Berberis' World

On 23rd March 2020, approximately 3 months after the first reported case of SARS-CoV-2, also known as Covid, Covid 19, coronavirus (or, by some, as ‘flu, a conspiracy, or fake news), the UK was placed under lockdown. The announcement of this state of emergency was made by the government on 17th March.

It should be pointed out that 4 days before the UK population was advised that gathering in large numbers might not be a good idea, planes were still flying in from Covid hotspots all over the world, with no thought apparently being given to having the thousands of passengers tested – at the very least – for the virus before they returned to their homes and communities and jobs. Worse, with a disease that would end up fifth in the list of the deadliest epidemics and pandemics in history spreading faster than anything even the experts had seen, the Cheltenham Festival took place. This saw at least 60,000 people attend each afternoon, with nearly 70,000 watching the Gold Cup. Let’s hope that for all of them the gamble paid off…

Just in case there is any doubt about how dangerous this virus was, of just two choirs that continued to rehearse in person, in the first 1 person infected 50 others, resulting in 2 deaths. In the second, almost 80% of members caught the virus, resulting in not only 1 member dying, but also the deaths of the partners of 3 other members.

Needless to say, LCS rehearsals became virtual, although there was nothing to rehearse for as live performance was out of the question. This goes some way to explain the gap in posts from November 2018 to November 2023, although not entirely.

In the September of 2019, I was seconded to the job of supervisor. I mean, I applied, so it wasn’t a complete surprise. (Thinking about it – which I try not to – had I been on the interview panel, I might have had second thoughts about offering me the role). I’d been in post for about 4 months or so when lockdown happened and, on several occasions during that time, I’d asked when the interviews would take place for the role I’d vacated. It was finally announced that they wouldn’t: I was expected to do both roles until things were back to normal.

Except that, as things started to get back to something approaching normal, it became obvious that the decision to not back-fill the post might have been a mistake. A steadily increasing workload, combined with restrictions on movement, and shielding at home for the more vulnerable members of staff, meant that there were fewer people in the office than before, and those who were there were starting to resent those who weren’t. Tempers began to fray, people bickered openly, and I was expected to resolve these issues, as well as do my previous job. I managed for maybe 14 months before the wheels fell off.

I was taking everything very personally at this point and, during an online meeting that seemed to be nothing but criticism of my performance I remarked that this was demoralising. I was told in no uncertain terms that this was inappropriate and (without using the words) to either put up or shut up. Within about half an hour I was at home, in a very distressed state. I stayed home for 2 weeks. Whilst the distress eased, the pressure at work didn’t.

Singing in either choir was not on the cards. I had convinced myself that I didn’t have the time or energy to rehearse and it wouldn’t make any difference to my low mood. In that it was something I found therapeutic (thank you, Dr Parker), this was nonsensical.

A gradual easing of lockdown restrictions towards the end of 2020 led to their eventual lifting in the UK on 19th July 2021. Rehearsals for Monteverdi Vespers started in January 2022, and I found myself looking forward to the concert on 2nd April.

Three days before the concert, I got home from work feeling a bit off. I took a lateral flow test more to prove that it wasn’t Covid… except that it was. After two years of managing to avoid it, at some point during the rehearsal on 28th March I’d picked up the virus. Several other choir members were also infected, and all of us missed the concert on the Saturday.

I was extremely relieved – and consider myself lucky – that what developed was not much worse than a bad case of ‘flu. Tens of millions of others were not so fortunate. I hope the woman who used the term ‘sheeple’ as she walked into the supermarket managed – along with all her family and friends – to avoid the virus. And I hope whoever wrote that Covid was created by the US in a lab in Ukraine on the ‘please wash your hands’ sign in the toilet cubicle has suffered nothing more debilitating than a bout of gastroenteritis.

Friday, 25th December, 2015.

I left Dr Parker’s consulting room in 2004 with a ‘prescription’ for a course of acapella singing. It was part of an NHS initiative (then) that sent people to places other than home to do something other than just take antidepressants.

If someone had told me that, 11 years later, I’d be part of a group who’d beat everyone else to have the Christmas No 1, I’d’ve told them they were mad.

But that’s what happened.

It’s a funny old world.

Saturday, 4th September 2010.

A friend of mine left London today, to go oop Nowath to teach. We joined the LPC at roughly the same time – I think I had my audition a week or two earlier – but only met properly just before the Xmas concert at Bishopsgate that same year. We got chatting in the corridor as we lined up before the concert, and I liked her straight away. She was clever and funny and, having felt a little out of my depth in this new musical environment, it was good to see a friendly face at rehearsals. We would sit at the back, generally enjoying ourselves as we worked through the piece.

We were always laughing at something; we’d rename pieces, draw cartoons, make up new words and, frankly, act like a couple of kids, to the disapproval of some of the more senior members of the choir. Elijah’s folded beard springs instantly to mind, as does ‘Bobby Shaftoe’ in front of 2000 or so clinical immunologists. We renamed it ‘Bobby Charlton’ and dared each other to sing that instead. It was a lot of fun, and I will miss that. Rehearsals for Dvorak start on Monday, and it’s going to be odd her not being there.

