Let us go singing as far as we go: the road will be less tedious

The day last week’s blog came out, I was trundling along on my bike in the usual way when I noticed a friend in the distance. It’s hard to wave enthusiastically while staying upright, but somehow, I managed it. It was Andy, husband of Clare, father of Lana. 

(Check out last week’s blog if you’ve forgotten who they are. https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2020/04/i-want-to-ride-my-bicycle-i-want-to.html). We had a jolly good chat about cooking and what inspires us which is what next week’s blog is going to be about.

Just outside the Greyhound, I ran into Jim and his impossibly bronzed set of limbs (how does he do it?) and Lynette, both of them taking advantage of the pub’s Finish at Home selection. Further down the road, there were the lovely Jenny and Alan. I promised to include them all in this week’s blog. And so I have.[1]

It’s a funny old business, being a writer. It’s solitary, for a start. You sit gazing at a blank screen, an idea pops into your head and suddenly you’ve written 600 words. I used to be terrified of hitting “publish” but not any more. I wasn’t sure how my account of my bike ride through the Suffolk lanes would go down – was it too self-indulgent? – but it’s been one of the most commented upon and shared. I’ve learned that writing from the heart and sharing encouraging things seems to strike a chord.

This week is no exception. I went to a concert last Friday. Gosh it was good! My seat was very comfortable, I was able to quaff a glass of wine, no-one coughed or annoyed me by rustling sweet wrappers and it didn’t matter that I was wearing my slippers. Pourquoi? It was the inaugural performance by Classical Suffolk, a brilliant wheeze put together by two utterly delightful people, Christina Johnston, the internationally renowned opera and crossover star, and Richard Garrett, Ipswich-based sound engineer to the stars. They’d met at a concert I’d been involved in to support the Beehive Nakuru and really hit it off. With Christina’s beautiful voice and Richard’s technical skills, they performed a few free concerts for elderly people in nursing homes before social distancing guidelines became stricter. Nothing daunted, they’ve set up Classical Suffolk (https://www.facebook.com/classicalsuffolk/) which broadcasts a weekly concert every Friday at 7 pm.

I’ve been to a number of Christina’s concerts in the past. Classical Suffolk’s lack of an actual live audience must be difficult for a performer, but with her husband Slava and the incorrigible Richard providing encouragement and technical support, she’s able to interact with her online audience.

Watching Christina singing on-screen, I forgot that she was standing in her music studio in Felixstowe with a black backdrop and that I was lying on my bed. Her beautiful voice lifted my spirits and between songs, she read out comments from fans on social media. It was such a huge success that she and Richard have decided to put on a weekly lock down concert.

Both Christina and Richard are self-employed and have seen the businesses they’ve worked so hard for come to a standstill, for now. One of the many reasons I think so much of both of them is that they have dusted themselves down, picked themselves up and decided to use their considerable talents to entertain others. They are both full of compassion, kindness, generosity and humanity, qualities I value very highly.

Christina has sung to heads of states, to packed houses all over the world and is a proper famous person. Richard has worked with some of the biggest and starriest names in music. And yet both of them have taken that meeting at Framlingham College a few months ago and worked it up into a wonderful thing that can make us all forget, at least for a little while, that our world is not as we would like it to be.

All you have to do is click here: https://www.facebook.com/classicalsuffolk/. You can even request a favourite song (up to four days before the concert.) I’ll be in the front row tomorrow.

And finally, what do you think of my title? I wanted something inspiring and came across these words spoken by a man born in 70 BC, the Roman poet Virgil. They worked for me – how about you?

See you at the concert.

---

[1] Social distancing was maintained with all these encounters. At least 4 metres apart, shouty voices.

The Ghosts of Christmas Yet To Come

I’ve just finished binge-watching the BBC’s new adaptation of A Christmas Carol. Did you see it? Victorian novels, and Dickens in particular, are my thing, so you could be excused for thinking that I’d swoon dead away at the liberties taken with the original text. Where were the cosy scenes of middle-class Victorian life? Whence the beaming Cratchit daughters and their twice-turned dresses? The Ghost of Christmas Past effing and jeffing? Mrs Cratchit as a Sweary Mary? Do me a flavour!

Rather than the traditional elderly man in a nightgown, we have gauntly handsome Guy Pearce brooding in his echoing Georgian townhouse. Bob Cratchit is simmering with barely-suppressed rage in the counting house. Mrs Cratchit has more on her mind than the Christmas goose and the pudding. Marley has a long lead-in, staggering through the snow after the Ghost of Christmas Past and watching his treasured childhood toy being hurled on to a symbolic fire. Hung about with manacles, he finally makes his appearance by his business partner’s meagre fireside. It’s not just Scrooge’s soul which is on the line, but his own, which can only be plucked from the snowy wastes of purgatory by the flint-hearted protagonist.

I didn’t see much TV this Christmas. I meant to, but with seven of us in the house (aged respectively 94, 89, 53x2, 16, 13 and 11) it was hard to find something that we all liked. On Christmas Day, I sat with my parents watching the lovely Gareth Malone as he formed a choir at Watford General Hospital. You know what you’re getting with Gareth. Heart-warming vignettes, cheerful optimism that getting a choir together will lift spirits and build community and a final joyful pay-off as the voices are raised in song. We had all that. But there was something else lurking beneath the surface of cheery Christmas songs and the reassuring voice-over. Something not a million miles away from the Cratchits barely getting by, the workers toiling in a creaking system while their rights are taken away one by one and profit taking precedence over compassion any day.

Gareth has several significant conversations with an anaesthetist in the hospital corridors. She’s struggling to get to rehearsals because there’s so much work to do. People, her patients, her colleagues, her two little boys at home are relying on her. She remembers the little bits of magic that used to twinkle in the hospital at Christmas, but now they’re all gone. Her face, tired, tearful yet determined, could stand for so many, back in 1843 and now.

We’re in the dying embers of 2019, 176 years after A Christmas Carol was written. The emaciated, bent, prematurely aged figures of two children, Ignorance and Want, haunt Scrooge’s footsteps in the original novella. If we carry on putting profit, and money, and progress ahead of compassion and basic human rights, argues Dickens, where will we end up? Quite possibly in a hospital in Watford where staff work themselves to the bone because they care so much about their patients and where there aren’t enough beds or enough funding.

Since I started this blog in October, I’ve been asking myself the question, “What makes me a writer?” Today, with this, for the first time, my query is, “What is writing for?” Often, I think, it’s to shine a light on what is going on. That’s what Dickens did in his revolutionary 19^th century novella, holding a mirror up to his society.

Watching Scrooge race through the snowy streets to save Tiny Tim and release the Cratchits from his icy grasp, my heart lifted. Here at last was the moment I’d been waiting for – repentance, forgiveness, the famous line. But no. It never came. The loose ends weren’t tied up. Scrooge still has a long way to go but he’s made a start. The moment where he stands in his office gazing up at the glassy ceiling where Tiny Tim takes his fateful skate was so clever, so multi-layered, so – well, writerly – that it fired off the neurons in my brain to start writing this.

Is the pen mightier than the sword? Sure is. Can words change a society? I hope so. Will 2020 be a year of changes, of progress, of compassion? We can only pray that it is.

So, to all of you, a Happy New Year, and dare I say it, God bless us, everyone.