Learning words again.  Today, this is driving me absolutely up the wall.  I am irritated beyond belief that the phrase I have been dinning into my brain all morning will not stick properly!

And in case you think I haven't been trying properly, well let me explain what the process has been so far.  This is for a Tchaikovsky opera, in the original language.  I was lucky enough to study Russian back in the day, so I at least have the advantage of being able to read the language, and recognising many words.  I also have a pretty good idea of pronunciation.  However there are many archaic words here which I haven't come across before, and of course singing pronunciation differs slightly from the spoken word.

So the first step was to make sure I understood every word I was to be singing, and those of everyone else in the scenes my character is in.  Laborious work with a dictionary, but essential.  Next was to screw down exactly how each word in my role should be pronounced, with the help of a CD produced especially for us by a Russian coach.  As an accented language, it is tremendously important to understand where the stress is in each word, as the vowels change drastically according to whether they are stressed or not, and how far from the main stress they are.

Next was to have an initial coaching with the Russian coach (with two of the repetiteurs who will be taking the musical rehearsals attending and taking notes).  This sharpened up a few details; a rounder vowel here, a harder consonant there... and unearthed a complete tongue-twister which I hadn't actually noticed was difficult until the coach remarked upon it, after which I tripped over it helplessly and repeatedly (have to laugh at how the mind works, sometimes).  All duly noted down in my score.

And now the grunt work.  I generally choose to work from the end of the score backwards, so that my brain is always moving towards something about which is it surer.  Each sentence, each phrase within a sentence, each repeat, has to be drilled into my brain with a thoroughness that would surprise many people who see singers as fly-by-night non-musicians.  It's not enough just to remember it.  It has to be so well-absorbed as to be automatic.  There are times for every singer on stage when your brain goes totally blank.  You simply have to be able to trust that once you open your mouth, the right words will come out (often leaving you thinking in a slightly amused fashion, ah THAT's what I was trying to remember!).  Knowing the meaning of the words is essential, but this learning must also be the sort of rote repetition that sticks the sounds of the words into a deep place in your brain.  THIS is what I've been doing today.  

Some people are better at this than others.  I'm not bad, I reckon, but I have a tendency to overthink which can mean I worry about whether I will remember the next phrase, generally a self-fulfilling prophecy... so I HAVE to drill every word, every phrase, every cue in with military precision.

Hence spending an entire morning on ONE damned phrase which is a bit of a beast to pronounce and in which two particular consonants (in a previously unfamiliar word) appear desperate to swap themselves around.  

They will NOT get the better of me!  Luckily, in this age of miniaturised bluetooth handsets, someone walking around town appearing to speak to themselves is not regarded as automatically crazy :-)

(The photo is of the single glorious blazing hour when the Rhine suddenly caught fire and dragons swooped through the burning clouds; the only light and colour we've had here all year!)

Now THAT was what you might call satisfying.  Jumping in for my (unfortunately for her, and I DID send her a get-well-soon message!) sick colleague, to sing the role I had been covering for the past six weeks in rehearsal.

DEFINITELY the best thing about tonight was the support and good wishes I got from all sides.  That made me SO glad: not just a hug from every single colleague on the stage, but grins and toi-toi-toi (German version of "break a leg") from everyone I met en route.  Anyone who says the Germans are an unfriendly lot are simply in the wrong place :-)  That made me very happy.

Of course it wasn't a perfect performance.  For a start, I'd never been on the stage myself with orchestra, and it sounds very different back there (especially with modern opera, what you hear in the piano reduction - and calculate pitch from - might well not be audible).  Oddly enough, what I found myself concentrating on most was how to sort out small glitches, not necessarily my fault, just the sort of thing that happens on stage - hmmm, that veil fell in the wrong place, what if I grab it as I kneel before the next phrase, then I can let it fall to the left as I stand up... and rats that bandage failed to make it to its allotted resting place, so if I position my right foot here I can kick it as I step across... that sort of thing.  Which means I had studied the music and the role thoroughly enough to simply allow them to happen.  It's always good to have proof positive that such is the case!

So this was a good end to this phase of my working life (of course it's always possible that I might have another performance in this role; I don't know as yet).  As said before, covering is never going to be "my thing" (and I have absolutely no idea how those who mainly make a living out of it manage to retain their sanity), but I managed to achieve the goal I had set myself, of doing good enough work to earn the respect of the director and conductor, whilst staying quietly in the background until needed.  And that, combined with now being able to list the role officially, since I have now sung it in a public performance, is most gratifying.

___

The photo, in case you're wondering, has absolutely bugger-all to do with the above ramblings.  I just like it because it looks a bit like an eye.  It was taken in a tunnel in the Citadel in Mainz, with artificial lighting in the foreground and snow in the background. 

