Last week, on Friday, after a full day of teaching and orchestra practise I went to see a small play in the Moot Hall. It was about Ann Carter, who I will write about in another blog when the world has calmed down. As is usual for these type of events the cast and building managers outnumbered the audience.
After the show we were all ushered into a back room, where there were bowls of crisps, nuts, chocolate fingers, twiglets and bizarrely a plate of cheese scones, the size of a 50p piece. There were cartons of wine and juice, for which we were encouraged to donate £2.50 a glass and we had to buy raffle tickets. The room was small and dark, with a musty smell. The huge oak door had been shut behind us and the lead in the tiny windows at the top of the room gave the effect of bars. Perched on a brick ledge outside the window were two fat and ferociously bonking pigeons. The crisps and wine were on a huge dark wood table with intricately carved legs, which took up most of the room. Around the edge were church pews. Most people stood and we talked about the referendum, the play we had just seen, the grain riots and women's history. I was feeling woozy, the room seemed to shift a little, so I sat on the bench. Suddenly, I had won the raffle and people had burst into song. Proper, finger-in-the-ear-folk-song singing. The kind that tells a moral tale. Everyone else knew the songs and joined in. I looked around, concerned that I might have actually died at some point and this was Hell. Time started to do the thing it does in the Dali painting. After several songs I found myself tapping my foot and singing, "A drop of Nelson's blood won't do you any harm. Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood won't do you any harm. Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood won't do you any harm. And we'll all roll on behind. And we'll roll the old chariot along......"
A lady looked at me, smiled and said, "Come on, I'll take you up now."
I followed her up the winding stone steps, while she talked about witches and bells. She threw open the door to fresh air, a glorious sunset and a feeling that this might be heaven. I looked over at the building where I had conducted an orchestra rehearsal in and it was glowing.
It wasn't heaven or hell and I was allowed to leave.
But the world had changed beyond recognition. History was being made, politicians were fighting, the weather had forgotten that it was meant to be doing summer and everyone was stressed and miserable. I tried to carry on as normal. I walked the dog and stood on a bee. George Osborne taught me a new world as he appeared onTV to say that he didn't "resile" from any of his earlier warnings. I did the shopping and pushed the fully loaded trolly over my foot. I went to work and had an uncharacteristic cross moment where I think I might have resigned. I read the papers (and Buzzfeed - who seem to be keeping a humourous perspective on it all), wrote my blog and spent time with my family. I went to a concert that I didn't have to organise. It started at 7 but I didn't finish teaching until 8. "It's ok, I'll put the band on just before the interval," I was told. I walked into the building at ten past 8 and could hear the band playing. I ran up the stairs putting my bass clarinet together as I went hoping that I would be in time for the solo in the Stevie Wonder piece, however I only managed the last note. In the interval, I ate strawberries the size of a six year old's fist. The dog got depressed. The groomers wondered if his strange mood was something to do with Brexit. He told me that it was the ugliness of the word that really bothered him.
Then on Thursday evening a hall full of sweaty people forgot everything. They sang, laughed, cried, encouraged and burst with pride. "I had the worst week but that was just what I needed," people said.
I had something to eat and watched Question Time. It was on late. Then I went to bed.
At 2am I woke up. Wide eyed. Two hours sleep seemed as though it was enough. I got up, paced around, went back to bed, read, wrote and the sun came up. I listened. Nothing. There hadn't been a dawn chorus. Panicking that the end of the world really had arrived or that I had really gone to Hell last Friday evening I went into the garden. There were some bird noises, especially pigeons who seemed particularly frisky. It appears that the dawn chorus is mainly a mating thing and most birds (except pigeons) have done enough of that for one year.
I relaxed a bit.
Standing barefoot on the patio in my nightie I spotted the little patch of chamomile lawn. Chamomile is supposed to help sleep, so I walked round and round in the fine drizzle that had just set in. After twenty minuites I felt calm and thought I'd try to go back to bed only to discover I'd taken a large family of baby spiders with me. I got up and wrote more.
Friday passed in a blur until I noticed that the political madness has moved to Austria, where a court ruling has over-turned the presidential election result and Australia, where people have been trying to vote for the gorilla that was shot.
This morning I told the Long Suffering Husband that my daughter's address was 32 Windsor Gardens, which I am fairly certain is Paddington's address.
If this is a Dali inspired version of Hell then I'm not sure I'm coping with it very well.
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