Music Medicine

I was going to post one of my stories today as, the mood I was in, I was afraid that if I wrote anything else, anyone who read it would end up slitting their throat.
However, I went round to my friend John's house this morning to have a play. We are planning a house concert in a few weeks, but we spent the morning reading through some stuff that I am considering for an Earth Hour gala that I am playing in with the incomparable Leslie Martin, soprano extraordinaire next month. (Details to follow)
There were a couple of pieces we were considering, one of which I had never heard and an arrangement of one of the pieces I love most in this world - the Leibestod from Tristan and Isolde, by Wagner. But much to our amazement, it was the far lesser known violin solo from L'Amico Fritz that turned out to be the true gem. It is not, perhaps, a piece of great musical worth, not on a par with the original Wagner, of course. But it is quirky and fun, dramatic, romantic and unashamedly sentimental. I came away from John's house feeling like a different person - due, in part, to John's general gorgeousness, but also due to the wonderful fun of discovery and experimentation that comes with playing a new piece for the first time. (I since sat down to eat my lunch with a few pages of Call the Midwife, so now feel back to throat slitting mood, but at least now I feel I can cope with it!)
Some of my favourite musical and childhood memories come from when I was around ten years old in Saudi Arabia; every Wednesday evening my family and a few others would gather at the house of two eccentric doctors - the Harland's - and spend the whole evening playing recorder music. Purcell, Schikhardt, Bach, Telemann of course, Praetorious, Dowland, Schmelzer, Biber. There were piles of music, for two recorders, three, seven; music for trebles, tenors, descants, bass - we never knew what was going to come out next but we all sat around in a circle, air conditioning humming away in the background, Malcolm, with his unruly beard and moustache through which you could hear the wind whistling as he blew, Ruth, who stuck her fingers high in the air like sausages and could never understand why she couldn't play the fast bits, Erasmus, singing out of tune as he played the bass parts on his guitar, my sisters and mother, eyes shining with excitement, my father, not playing anything, but sitting on the sofa, guffawing loudly over Private Eye magazines. And we would play for hours, music that was fun, music that was interesting... and occasionally, we would come across a piece which made our hearts quicken and our spines straighten. It wasn't always by the most famous composer, or published by the biggest publishing house, but even so we would all know that, oh yes, this was it - this was the golden egg that we had all been looking for.
Sometimes, we would play a piece that was okay, but nothing special, but then somebody would suggest that: "why don't we try it twice the speed?" or "half the speed", or "more piano", or "more forte." So we would try it and suddenly the piece would come alive and the music would grow, pouring out of our recorders and around the room, around and into us all - music written centuries ago by almost forgotten composers.
So, the point of all this waffle, is for those parents who have decided that their children should play a musical instrument but are a little bit hazy as to why, or for those who want to learn how to play as an adult. The gift you are giving your children, or yourselves, need not be the gift of talent, nor necessarily the gift of skill, or discipline. It is the gift of creation - the ability to take a scrawl of black notes on a page and give them life; to make something wonderful and magical out of nothing. And what greater gift can you give?
Well, don't answer that, but I, for one, think it's pretty cool.

Music and Lifestyle

Yesterday was a reminder of why we live in Australia.

The kids were all tired and lay around the house in a state of lacklustre. The HO in particular was hunched for almost the entire day, in front of a computer screen of some sort – either the family computer, his iPod, or his school lap top. But as soon as it got cool enough, I bullied them all outside – actually, the girls didn't need bullying, only the HO. For the next two hours they played in the pool and, after a quick dip to reassure myself that I was still brave enough to get in - even in less than 40 degree heat - I sat and watched them. The garden is rather overgrown at the moment, giving our pool a rather forest glade sort of appeal, so it was lovely to sit and crochet in the shade of the mulberry tree, whilst the rainbow lorikeets, the scaly breasted lorikeets, the sulphar crested cockatoos, the galahs and the Rosellas squawked and screeched and trilled overhead, watching my little darlings at play. (when they weren't fighting and calling each other names, that is.) But it reminded me that this was one of the reasons that we wanted to emigrate in the first place: in England when a teenage boy is hunched over electronic equipment, it is much harder to force them out into the drizzle/pouring rain/gale force winds/snow. Whereas here, most days of the year, I have no qualms about kicking mine out into the swimming pool.

