Waiting

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.

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Mudlarks and Poppies

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A day in London to sing for water aid coincided with the last day of the Thames Festival.

The Lord Mayor had organised or perhaps more truthfully, had organised in his name, various events of which the singing was one.  We stood in the concrete amphitheatre, the scoop, which afterwards doubled as great place to let children run amok, and sang our hearts out to raise funds so more people could have clean water.

A small fair had pitched tents beside Tower Bridge; there were sheep in pens, and chickens for children to get close to, the RSPB had a stall encouraging people to learn more about birds and nature.  Then there were a couple of stalls who were there, ‘because we enjoy doing it.’  A sign by the Edible Hats stall said simply, JOIN IN.  Haven’t laughed so much in ages. The premise, also a simple one, seemed to be  try on hats made of cabbages, or daisies or trailing ivy,  green beards made of cress, take a photo if you like and have a good laugh at each other.

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There was a wonderful activity involving making a clay doubloon,  to be  filled with wild flower seeds and buried it in your garden or any flower pot when you got home after three days drying time and then waiting for the flowers to grow.  Sadly, I was too old for this activity.  I wish I had thought it up.

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North of the river were mudlarks; a game that happens twice a year when the tide and time  are right to forage in the mud bank on the shore and see what can be found.

Beside the Tower was the display of poppies, a spectacle in itself.

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