Only one more performance of The Messiah to go, and our little group will disband for another year.
Our first performance coincided with a deeply impressive summer storm
that bought traffic to a standstill, and meant that we started 15
minutes late, with the soprano soloist still not arrived, and orchestra
members dribbling onto the stage as they arrived in very damp formal
wear.
Perhaps it was the late start, but the conductor seemed determined to
make up for lost time. He took off at a truly alarming pace, with
us choristers in hot pursuit. Handelian singing is not easy - all
those runs and trills - a slight change in tempo can have an extremely
deleterious impact on the health.
Mercifully, after about 20 minutes, we have a full quota of soloists
and musicians, and the conductor finally allows both himself, and us,
to exhale. Heaving and panting, the choir manages to skid to a
stop at more or less the same moment, and we all start to settle down.
Two hours later it's all over, bar the exhilaration. I've never
been a runner, but I think it must be like the high runners get - a
heady euphoria that makes sleep impossible for a couple of hours.
Back in my little flat, the application of a couple of beers and a dose
of bad television has the necessary soporific effect.
Performance two, and while the choristers were magnificent, the
audience sounds like they are all about to discover imminently whether
their Redeemer liveth. Everyone appears to be in the grip of
terminal bronchitis, and the soloists have difficulty being heard over
the cacophony of coughing.
Performance three is always my favourite. It's on Sunday
afternoon, and by tradition, is always accompanied by a plate of prawns
and a glass of wine. Sunday's performance is always the most relaxed -
it's the one where the choristers' Mums, Dads, and significant others
turn out. We are all under threat of intense repercussions if we
wave to anyone in the audience. The audience however has no such
inhibitions, so the 10 minutes prior to kick-off involves a lot of
semaphoring from audience members in the vain hope that they can
provoke one of us to respond.
No chance - we know the choir manager is prowling in the stalls waiting to take our names and numbers if we misbehave.
Then the announcement comes over the PA - "the taking of photographs is
strictly prohibited". I don't know why they bother - they'd have
to arrest the entire audience. There's a blizzard of flashlights
going off. The pictures never turn out of course, or if
they do, they look like "Where's Wally?" Trying to pick your
nearest and dearest out of several hundred identically dressed people
at a considerable distance is an exercise in futility.
One more performance to go. The day afterwards daughter Anne will
arrive from England for Christmas, and I get to spend three weeks at
home - the longest uninterrupted period I've ever been able to stay
there. Yippee!
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Change of Life 