Saturday night was a concert with Sarah Blasko and the Pops orchestra. I had never heard of Sarah Blasko before, but it seems that she is quite a big star here. The concert was completely sold out and there was a huge ruckus when she came on stage. I think though, that one must miss quite a bit, when one is sitting on stage. Either that, or one is getting old. I'm not sure what genre Blasko's music is - it is certainly not jazz, but not sure I would call it pop exactly or rock or punk. Long and deep and soul searching with lots of blackness. She has a lovely voice, and is very beautiful in a lovely natural way, I will give you this. But it must be quite exhausting to take oneself so seriously all the time. The audience, as I said, went wild, so, as I also said, one misses a lot, being on stage.

It was also an interesting concert, because the Pops orchestra has just been sold on to a new owner and nobody is quite sure what is going to happen. We are all feeling a tad uncomfortable about it, though of course, when there is more certainty, it could well be very exciting and a good thing for Brisbane as a whole.

The next Pops gig is in a couple of weeks and we will be playing for Glenn Frey. When I got the contract, I assumed that it must be a Scottish concert, a la Scotland the Brave. Then I googled Glenn Frey, and discovered that he was one of the founding members of the Eagles. Right, so no strathspeys, then. It's a good thing I googled properly and didn't turn up in my tartans, that's all I can say.

Paranoia?

So. We are slowly getting back into our normal lives here in Brisbane. Actually, it's not been that slow. Kids started school last week and were straight back into all the soccer grading sessions, Ta Kwondo, Kung Fu and ballet. Choir starts this week and I am back to teaching and so we are in our normal headless chicken acts. Hmm - possibly not a good term to use, since I intend to get more chickens this weekend...

It has been unseasonably cool this last week, making my morning walk with The Even Hairier One a joy – the air is full of mock orange blossom and the chatter of a million birds and the kangaroos have been gambolling around the dewy grass – and kangaroos really do gambol, much more so than sheep. Snow and ice, hot muggy winds and the scent of sewage are all a thing of the past – I hope.

The trouble is that it's so easy to forget, to move on. People keep saying that “oh yes, Australia is a land of extremes, we have always had bad weather,” etc etc. I know that's true, but still, the 1974 floods were meant to be a once in a life time experience and then the 2011 floods were just bad luck; but they seem to have been followed awfully closely by the 2013 floods. And I may be misremembering, but back when I lived in England, only 14 years ago, we didn't always get snow in the winter and when we did, it was pretty short lived. I don't remember schools and roads closing – not in the London basin at any rate – and yet this seems to be a normal occurrence now. Then there's New York. Two floods in two years, in a city where they have never been flooded before.

Now, I'm going to go out on a limb here, as this is my blog so therefore it is my privilege! But maybe, just maybe this extreme weather is something that all the scientists have been warning us about for years. Maybe this is what Gerald Durrell and David Attenborough and highly qualified, brilliant minds like theirs have been wittering on about. Maybe this is what the weather is going to be doing for the next few years – getting worse and worse and more and more extreme, so that by the time my kids grow up, they won't be able to plan anything in advance and will have to make sure they always have a plentiful supply of toilet paper and candles and chickens and live on a hill.

Or maybe, on the other hand, I am just being completely paranoid. Maybe this is just part of a normal weather pattern and I should just start focussing my attentions on the Really important issues at hand – whether to vote for a man who believes that the world was created a few thousand years ago and that the Aboriginies should be grateful for the British invasion, or whether to vote for someone I don't particularly like or trust just to make sure that said lunatic doesn't get into parliament. Because this is what is filling the news at the moment, so it must be the most important matter, mustn't it?

Welcome Back...

