Berberis' World

Sunday, 1st March, 2015.

It’s exactly three years since the email arrived telling me I’d been chosen for the Lewisham Hospital choir. Along with three others workplace choirs, our progress – from nervous auditions in front of a couple of dozen people to confident performers on stage in front of thousands – would be filmed for 20/20’s ‘Sing While You Work’ series to be broadcast later in the year.

It came at the right time; I was over the trauma of being kicked out of the LPC, but still had no confidence in my singing ability. Now, at last, someone did. Whatever the agenda – and I’m in no doubt that they had an agenda – it was an opportunity to prove myself to myself.

At the start, there were 29 of us. We had one fewer bass than the three other choirs – partly a result of there being more women than men working in the Trust – and the soprano section had its mandatory divas. There were a few people with whom I hit it off straight away, and they know who they are. There were also a few with whom I was never going to hit it off. I don’t care if they know who they are.

The first time we all got together was in the Lessof, from which we piled into a bus and were taken to Greenwich. Here, we were put on a boat, plied with drink and taken up river. It was already obvious that there were cliques; doctors with doctors, physios with physios, porters with porters, etc. This didn’t help my mood, which had already dipped with my belief that most of the other women in the choir had better voices than I did.

[This turned out to not be true. However, when a respected choir master tells you that you can’t sing, you are inclined to believe them above someone off the telly.]

Still, back on the boat, and we were – at one point – motoring under London Bridge singing ‘London’s Burning’ as a round. I found out that two of the sopranos had, like me, been members of the LPC, although not at the same time. One of the altos had been in a punk band, one of the tenors had been in an orchestra, and one of the basses was in a barbershop quartet.

Rehearsals were usually filmed, and the oft-repeated instruction to ‘ignore the cameras’ was actually quite easy to do. The few who kept complaining about the presence of a film crew were usually reminded that they’d not been forced to audition so, for the sake of everyone else, please shut up.

To begin with, the songs were simple. I’m used to learning difficult pieces in a short time and it did get a bit frustrating when we were progressing at one bar a minute. It’s like being behind a learner driver when you’re in a hurry to get somewhere; you have to remind yourself that you were also once a beginner.

When we were told we had to dance as well as sing, I was less than enthusiastic. I’d attended a couple of sessions with the Rock Choir in Blackheath and dance ‘moves’ were (pardon the pun) routine with them. Happy to dance. Happy to sing. Not happy to do both at the same time, and even less happy when we were told we had to work out the routine ourselves. At this point, the choir members who liked the sound of their own voices took charge and it became something of a battle of wills. My contribution was mainly to say what I wouldn’t do. I’ll admit that this wasn’t as helpful as suggesting what I would, and there was much flouncing and drama and tantrums. The end result was acceptable. It got us through to the final, anyway.

The semi-final was at the Colston Hall in Bristol. I’d been there twice – once on stage, playing the recorder, and once in the audience at a Gerry Rafferty concert – so going back to sing on stage, even if it was to a silent audience, was pretty special, even though it’s embarrassing to now remember just how often I mentioned this fact. There’s a huge extension, with public areas, office space, rehearsal rooms, and bars, but the old Hall didn’t look much different to how I remembered. Smaller, obviously. Much of the journey there was spent rehearsing the song we were going to sing (before the film crew told us to stop) or warming up. When we weren’t doing this, I’m sure some of us thought about what they’d say or do when we got back, having not made it through to the final.

The journey back was spent drinking and singing as we celebrated the fact that we had.

The day of the final started with an accident.

The coach which was meant to take us to Llangollen was involved in one even before it got to us, and some people saw that as a good omen. It was raining, which was less an omen than a pain in the arse. Pete announced that we would be going by train and we were taken by taxi to Euston to board the 11.15am to Crewe. We even managed to get a 1st class carriage, probably to the irritation of the people who’d paid to be there. We were pretty well-behaved; the table behind me started a discussion about sex (doctors, most of them) and I used the time and the space to let out the seams of my dress.

Once at Crewe, we were taken by taxi to Llangollen. The weather as we got into Wales was nice and warm, and we started to think that it might last. It didn’t. We’d only been there about half an hour and it started drizzling – within the hour, the ground was soaked and the mud was oozing through whatever it was they’d put on the grass to protect it. Those who hadn’t brought wellies with them bought them pretty quickly.

There then began the seemingly endless process of being dragged here and there and back again to simply stand around. We’d been told we’d have a run through and 2 sound checks. What we found out at the very last minute was that the riser we had to stand on to perform was narrow and very unstable. This meant that the routine we’d rehearsed over and over for the final song was far too “big” for the area available. I don’t know whether this led to the feelings of having been stitched up, and the subsequent below-par performance, but it didn’t help.

