News of terrible natural and man made disasters blight the days, then this: warm sunshine and a flower blossoms like a ray of hope.
For once I’ve already devoured the book before it comes out in film.
Not my usual choice, it was a great holiday read and almost brought about a conversion. The hostile claustrophobic atmosphere of the fifties Soviet State was well covered and all too plausible. That it was about child abuse and murder that the Soviet state refused even to acknowledge is an irony, if nothing else, with the DPP’s recent catastrophic blow to victims (not in the public interest to be seen to act fairly.)
It seems iniquitous not to shout out at the injustice done by our liberal state to the victims of abuse.
A shame then that they say the film has dulled a taught psychological thriller and immersed everything in a ‘cloudy brown soup’
I have been waiting for an email, as in days of yore people waited for signs and portents. It’s a way of procrastinating, obviously. If stuff happened simply because you wished it would, no one would do much at all.
There is a post prandial feel to the day. The holidays are over, no guests about to arrive to necessitate a bit of bustle and elbow grease about the place, although the lack of imminent arrivals does not remove the need for a clear up.
The weekend was spent singing in the company of singers. A festival chorus to celebrate life and the life achievements of not one hell of a musician, but two ( well three actually): John Huw Davies, a gentle, but excellent teacher, singer and conductor whose patience knows no bounds and the somewhat overlooked Cherubini, whose Mass in C is not just a revelation, but a joy not to be missed.
So much so that the concert will be broadcast from Stockport Town Hall, on Radio three.
Music , musicians, soloists and conductor irresistible.
To say nothing of JS Bach and his Magnificat which we also rehearsed and sang.
The waiting will have to wait. The day clamours, subtly, gently but loud enough to be heard.
Lacks motivation. Could try harder. It begins to sound like a school report.
There is a new horse in the field behind the house. I think he must be young. He is certainly wild. It is as if the other horses school him, try to calm him. I have seen one, the black horse with a rather dull coat, corral him, separate him and mete out hefty kicks and bites.