Well, I finally got the clear blue skies I was hoping for – along with a stink of sewage emanating from our sinks and baths. So glad to be back. I have learnt many things over the last few days and here are some of them.

1. It is not a good idea to walk the dog in tornado weather whilst wearing jeans - unless, of course, one has just spent five weeks eating and drinking and not exercising, in which case a walk with heavy weights strapped to one's legs might be a good idea. (though it might not feel like it at the time – especially if one is being hit by stinging, bullet-like rain.)

2. It is not a good idea to have a septic tank system which is liable to overflow in storms – especially if it relies on a pump which needs power – unless one wants to spend 48 hours bring unable to flush toilets or use any water for fear having one's house flooded with raw sewage. Which I don't.

3. It is not a good idea to raid the emergency candle store for a party, thinking that one will replenish supplies of candles before the next power cut.

4. It is not a good idea to have a moulting labrador in the house when the floors are damp and sticky. To quote some guy who used to write songs: “Where'ere you walk, the floor shall be covered in fur.”

5. Drinking copious amounts of coffee in order to combat jet lag does not help to ease back into a new time zone.

6. When starting children at a new school, it is not necessarily a good idea, for their sense of equilibrium, to wing them across the world to a flood zone a couple of days beforehand.

7. It IS a good idea to get your chickens slaughtered by a fox a few weeks before their coop is thrown across the garden by gale force winds. I think.

7. It is not a good idea to have three cats who won't use a litter tray and are too wussy to go outside in a tornado.

9. It is not a good idea to make repeated smug comments to snow bound people about swimming pools and heat.

10. When all is said and done, we are still a million times luckier than most people in this world. At the risk of being nauseating, we still have each other and toilet paper. What else could you ask for?

Back home with mixed feelings

I'm wondering whether I'm getting my comeuppance for all the smug comments I've been making about clear blue skies, eating mangoes round the pool etc. We've got the mangoes, that's all well and good, but  I was woken to the sound of rain such as I've never heard before, last night. Apparently there've been tornadoes up North and we should be expecting some in Brisbane today. And it's either the cats way of welcoming us home, or they're too wussy to go outside in this weather, but poor Juliette had Tamara weeing on her bed last night, then as soon as she had changed the sheets, the ghastly cat poohed on them. Then Lydia knocked on the door around four this morning, to say that Tiger had poohed in the bathroom! Happy days!
So, is it good to be home? Well, it's great to be together again, poohing cats and all, though there is a horrible absence of chickens, since they were taken by a fox a few weeks ago. And it's nice to have some space again and to a certain extent, it's much more stress free. I LOVE my family, but you wouldn't believe how complicated things can become! I thought my parents-in-law were bad enough - they own their own solicitors firm and have worked together for ages, so it means that every tiny little decision, i.e., what we are going to eat for breakfast, needs to be examined in minute detail and argued over for at least an hour to ensure that there are no loop holes and everyone is getting their fair chance.
But my family take the biscuit. For instance, it was my mothers birthday on the 15th of Jan and so it was decided that we should celebrate. So far, so good.
"I'd like a Chinese meal," said Mummy.
"Okay. Shall we get a take away, or go out somewhere?"
"Who's making tea?"
"If we go out somewhere, then there's no washing up for the five thousand."
"Clara just made a pot of tea."
"But we finished that. We need more."
"If we go out somewhere, we can't take little children or dogs."
"Then maybe we should get a takeaway."
"Is someone making tea?"
"If we have a takeaway it means having five thousand people in Clara and Bruno's house again."
"Oh gosh, do you remember when we had chicken and rice for five thousand in Riyadh?"
"Oh yes, and it turned into a ceilidh?"
"If we went out maybe someone could stay and dog and baby sit."
"How many people want tea?"
"Do you remember that time we went out to the Chinese in Riyadh?"
"Do you mean the time that whathisname came with us?"
"With thingumajig."
"Oh yes, and do you remember when we took thingumajig to the camel trail?"
"Where's the tea?"
"So where shall we go?"
"Maybe we should have a takeaway?"
"Bruno said he would baby sit."
"The teas just brewing!"
"Shall we go out then?"
"To that place in Hemel?"
"Yes! do you remember when we went there for Bernadette's hen night?"
"Is the tea brewed yet?"
"Maybe we should have a takeaway instead?"
"Or we could ask if we could take the kids and the dogs? They're only little."
"Yes, but Elsa wees when she gets excited and Polly barks at men."
"Maybe we should get a takeaway?"
"Why don't we go out?"
"Here's the tea!"
Eventually a decision was made and we went our separate ways, me taking my three kids into town, with tea sloshing around my stomach like a tidal wave. Over the course of the the next three hours I had five phone calls from different people suggesting different venues, different kid sitters, a different food type and that maybe we should just all get a takeaway and cram into Clara and Bruno's house yet again.
In the end, the women of the family had a calm and relaxed meal at the local Chinese where, much to my intense relief, there was a buffet. The thought of trying to come to decisions over a menu had struck pure terror into my heart.
And we finished the meal with a nice cup of coffee.

