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The Age of I Don't Care to Remember





  Adam Greenford ticked me off for my post the other day about wanting to circumvent the dawn chorus with crushed temazepam on bird tables. Adam, aka Three Quarter Grown Lion, raises money for the R.S.P.B. and said that the wood pigeon was so close to me in the tree, it was probably picking up my vibe as I sat down with my early morning coffee and was joyfully welcoming me to the day.  
  Yes, well, yes, okay. 
  This reminded me of my Lower-Folding-in-the-Marsh Festival gigs over the years. The committee billetts me on erstwhile operatic soprano Joan Harmer-Wilkinson for hospitality. 
  Joan also likes to joyfully welcome me to the day; along with my post-gig drunk all the drinks hangover.
  'No, not that teaspoon, Iestyn, it won't stir as well as one - here - from the set I got as a second wedding present, after I finally pulled myself together to leave the ghastly Slovakian and married the chair of the Lower Folders grammar school Association. I still miss Graham. We were the oddest couple. He never knew that I was fully aware over the years how he would hide in the bigger shed with the flag up outside, to let his golf buddies knew he was in there available to them for whiskey and chat but out of pounce-range of his ever-loving wife. Oh, listen...lovely lovely music they're playing this morning on Classic FM. Strauss...ya da, da dee da...left foot for a Viennese Waltz, Joan, let's get it right. And round I go, la da dee dee da, upstage, where's my audience? la dum du dee dye, let's give the fleckerl a go for old time's sakes, as when I waltzed with the minor royalty, won't say who, du dye dum, here we go...ooh, Barney, no!!!  Bad dog, could have been a really nasty...oh, but that scream was close to top, top F, surely? We'll make a Queen of the Night of you yet, Joan. At the age of I don't care to remember. What? Iestyn, I couldn't help but scream just then when the bloody hound came so close to being trampled underfoot. Or to knocking me headlong into the organic only vegetable rack. Bad dog, by the way - basket! And actually - there's no maybe about any of it - I really did need to have been waltzing about to the lovely Strauss in the first place: it was "Roses from the South". Needs must. Oh, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing her operetta arias. Have I told you that time and time again people would tell me how much i sounded like her in my youth? Oh. I wrote her a letter - Dear Madame Schwarzkopf - asking for advice and enclosing a recording of me singing "An Die Musik".  On reel to reel tape, then, of course. You're all so lucky nowadays to be able to send out your recordings through the ether with the click of a mouse. Not to mention the blessings of self-touched up headshots, testimonials and autotune. I got a reply from Madame Schwarzkopf saying she wouldn't help me. Which I took to mean that I was beyond help, that I should just get going under my own steam. Oh. But that's the most important thing in life - we do our best with what we have. Can I remember "An die Musik" now, I wonder? Well, best way to find that out, Joan, would be to have a little sing through it. Malcolm just tuned the piano. I have to stand over him and lend him my extra pair of perfect-pitch blessed ears each time. It's become a thing over the years. No, don't shut the door behind me to the music room, please, I like to feel the space to project the voice. So many music scores!  I really must donate them all to an archive or something one day. Here's the Schubert. Correct specs. Not too much pedal: pedal in excess is simply not period. Du Holde Kunst...'
  
  Come back you cooing cunt of a wood pigeon, all is forgiven.

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