus most of the furniture is back in place.
There is still some painting to be done, but as it is raining, this cannot be done immediately. And there is this and that to be done.
Mostly, it now seems, by me. I have been moving things around and putting the contents of the shelves back into position. The thing that perplexes me is where exactly were all the rugs? Have I put them back in the right spots? I am not sure.
My back is aching like billy-oh. I should go to bed with a hot water bottle and a painkiller. Perhaps age is creeping up on me. Perhaps there is no perhaps about it. It is all very exhausting. You can see why people suddenly go into retirement villages and let others take care of practically everything. But no, not for me. Not yet. Not for ages, I say optimistically. There is far too much still to be done.
This tiredness must be partially due to the recording we have done for the past two nights. A fascinating process, with many repetitions. The Man in Charge, Tom, the one with the superlative ear, had a line which we came to recognise. Excellent, he would say. And then he would add, Ummm.... And we would all say 'Oh Oh!' Then he would say, "I think if we repeated it from Bar 101..." And we would then do it all again. And again. The composer apparently was quite enthralled by it all, and I must say it was all rather fascinating, albeit tiring. Not that I am complaining. Just observing. My voice will be amongst all those others making what we all fervently hope will be glorious singing. And I just love hitting all those high notes! Our soloist, Amelia Farrugia was wonderful.
My sisters were all good at playing the piano, whereas I was woeful. Only in recent years have I realised that some of my difficulties were due to my eyesight, as well as to an innate lack of talent. But singing is another matter. It has been something I was able to get better at doing, and I remain convinced that singing gives greater pleasure than mere playing. That's my story, anyway.
Time for bed! What will the morrow bring? Probably not Fernando, not for another few days. It surely cannot be possible for everything to be so suddenly completed. I am off to Brisbane on Sunday to see the exhibition from The Prado. Whacko the diddle-oh!