Friday, 11 July 2008

All read out...

Ah, bliss. The summer holidays (I refuse categorically to refer to them as 'vacations'). Wine, women (God willing) but definitely not song. Why not? Has Can Bass lost his voice? Has his recent re-audition yielded the unhelpful result that his days as a salaried singer may be over? No, dear reader, no. Nothing untoward has happened. We have merely 'read' the choristers out of the cathedral and put the choir to sleep for the summer. It seemed the kindest thing to do in the circumstances. (Although if I had my way we wouldn't merely 'read' the little blighters out, we'd kick them out with the sharp end of the Precentor's winkle-pickers!) What this means, of course, is one last 'big' sing (and I mean big - Howell's Gloucester Service and Elgar's Give Unto The Lord!) and then a summer of roses and wine. Now, about those women! There are three at present in my life (not including the hordes of pelmet-skirted wannabees at the local Girls' School who have the privilege of my tutelage every Thursday morning) - Monica (65 if she's a day, and going for the Florence Foster-Jenkins singing trophy); Kayleigh or Kylie, or Carly or whatever she chooses to call herself this week (and, yes, she is still paying me for lessons) with whom I could not otherwise be prevailed upon for so much as a handshake and... Felicia, the server. Yes, Mr Sox, the quality of robed-totty is good, at least here in St Swithelburga's. Felicia is the most devine creature ever to be crucifer. She is not, of course, ordained (and nor should she be - no male Apostolic handling for her!) - she is a 'lay' worker, as we say - a volunteer. And oh, does she volunteer! As she leads the choir in the procession on a Sunday morning, her hands aloft, her hair cascading down her be-surpliced shoulders, she presents the choirboys with a veritable icon of shapely beauty, an image of slender pre-Raphaelite splendour. 'What do you think she wears beneath her cassock?' one boy whispered, recently. 'Nothing, hopefully' replied the other. And although I cuffed the little whippersnappers firmly round the ear, I must say I was rather taken with the image they provided.

11 comments:

Lavinia Ladyslipper said...

Well really, nothing like this in B. Pym's novel's churchy goings-on, but indubitably fit for John Mortimer's. Quite a "Haverford Downs-esque" blurb. How do you like my attempt at British comment-speak, wot?! I like that---a summer of wine and roses. And your refusal to call it 'vacation'....I thought the Brits referred to them as 'hols'.

Entertaining post. Enjoy your 'vin et fleurs d'ete' (as the French might (or might not) say.

Eddie 2-Sox said...

Namechecked by CB1, what a grand start to the weekend!

Barry's been slightly delayed by the way, apparently he can't think of a rhyme for Dementieva.

Sal said...

Thanks for visiting my blog!
Enjoy your weekend ;-)

Kevin Musgrove said...

Oh... the glorious idea of a Florence Foster Jenkins recital in an English cathedral setting.

Kitty said...

I'll bet in mid-winter Felicia is sporting some thick thermals under her robes ;-) x

Can Bass 1 said...

Why, thank-you dear Lavinia, I will (and I kiss your hand through the medium of cyber-space x).

Jolly bad luck on Mr Teeth, eh what, 2Sox? I can't think of a rhyme either - unless it's 'what a raver!

I did, Sal, and I hope that you were similarly rested.

Ah, Mr Musgrove - I wish you hadn't said that. really, the similarity is uncanny!

Well now, Kitty. It can be very, very cold. But then, thermals can be sexy, in their own way don't you think?

I, like the view, still said...

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

*thinks*

now, about that hug

Penelope said...

Hello! Thought I better pop by and return the favour, so to speak. Nice place you have here, mind if I snoop around for a while? I assume there will be wine served to the virtual visitor?

Lavinia Ladyslipper said...

You are a gallant sir...

Can Bass 1 said...

But of course, Penelope! (Only the best communion wine on Sundays, and an impertinent young Aussie red for the rest of the week.)

The pleasure's mine, Lavinia.

The Poet Laura-eate said...

Barchester Chronicles, eat your heart out! When's the series Can Bass 1?

A great-uncle of mine became a missionary once. He was dispatched to tame the heathen of Basingstoke.
The feral hoodies of that fair town ate him I believe.