Back home with mixed feelings

I'm wondering whether I'm getting my comeuppance for all the smug comments I've been making about clear blue skies, eating mangoes round the pool etc. We've got the mangoes, that's all well and good, but  I was woken to the sound of rain such as I've never heard before, last night. Apparently there've been tornadoes up North and we should be expecting some in Brisbane today. And it's either the cats way of welcoming us home, or they're too wussy to go outside in this weather, but poor Juliette had Tamara weeing on her bed last night, then as soon as she had changed the sheets, the ghastly cat poohed on them. Then Lydia knocked on the door around four this morning, to say that Tiger had poohed in the bathroom! Happy days!
So, is it good to be home? Well, it's great to be together again, poohing cats and all, though there is a horrible absence of chickens, since they were taken by a fox a few weeks ago. And it's nice to have some space again and to a certain extent, it's much more stress free. I LOVE my family, but you wouldn't believe how complicated things can become! I thought my parents-in-law were bad enough - they own their own solicitors firm and have worked together for ages, so it means that every tiny little decision, i.e., what we are going to eat for breakfast, needs to be examined in minute detail and argued over for at least an hour to ensure that there are no loop holes and everyone is getting their fair chance.
But my family take the biscuit. For instance, it was my mothers birthday on the 15th of Jan and so it was decided that we should celebrate. So far, so good.
"I'd like a Chinese meal," said Mummy.
"Okay. Shall we get a take away, or go out somewhere?"
"Who's making tea?"
"If we go out somewhere, then there's no washing up for the five thousand."
"Clara just made a pot of tea."
"But we finished that. We need more."
"If we go out somewhere, we can't take little children or dogs."
"Then maybe we should get a takeaway."
"Is someone making tea?"
"If we have a takeaway it means having five thousand people in Clara and Bruno's house again."
"Oh gosh, do you remember when we had chicken and rice for five thousand in Riyadh?"
"Oh yes, and it turned into a ceilidh?"
"If we went out maybe someone could stay and dog and baby sit."
"How many people want tea?"
"Do you remember that time we went out to the Chinese in Riyadh?"
"Do you mean the time that whathisname came with us?"
"With thingumajig."
"Oh yes, and do you remember when we took thingumajig to the camel trail?"
"Where's the tea?"
"So where shall we go?"
"Maybe we should have a takeaway?"
"Bruno said he would baby sit."
"The teas just brewing!"
"Shall we go out then?"
"To that place in Hemel?"
"Yes! do you remember when we went there for Bernadette's hen night?"
"Is the tea brewed yet?"
"Maybe we should have a takeaway instead?"
"Or we could ask if we could take the kids and the dogs? They're only little."
"Yes, but Elsa wees when she gets excited and Polly barks at men."
"Maybe we should get a takeaway?"
"Why don't we go out?"
"Here's the tea!"
Eventually a decision was made and we went our separate ways, me taking my three kids into town, with tea sloshing around my stomach like a tidal wave. Over the course of the the next three hours I had five phone calls from different people suggesting different venues, different kid sitters, a different food type and that maybe we should just all get a takeaway and cram into Clara and Bruno's house yet again.
In the end, the women of the family had a calm and relaxed meal at the local Chinese where, much to my intense relief, there was a buffet. The thought of trying to come to decisions over a menu had struck pure terror into my heart.
And we finished the meal with a nice cup of coffee.

