hello husband, are you out there?

Well it seems I have to go to the blog to get news of my husband. I guess that means you're all having a good time with your scallops and trendy mash...(grrrr). tonight I shopped at the fishmonger and at Bill's and had roasted beetroot with roasted cod and girolles so ner. Cooked on the aga and it felt like post office cottage all over again. then I watched 'swimming pool' dvd with the beautiful (role mod for us aging girlies) Charlotte rampling, One that J didn't want to see. Fab.
I have taken up my residency in Bill’s, the multi coloured grocery store and café in Lewes. There I sit and brunch with a book at a long wooden table flanked by high piles of beetroot reds and golds and abundant leaves. I drink bilberry and plum smoothies and eat art salads which never seem to make a dent in the peaked displays. This is Willy Wonka’s for vegetable lovers. I am savouring the bustling solitude and starting to digest the previous months at les Cougieux. My body is only just letting go of the scraping (different kind) and painting and scrubbing....I spent half an hour sitting on the sofa with manon when Julian was picking up Hugh and Margaret and then I had to leave the next morning. I am so jealous of you all enjoying the beautiful blue skies and the very gentle bright coming of winter. Needless to say I haven't seen the sun since I arrived.

It is the seventh day at Glyndebourne and we have already established that two of the conductors are going to drive us crazy.
The first conductor is a red headed Australian who, because of his laissez-faire attitude, I cannot take seriously as I can only imagine him on a surf-board. He says that Mozart was in such a frenzied hurry to get his music down that he didn’t care about what he wrote. This profound interpretation of the genius of all time apparently authorizes him to colour in the white notes at the end of phrases. He Like insistent runners mesmerised by one identical step after another, we are simply pounding our way to the finishing line . Sorry for you pete and jan that the orch will not sound it's best...
From the little I know of the plot (an inspiring Glyndebourne education project examining the forces of dark and light; the themes of coming of age, suffering, racial tension, and of course love with which Mozart presents us) I find myself wondering which element we are exploring as we chug out yet another page of identical quavers. Finally, in a a potentially sublime chorale, I realise that something big must be going on in the opera. I can contain myself no longer so I ask:
“Could you tell us what is going on in the opera at this point?”
“Oh, will, they are going through these trials, you know, irth, fire and wader”.
And that’s it, his interpretation of the magic flute.. There is silence. A scream surges in the orchestra’s breast. We are waiting for more, but it does not come. He smiles his beach happy smile, raises his stick and we continue. I turn round to my spiritually sympathetic colleague Jane and say:
“I guess he’s saying it’s about the chakras.”

The next day jane’s scream gets a little too near full expression for comfort and she has to leave the pit and breathe deeply for 10 minutes before returning.

Meanwhile, in La Boheme, we have the new musical director at the helm. I cannot take him seriously either. He is young and fit, and all the chorus girls have the hots for him. All middle-aged- I can see when I look at him is him walking into Gap to choose the next lilac and slate grey outfit for the next rehearsal. As he turns his best side to the in-house photographer who will project his pretty face and proclaim his new position all over the Sunday papers, he speaks to the violins:
“Find 45 for me. That was great. Just come with me for that one. I can hear you are used to someone else.”
You bet we are used to someone else. We are used to being surprised and challenged every night and of never getting ‘used to’ the music; to performances of La Boheme four years ago which tore our hears out every night; to a conductor for whom the last string fortissimo statement was a gut-wrenching scream of protestation against death, and whose incandescent colour as Mimi and Rodolfo first touch lifted us onto another level of sensuality altogether.

It’s going to be a long tour.
Looking forward to up and coming distractions, ruthxxx
ps hello julian???????