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.