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.

Inspire/Perspire

On this almost balmy, damp morning (cafe in Fulham this time) I'm pondering the concept of Pandora's Box; we appear to have opened it - or at least the floodgates if you permit me to mix metaphors. Having launched the Inspire Project in January lots of professionals within the council and beyond have commendably and from a standing start, very quickly realised the profound results that music and cultural experience can deliver in very challenging fields. It is worth keeping an eye on the website section relating to Inspire. Of course that also means much time is spent developing ideas and structure so we can deliver them but the season draws ever nearer; the sweat is fine but I'd prefer to avoid the blood and tears.

The symphony in green that is the artificial grass forecourt in front of Holland House is in need of protection from the construction about to begin. The ground in front of the house is usually scarred and trenched so that a site inspection can feel like a walk in the South Downs. Now, we have a billiard table by comparison and it must be treated with reverence. Not all of our contractors are happy about the new era of gentleness we have induced (the roof arrives in early March) but to help them we'll lay a lavish carpet of (sustainably produced!) plywood. Two hundred sheets of the stuff arrive soon but the upside is that when we remove the theatre, a magical and instant scene of architectural loveliness will appear. I intend to invite Gardener's World down for a one hour special.

Tech Lite

What with the blogosphere, Twittersphere et al (my cafe seat is mercifully less refrigerated this morning but the Earls Court Rd is no place to be pondering such matters) it is some relief to know that although our world is digitised, the operatic stage remains a bastion of pure human achievement. This reassuringly Luddite conclusion came to me as I traversed Kilimanjaro (in just thirty minutes, atop the bicycle in the gym using the aerobic Hill Plus programme: distance covered 10.93 km, average output 423 kw, average speed 9.2kph, calories burned 412, average heart rate 109).

Victoriana

By the wonders of modern science I am able to post to this blog on the move. Unlike Twitter I don't have to reduce my meandering to 140 characters so I can drivel on endlessly from my refrigerated seat outside a cafe in Sloane Square.
I have just walked past the pretty Dovehouse Green on the King's Road; that place definitely has potential for a Christmas event we have been discussing. All manner of Victoriana float through my imagination but I ought to view the visions with suspicion since Harry Secombe keeps popping up too (not to mention Mary Poppins and Dick Van Dyke). I'll make a conscious effort to force Walter Crane into my mind's eye, maybe the Pre Raphaelites as well. Not even Harry Secombe (bless his little Welsh tenor socks) can sully that.