It was whilst waiting in the wings to go on for the sound-check that my suspicions that the whole thing WAS a fix became conviction. RM sang ‘Don’t Stop’ by Fleetwood Mac, we sang ‘For Once In My Life’ by Stevie Wonder, and STW sang ‘Feeling Good’. Listen to all three, imagine having to dance to them on a postage stamp and you’ll get the idea.

There was more waiting around, and we were now getting very tired (we’d travelled further than anyone else) and hungry (the only things provided were massively carb-heavy) and the novelty of wading through mud was wearing thin. Eventually, the time for the performance came around and we traipsed off through the mud again to the pavilion. The three choirs all had their Hakka moments, and ours was this:

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”

“Citizenship in a Republic”: Theodore Roosevelt at the Sorbonne, Paris, April 23, 1910

Eddie finished by saying that it had been read at the funerals of the men with whom he’d served, and it would be read at his own. Suzanne cried, and I shed a few tears as well.

RM were first on, with STW second and us third. It was even more obvious this time that STW were going to win, but we went on smiling and gave it our all.

This was at about 8.15pm. We then got a proper meal, and some of us (RM as well) found the beer tent and had a pint, until we were summoned back to the catering tent to wait around again.

It was whilst wandering around this tent that I found, on a table, what looked like a running order for the crew. If it had been left there accidentally they were extremely lucky that no-one else but me appeared to have read it. If it was deliberate, then shame on them. What it said was that, after the whole thing wrapped, STW were to be taken to a different hotel to us and RM.

This was final, and incontrovertible, proof that the whole thing had been fixed, and probably from the outset. When we were finally shepherded onto the stage again at the time of the judges’ announcement – at gone 1am – it was obvious to me that STW were going to win.

I’ll be frank. RM had far more than its fair share of plain people. We had our fair share of plain people. STW had far less than its fair share of plain people. Their line-up included half a dozen tall, pretty, busty young women, who are clearly going to look better on TV.

This and the separate hotel were not the only clues. It turned out that GM had spent the week leading up to the final with them, and a lot of this with their soloist. It showed. With better looking people, better coaching, and a better song, the outcome would very likely have been decided as soon as the auditions were over.

A number of our number were very upset. I was surprised to realise that I wasn’t one of them. Being almost certain that it was a set-up actually softened the blow to the point of it hardly registering at all. This was helped by the copious amount of alcohol that was consumed in the bar of the Wrexham Ramada hotel, where the staff were extremely tolerant, and the RM were hugely supportive and very (in some cases, too) friendly.

The resulting hangover lasted about 48 hours.

Despite all of the little niggles, problems, and outright annoyances, I’m pleased I took part, but I’d think twice about doing anything like it again.

Saturday, 5th July, 2014 to Saturday, 28th February, 2015.

I was sitting in the pew at St Stephen & St Mark in Lewisham waiting for the rest of the Lewisham Hospital Choir to arrive when I finally decided to tell Dan that I wouldn’t be attending any more rehearsals for Lewisham Choral Society’s July concert in Cadogan Hall. The programme included James Whitbourn’s ‘Luminosity’, Vaughan Williams’s ‘In Windsor Forest’ and ‘Serenade to Music’.

I’d started practicing these during the rehearsals for Verdi’s Requiem at Croydon and had been, frankly, underwhelmed. However, this wasn’t the main reason for deciding to not participate. The truth was that I’d let the many problems I was having at work affect my not-work life. It seemed easier to ditch the two hours a week I spent doing something I enjoyed for more time doing something I didn’t.

Put like that (and, if I’m going to be honest, this is being written very retrospectively) it sounds mad. I hated ‘African Sanctus’, but went to every rehearsal and gave it my all. I wasn’t even close to hating this programme yet I abandoned it to spend more time in the office. (Cadogan Hall, though lovely, is acoustically dead. This is not a valid reason for not singing there.) Not just that, I was abandoning something that gave me joy for something that was, at the time, quite literally making me ill.

Actually, if that honesty clause is still in effect, it wasn’t something. It was someone. I won’t name them. Not because I’m scared of being sued. I just don’t want to have to type the name and then have to see it in black and white. Or black and blue. (Or is it gold and white..?)

[That last, parenthetical, comment shouldn’t even be here unless I’m time-travelling. Which I’m not. If I could this post wouldn’t exist.]

So, getting back on track. From the start of 2014, the admissions team (which will be referred to henceforth as ‘we’) had had new managers. Both of whom were, by a daily vote with a show of hands, the worst we’d ever known. Ever. Even the one before the one before one of them had been better, and they’d outright lied to us, so that was saying something.

