Exams

My coffee stop is made brief by the need to get to Great Scotland Yard (an evocative place name if ever there was one). Unfortunately the destination sounds more interesting than is my reason for going there; I am to do a course in order to become a Personal License Holder (which means as the manager of OHP I will be allowed to sell booze). I even have to sit an exam at the end of the day which given my historically profound aversion to them will be something of a landmark. Let's hope that our patrons appreciate my sacrifice and take lavish advantage of our new bar menu.

Mr Fox is off to a flyer with great interest from the Royal Borough's summer play team. What an amazing responsibility they have; keeping a couple of hundred kids occupied during the summer holidays. They must all be touched by genius or madness (or both, as is commonly the case).

The sun continues to tempt us into optimism and the crocuses were showing themselves profusely in the park yesterday. Is it all just another Conchis 'masque' ?

Sorcery

I'm currently reading 'The Magus' by Fowles. It is a somewhat convoluted tale of a rich, super clever psychiatrist who embroils an English teacher on a idyllic Greek isle in a game of mystery, timeshifting, psychosexual tomfoolery. Through it runs a seam of theatricality - literally in the set pieces that are created to confuse - and the reader, like the subjects of the games are constantly left disoriented. Conchis (the 'Magus') is something of a frustrated producer I feel. Notwithstanding that the book actually might make a decent opera (you would need to find identical twin sisters though), the striving to constantly create other worlds and places to which one can take an audience seem suitably in line with the operatic world all of us inhabit professionally. The book proposes that mystery and pretence lead us ultimately to real truths, but that isn't really much of a surprise to those of us who work in theatre and amid all the drudgery of getting the whole thing together we ought to constantly remind ourselves of that particular aim. Culture is mostly make believe and in our scientific, forensic and technological world, it is ever more necessary and therapeutic.

The sun greets me at my cafe table. Nice of him to make an appearance although, of course, it could all just be an illusion.

A child of the opera

I've been listening again to bits of Mascagni's 'Zanetto', a short, very moving opera that has largely been passed over in consideration of his canon. Come to think about it, anything beyond 'Cavalleria' tends to be given a swerve. Not at OHP of course where he continues to be something of a popular star: we produce 'L'amico Fritz' for the second time in ten years in 2011. 'Zanetto' might just make it into 2012 and we harbour ambitions to bring 'Ratcliff' and 'isabeau' (another of those late, highly ornamental operas that drew on Wagnerian and Straussian palettes) to the OHP stage. In this regard we are getting back into full stride with Catalani's 'La Wally' finally making it to W8 next year too. Very soon we will announce the full 2011 season (there are protocols to observe).
The rain continues to beat down incessantly but when Chile is shaken to shreds we ought not to complain too much (we finally had a call in the middle of the night from Sally's sister who lives in Santiago confirming they were all OK). The rain keeps me from a cafe seat this morning.
My day with Fiora ended badly and in gallons of vomit that she began to emit dramatically and without warning as she sat on my knee watching family home videos - she loves watching herself perform. After the first eruption covered my keyboard I spun around towards the living room; two further columns of the stuff, travelling horizontally, issued forth and for a moment we danced around ensuring that the entire place was anointed as I looked in vain for somewhere safe to catch the spew. Suffice to say there is no such place in my lounge. I will spare you the drama of the clean-up. This morning she is emitting a slow constant whine that rises to a crescendo of wailing the further Sally moves from her. The whine only stops when she is clamped limpit like to her mother. She certainly has a suitably operatic streak of melodrama in her.
Monday is the first day of March and ten days from now our roof arrives. Perhaps the sun will have risen high enough to shift once and for all the uber winter weather system that has been parked over the UK for two months. I have a lot of cafes to explore.

Weird World

Am at home with my 18 month old daughter Fiora (OHP devotees may be able to work out where that name comes from). She is asleep, which is where I ought to be since last night was somewhat reckless. It was a staff conference - on his Twitter page, James has pointed out the surreality of the moment when he and I chatted to the Mayor as an Amy Winehouse impersonator strutted her stuff behind us. However I partook of rather more red wine than I ought to have done and Sally, Fiora's mother, was in full Tongan warrior mode as, looking at her from three different directions at once, I swore blind I was as jober as a sucking fudge. As is my habit in these circumstances I fell out of bed and crashed to the floor, flailing my arms wildly as I did so. Today I have all the symptoms of a hangover and some others besides. Sally is giving me all the sympathy she feels is necessary: none.

Pondering OHP in such a condition does nothing to help so I won't. I'm off for an espresso and a lie down.
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Summer's Cauldron

I heard somewhere that this long and perishing winter is a sure-fire guarantee that the summer will be furiously hot and long. At my arctic cafe seat (Earl's Court again - the macchiato is good) I find myself as ever worrying about a hot summer because hot summers tend to bring tropical rain too; it is the price we seem to have to pay in England. Unlike our Med counterparts who happily programme their festivals with literal blue-sky thinking, we are pressed into ever more inventive solutions for blotting ours out. The rich tapestry of creative cover always produces a knock on effect: so, for example, a deck that needs cover may need to be raised in order to provide sufficient level area which in turn means the under structure needs cladding and this in turn means a problem with having wood against architectural gravel etc. It may all seem mundane and boring to you, dear reader, but I feel like Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen (without the ruffs and cuffs and better operatic judgement). This year I shall be featuring acrylic mirrors as part of the overall effect. You'll be dazzled.

Meanwhile the 2012 season is on the planning board and I feverishly trawl the late Italian repertoire for a big surprise number.