The regular reader will know that I am an enthusiastic, but tuneless, singer. I harmonise happily with Emmylou and Adele and Cerys, content that no one can hear me.
You can imagine the disbelief of my family when I announced that I was joining a choir.
Me. A choir.
(This pause is given to you so the Brother can catch his breath, stop laughing, and wipe his eyes.)
The Choir Director responded to my email query by telling me me I was just the sort of person for the choir.
I bounced around the house. Tigger was back.
J collected me. I did happy chair dancing and a little excited squeaking on the way. I was joining a choir. My singing was bound to improve. I’d be bonded and achieving and creative.
I was handed a sheaf of music. Hmm.
I sat beside J. We decided I could be an alto too- it’s not like I was going to hit any notes anyway.
People. Nobody told me singing was hard work.
Two hours of concentrating. Two hours of not quite knowing what was going on. Two hours of trying to sing something other than the familiar melody. A little bit of miming when it began to sound too awful.
I was exhausted.
It seems that to be in a choir one needs to be able to sing or to think. Oops.
I only did the one night. My singing was woeful, but I’m used to that. It was too much to expect me to concentrate at a time I’d normally be ready for bed.
The outside world is safe from my singing for another while.