It wasn’t just the emails (each with an unreadable spreadsheet attached) per day, it was that they would then (a) ring to ask if we’d read the emails and the attached unreadable spreadsheet and, after an hour or so, would (b) come to the office to discuss said email and the attached unreadable spreadsheet, now helpfully printed on A4 paper with a font size so small you needed a microscope.

[By ‘unreadable’ I don’t mean it was in a foreign language. That I could have coped with. No, I mean that 95% of the information it contained was irrelevant, and it was set out in such a way that the relevant 5% was almost impossible to find. By ‘helpful’ I mean very, very unhelpful.]

On its own, this was impediment enough to a job that is full-on, head-down, non-stop from 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. If you add to this having the one member of the team on whom I could really rely being on various types of leave for six weeks out of the first twelve of 2014, as well as being regularly prevented from leaving on time by a “2 minute” dissection of an unreadable spreadsheet starting at 4.55pm (in reality 30 minutes of the same question being asked over and over again), together with being prevented from leaving the office by someone sitting on the floor with their back to the closed door then you have some idea of the pressure I was under. It wasn’t pretty.

I was, by turns, deeply depressed, extremely angry, and lost-for-words frustrated. In May I fled, in tears, to the HR department where I was almost incoherent in my attempt to try to get someone – anyone – to understand what I was putting up with.

[Just noticed that the word count at the end of that paragraph was 666. If I was superstitious, I might read something into that. I’m not. I do, however, say “Hello, magpie” to solitary magpies. So perhaps I am.]

The cherry on the cake was that, around this time, the one member of team on whom I could really rely told me they were leaving. There would, of course, be a handover to the new team member. Given the complexity of the job and the knowledge which needed to be passed on I suggested two weeks. Not unreasonably, I thought. I was told we could have one. In reality, what we got – what the new team member got – was two and a half days. And that was with the departing team member already doing their new job.

[Later, I learned that, had the incompetent bunglers who called themselves managers and who drew a salary for being thus, the handover could have been four weeks. At this point, I felt that it wasn’t just appalling management, it was an actual conspiracy.]

I took a week off, expecting, on my return, to feel better. I went back and things were, unbelievably, worse.

In August, I learned that a patient with whom I’d had dealings was at death’s door. This is never good to hear, but how much worse it was when I realised that I might have been partly to blame. I was devastated. I’d been asked to do one thing and I’d not done it. And now this patient was dying. It was that simple. It seemed that simple. Of course, these things rarely are and this was no exception.

[I’m not going into detail, save to say that the investigation is nearing its end. The patient reached theirs on Boxing Day, 2014.]

Luminosity, then. Astronomically, 4πd²b. ‘The intrinsic brightness of a celestial object (as distinct from its apparent brightness diminished by distance)’. Or: ‘The rate of emission of radiation, visible or otherwise.’ As opposed to illumination, which is what I badly needed as far as the job was concerned, and which was sadly lacking.

I still have the music. I’ve always purchased scores, only ever hired when purchase – even on the vast-and-getting-exponentially-vaster interweb – wasn’t an option. I may even, as in the case of Elgar’s ‘Dream of Gerontius’, get to sing it at some point in the future.

[What was the point of this? Hang on.]

Drift. Actually, I’m not sure this has a point, or even that it needs one. I’m listening to the audio book of Robert Pirsig’s ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ at the moment. You have always to bear in mind that it was written in 1974, otherwise it’s just some biker dude banging on about how a cheap brand of baked beans is not, can not, and will never be, as good as Heinz.

It’s not. It’s a lot more, and then some. For those who care, I can be found walking to work with a frown on my face occasionally saying out loud “I have no idea what you’re talking about”. I understood most of Parts 1 & 2. It’s Part 3 that has me frowning.

I also finished listening to ‘Catch 22’. I wasn’t sure what to make of this for a long time. Then there was a lightbulb moment when I actually started to care about the characters. I felt sad when they died. I felt happy when they got a break. And just when I wanted to find out more, it ended. Damn you, Heller. Write more next time. And make me care about them sooner, you bastard.

Audio books do force my thought to focus. And it’s only when they focus that things like this happen. A random focussing of seemingly unfocussed ideas amounting to over a thousand words. I wish my other writing was as easy right now. I’ve heard it said that writer’s block happens because a story isn’t ready. There are analogies to which I will not allude.