Still, things change, and it’s been a week of coming to terms with change. Zachary didn’t do well enough in his GCSEs to get into his 6th form of choice, so has had to rethink his immediate future. To his credit, he’s done this with only a little complaint; after a fraught few days, he took my advice and went to a local college, got himself through an interview and enrolled in just 2 days. He starts on Wednesday, and we’re hoping that it’s the wake-up call he needed after what appeared to us to be 12 months of complacency on his part. It was evident in his school work that he became either lazy or distracted just at the wrong time, and never really caught up. Perhaps concentrating on just one subject at college – rather than studying 3 for the sake of it at 6th form – will be more productive.

And both he and I will have to find someone new to sit next to.

Yes, even though it’s still a fortnight away, my brain has already gone into ‘demob’ mode, and I am currently not giving a tinker’s cuss what happens at work. Wrong, I know, but that’s how it is when you’re anticipating your first break as just a couple in 22 years.

Don’t get me wrong; going on holiday with kids can be fun. Pontins and Centerparcs (sic) have much to offer, providing you have access to cheap plonk and a barbecue. However, as your kids get older, they want more and you (having brought them up, and being thus burned out) want less. If you can weather the years when they can’t go where they want to without your permission – which you are happy to give, even though it is tempered by the fact you have to pack for their week away in Wales – there comes the day when they are both (a) able and, (b) desperate to get away from you. The only thing you have to bear in mind is that the cat might be horribly sick during the one and only week in the last decade that both your kids are away at the same time…

There are several things I want from this holiday, and they are:

1. That I don’t catch something before I go away.

2. That I have sufficient sunscreen (in both quantity and strength).

3. That I have sufficent reading material.

4. That I don’t catch something whilst away.

5. That we have access to the WWW.

I include the last solely in case the kids need to get in touch with us in case of an emergency. I can live without Twitter and email and access to everything you could ever need to know about everything in return for 10 days and 11 nights of sun, sand and sauvignon.

It’s a school night, so this rant has to end here. I’ve had a glass or 2 of cab-sauv and am feeling (1) relaxed and, (2) that perhaps I drink too much. YMMV. Elijah has nearly downloaded, and I will be off to the Land of Nod very soon. Night all.

Sunday, 30th August 2009.

We’ve been married for 23 years today. To celebrate, we went for dinner with our two children at a local restaurant.

Normally, when we eat out we don’t talk. As far as I’m concerned this is almost entirely due to the fact that when I was at primary school the headmaster, Mr Barry, forbade all talking during lunchtime. He would stand behind his desk surveying the children in his charge, making those who spoke stand facing the window at the front of the canteen and therefore unable to finish their meal. You ate in silence and, because you wanted to talk, you ate as quickly as possible so you could get out. Nowadays, kids can run around cafes and restaurants and cinemas and do what the fuck they like, even if it means pissing other people off, because to restrict them is to ‘infringe their human rights’. Bollocks. You want human rights violations? Go to the Imperial War Museum. See how children had their human rights infringed by being starved to death by people allowed to run riot in others’ countries. And then talk to me about kids being able to run riot in restaurants.

Make the little sods sit down and behave themselves. Make them aware of others feelings and opinions. Make them more considerate. Stop them being so fucking selfish and self obsessed. And, while you’re at it, stop indulging their every bloody whim, stop telling them that they’re ‘special’ when they clearly are just average and, for everyone’s sake, stop making them believe that they can be famous when they have no talent for anything except being bloody obnoxious.

We have two kids, both of whom are blessedly normal, i.e. neither of them have learning difficulties or physical or mental problems. For this I am very grateful, as I am well aware that there are children who have huge problems simply being alive. Both ours have been brought up to know right from wrong, to appreciate that other people matter, and to do whatever they do to the best of their ability. Neither have been ‘hot-housed’ or pushed to be more than they are, or berated when they have failed to attain unattainable standards. They are both well-balanced, considerate and happy, and I am thankful for this. I’m glad that neither of them passed a GCSE when they were 6, or got 14 A* GCSEs at their first attempt, because I don’t think I could live with myself for having produced such shallow, results-obsessed people.

I love both our kids unconditionally. I’d like our daughter to find herself a job where she is appreciated for her organisational abilities and people skills, I’d like our son to do well in his GCSEs, but not at the expense of their happiness. If, as they get older, they make mistakes, lose all their money and/or their enthusiasm, I’ll be there to counsel them/bail them out/cheer them up.

Right now, we’re all sitting in the front room, each with a laptop. Part of me thinks this is quite sad, but another part is content that we are, at least, in the same room talking to each other now and again. Which is more than a lot of people do, and certainly more than I and my parents used to do on a Sunday evening. Or any evening, come to that.