On the last few days of our holiday, Nathan and I began to get the very strong impression that we were simultaneously coming down with colds. First the sore throats. Then the aching. Today, we both woke up feeling distinctly baritonal, which was slightly worse for Nathan because he had to go to Hampshire to sing opera at someone's wedding. I became rather fascinated by my own singing voice, and lay in bed this morning for some minutes, experimenting with my new bottom G. That'll be the G three ledger lines lower than the bass clef: The G a fourth below the lowest string of a cello! If it sticks around I could make a career for myself as a basso profundo, although I'd possibly have to feign Russian roots.
It's always good to look on the bright side, and God knows that nothing else was functioning well today. I sat on the sofa, feeling slightly sorry for myself, watching the Commonwealth Games whilst making alterations to the cornet parts in Brass and sending out invitations to people whom I thought should know all about it.
It was only when a keen-eyed Jeremy Walker picked me up on one of my emails that I realised I was writing absolute nonsense! Fortunately none I'd sent elsewhere were as peculiar as the one he'd seen, but I did manage to send out a round robin to Sara Kestelman, the director of the show, telling her all about it, to which she responded "I think I've heard about this one..."
Still, watching the Commonwealth Games was great fun. It's brilliant to imagine they're the Olympics and that England is doing really well in sport for a change. I got quite moved today when one of the Scottish gymnasts won gold in front of a home crowd. The entire arena joined in with singing The Rose of Scotland, and it was all rather lovely until the gymnast opened his mouth and spoke with an English accent... He was the second "Scottish" athlete with an English accent I'd heard interviewed that day. I'm afraid to say that the Welsh cyclist they then interviewed also sounded suspiciously "Home Counties", which rather makes a mockery of national pride.
It was, however, rather fabulous to hear Jerusalem being played by a brass band when the English people won gold. Now that's what I call a TUNE!