Goodbye

So, it is all over. We have said our goodbyes and are now on the plane to Hong Kong.
"It's like having your heart torn out," Lydia said the other day and she's right. The last few days have been a blur of goodbyes and I feel like a washing machine on an endless rinse cycle.
I managed to drag the kids up to London one last time on Monday, walking them through the icy streets until their feet nearly froze off. We went up in the London Eye for a surreal look at London in the snow and the mist, but I have a feeling they enjoyed the seven minute bus journey from Leicester square to Euston much more. Oh well, at least we can qualify as proper tourists now! There were so many places I had wanted to go to in London, old haunts I had wanted to visit, places I've always dreamed of visiting, but for some reason we haven't had time to do any of those things. I had dreamt of going to a concert at the Wigmore specifically, but couldn't get tickets. One day I am going to come back to London all by myself and do all the things I want to do without any grumpy kids who just want to be at home watching TV...
Then, after London, it was goodbye to people. Goodbye to my grandmother in the knowledge that it will almost definitely be the last time I see ever see her - I thought that the last time we came, but since she is now 101, I suspect that the chances of ever seeing her again are quite a bit slimmer. What makes it even harder is that it's not even as though I can ring her anymore, as she is as deaf as a post.
Goodbye to my sisters, Lalla and Bernadette, Clara and Miriam and their lovely husbands, goodbye to my weird and wonderful parents, to all my nieces and nephews and cousins and their children, my Aunt and Uncle, my sister in law and my parents in law, my friend Emma and her family.
It's been harder than I thought, to be honest. In fact, if I'm really honest, I have been bowled over by my emotions on this trip. I was looking forward to it as a chance to catch up with people and to see some sights before returning home to Brisbane and resuming life as normal. But I feel as though I have fallen in love with England all over again - or rather, fallen in love with England, I should say. I have been revelling in the landscape, the old buildings, the atmosphere of age and history, the excitement and beauty, the culture and the cosmopolitanism - is that really a word? -  of London. Most of all it has been wonderful to spend time with my family. And I have been asking myself, again and again, why we moved over to Aus? And also, would we have moved to Aus if circumstances had been different?
When we left England, we only had one child and were young and adventurous and wanted to try living somewhere new, somewhere with the blue skies and heat that I had grown up with and that we both craved. When we left England, my parents and three of my sisters were not living there, few of our friends were married and none of them had had children. We didn't realise that life would move on so quickly and that when we came back we would be that much older and so would everyone else. We didn't realise that as soon as we left, everybody would move to England and start breeding. I don't think we realised quite how far we were going.
I guess I need to remember that if we lived in England, the novelty of snow would soon wear off. If we lived in England we would not be living in the Bennet's house from Pride and Prejudice, we would be lucky to get a tiny terrace on the outskirts of London; the people who have been making such an effort to see us in these last few weeks would resume their normal lives; we would be busy with our own lives and we would only see them once in a blue moon; trips to London would not be sight seeing tours, but would be undertaken as grey faced commuters battling with the vagaries of London transport.
And, on the other side of the coin, in just a few hours we will be swimming in our pool, eating our own mangoes, catching up with the many loved and wonderful friends we have made in the years we have spent in Brisbane. Normal life will take over and England will seem like a dream. I will be having my sleep disturbed by my cat again and hauling myself out of bed to walk my beautiful dog in the mornings. But most of all, at the risk of churning stomachs, I will be with Rupert again, we will be reunited as a family, and that is the only thing which really matters.