Anyway, after disasters, re-thinking occurs. Suddenly, it was decided we could sing in the room adjoining the stage with the lights on, instead of blue light and small torches, and we went back to the formation we had rehearsed in. This meant we could both see and hear each other. And this afternoon's performance went perfectly. But I am never ever ever going to sing this again. And I wonder, if it was ok to have the lights on today, why this could not have been done yesterday? Perhaps the answer is that truly talented mortals sometimes over-estimate the abilities of the ordinary person, such as your common garden chorister. Flattering, perhaps, but unwise.
Never mind. Such things keep one humble, and prevent smugness. Even if they make you shake and freak out, and give you nightmares.
This morning, to take my mind of matters musical, I went to the crochet clinic, and worked away at a couple of things, which have been as complicated and puzzling, in their own ways, as this wretched music by Holst. While we sat around working at our various projects, I described yesterday evening's disaster. Another woman there turned out to be the first wife of the husband of one of my chorister mates. And her daughter lives a street or two away from me. Small world, eh! Such coincidences, arising so much by sheer chance, always amaze me.
Intermittently I have been re-arranging the books, and there is more order and reason therein. Thus doth the little busy bee....