The source of many of my work woes actually appeared in the office recently. In person. Even though I expressly asked that they be kept away from me. To my surprise, the urge to punch was absent, even if my fingertips tingled ever-so-slightly. I could not, in all conscience, bid them welcome. This, I am pleased to report, was noticed. You? Yes, you. You sweaty, whey-faced, panicky, incompetent excuse for a human being. I am SO over you. I have more space now, and daylight, and fresh air. And I will have a plant soon. One I have propagated myself.

And you have Croydon.

I win.

Tuesday, 19th July 2011.

The time has come, the walrus said…

There are many, many quotes about failure to be found on the exponentially increasing fount of all knowledge good and bad and ugly, this being but one. This post’s title comes from one of Churchill’s.

I have to admit to more than a slight loss regarding something I’ve resisted writing about since it happened. However, time is indeed a great healer. New readers start here…

I joined the London Philharmonic Choir on 23rd July 2008, following a somewhat hurried audition by Matthew Rowe. Choir rules are that you must reaudition either every year or every three years, so I should have reaudtioned in 2010. At that time, the committee were way behind on their scheduling and each time I found out someone had been called to reaudition I breathed a sigh a relief for this… and began to panic anew. Inevitably, though, the committee finally got up to speed. Following a failed first attempt (when I didn’t get the summons until after a joint performance of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana) on February 21st, following a rehearsal of Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius, I steeled myself to (literally) face the music that was my reaudition.

Short story shorter: I failed. I was told afterwards, by genuinely sympathetic choir members that Neville let those who didn’t get through reaudition perform whichever piece was currently being rehearsed and, for a while, I did consider doing this. In the end, other commitments and a great deal of horribly wounded pride prevented me from doing so.

(Ironically, Dream of Gerontius is the piece I didn’t get to sing with LCS as I left before they started work on it. My score remains, as yet, unmarked.)

It was about a week before the realisation fully sank in. One evening, with the rest of the family out at the cinema (I hadn’t wanted to go to what was a techo-noise fest) I settled down with a bottle of wine to watch ‘Anchorman’. I had a good laugh before repairing to the study to listen to some music. Having the house to myself for the first time in ages, I intended to listen to some VERY LOUD music (or is that some music VERY LOUD?) probably to try to convince myself that, whatever I’d been told, I could still belt out a tune. Everything was going fine until I tried to get my PC to play music through the main speakers (via some little gizmo currently hanging innocently over the radiator). However, no matter what I did, this bloody thing would not work. After about an hour or so of changing settings, unplugging and replugging, rebooting and rebooting, I had had enough. A week’s worth of anger and embarrasment and frustration and, yes, grief at the loss boiled up and over and I retreated to bed to howl and cry like a wounded animal for what seemed like forever.

Immediately after this, I lost all interest in singing as well as all confidence in my ability. Even remembering the words of a much respected singing teacher didn’t help me, and I don’t think I sang anything (not one note) for about a month. Singing had been a major emotional outlet for almost 7 years and its loss was nothing less than a bereavement.

To be truthful, what hurt most is that I felt – still feel – that I simply capitulated. Whenever I think about what happened during that reaudition, there is a HUGE temptation to start every sentence with either ‘if only…’ or ‘what if…’

If only I’d said I had a sore throat… what if I’d actually read that book on sight singing?… if only I’d taken singing lessons… what if I’d done what I was supposed to do and wait to be invited in?… etc etc etc etc… The fact was that I hadn’t, I hadn’t, I hadn’t, and I hadn’t. The only person I can blame – if blame if the right word – is myself. I was responsible for what happened, and it hurt like hell. It still hurts, but less and less.

So, that’s it. I’m no longer a member of the London Philharmonic Choir. This means I will miss the Proms again. I’d been otherwise engaged previously – ironically, not this time – and was really looking forward to singing Verdi’s Requiem, as well as the Xmas performance of Beethoven’s 9th. (I may try to find a way to do the latter…)

I’ve not been completely idle, though. I recently sang in the 1000 voice choir for Karl Jenkins Peacemakers at Abbey Road, performed Carmina as part of the Really Big Chorus at the Royal Albert Hall and have (provisionally) joined another choir.

Nevertheless, I miss the challenge of working with a world class choir. Although it wasn’t the same after Steph left, I really do think I was up to the task; I practised at home, knew a lot of the pieces from memory but, on the day – when it really mattered – this obviously wasn’t enough. Maybe there’s a hidden agenda. Maybe whoever makes the decisions just want the choir to be the best it can be… I don’t know. I can’t know. And, ultimately, it doesn’t really matter now. I sang Brahm’s Deutsches Requiem on stage at the Royal Festival Hall under Yannick Nezet-Seguin, one of the most inspiring conductors I will ever work with. And it’s on CD. I’ll take that… with a great deal of enthusiasm.

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.