A short paeon, if I may, to the restorative power of social occasions.  Or alcohol.  Or whatever it was.

I met my Macbeth in the corridor this morning whilst trying to persuade my voice to get going after the *coughcough* few beers it encountered last night at the cast party.  He was in fine (and loud, and intermittently multilungual) fettle when I saw him last; and this a man who very, very seldom drinks, and whose self-control, self-possession and cool precision are legendary amongst our current cast. 

We grinned at each other like loons, and agreed that it was worth every degree of ragged voice to achieve the simple pleasure of waking up happy, relaxed, and looking forward to rehearsals.  To be honest, I have been CONSTANTLY stressed to some degree or other for the past few weeks, and it did no end of good to simply kick back, pour beer down the gullet, and laugh at variously surreal and dirty jokes (these last, I have to admit, I still need help with from time to time.  Luckily there was lots of help on tap last night.) 

Not that we haven't gelled as a group; we are working very well together, I'd say.  But somehow, having a couple too many beers together wrought a real transformation (I suspect that this has to happen at the right time to have any power, so more kudos to our director, who suggested the whole thing.)

All I can say is, I got to sing my mad scene today.  And there will NEVER  be anything to beat the sound of the cast and crew applauding, when you slink back in covered in sweat and with fur coat moulting spectacularly, mind still unsure and on the verge of tears.  The sort of applause you carry with you to the grave.

This is Good!

Rats.  Tried to insert a small audio snippet there.  The host site is not keen.  Sorry!  Will try to get this sorted ASAP.

In the meanwhile, I intend to fully enjoy my Sunday, and wish you all the same!

Katy x x x

Oh yes.  Haha, very funny, theatre gods...

Stepping out onto the stage for my last scene tonight, my beautiful gown snagged on one of the flowers that have throughout the production sprung up to adorn the stage. 

Unfortunately these tulips come not as single spies but in batallions.  Catch on one, and you have forty following you around with a nasty metallic screech.  

One of those eternal moments on stage when time slows and you think calmly, well I'm not going to be able to get to him with all these blasted flowers in tow, and he's already given my cue sentence and is standing there Being Bereft, so my only alternative is to untangle myself, ignoring all the laughter from the public, murmur a few holding sentences, and hope for the best.  

Once the deflowering was successfully achieved,  however, I found it hellishly difficult to keep a straight face.  This is unfortunately the ONLY serious scene I have in the entire evening - any other bit and I could have laughed and thrown out a witty comment.  But nooooo.  Had to be the earnest bit.  All the little muscles around my mouth were writhing and jiggling, desperate to make me giggle.  And a slight inquisitive raising of the tenorial eyebrow on the "private" side nearly did me in for good (anyone who asserts that Germans have no sense of humour has evidently never worked with this guy.  Hilarious in rehearsal, and a constant menace as far as making me corpse goes onstage).

I am proud to say I got through with a suitably serious expression on my (gently wobbling) face, and saved the belly laughter until I could get off stage and join in with the delighted howls from the stage manager and assistant director...

Still.  Keeps us on our toes, which (despite being horribly embarrassing in the moment) is never a bad thing!

PS the poster in the photo was a jewel which I saw when out auditioning somewhere, can't remember quite where.  Italian circus, German audience, "English" tagline... glorious!

It occurs to me that there are very few things in this life more satisfying than having colleages unable to resist the urge to poke their noses around the practice room door to see who's singing :-)

Because I need to prepare properly for any auditions that may come up for next season, I have been nipping into one of the practice rooms every day since my recovery from the operation (well, pretty much every day.  Certainly enough to have the porters grinning and reaching for the practice room keys as soon as they catch sight of me), and practising my audition arias.  Now it has to be said that apart from the Herodias, I haven't really been required to use my full voice when singing here.  So it's hardly surprising that people don't know what I can actually do.

Hence the sneaky peeks around the door.  Best excuse so far was the (lovely) soprano who sent her son "looking for his mother".  The fact that I'd heard her give a lesson for the previous hour was conveniently overlooked...  And the one which pleased me the most was the conductor who opened the door, saw me, grinned widely and said "Haha, should have known!".

Yes of course practising singing has really nothing to do with what other people hear.  But communication is really the thing overall.  And if I am communicating enough to make other musicians unable to resist the temptation to open the door and see who's damn well singing, well, I'm happy with that!

I was going to witter on about something else, but got completely taken aback by my wig for the latest production, and it started me thinking.  It was one of those moments where you see the future, and maybe, just maybe, it won't be too bad to go completely grey.  At the moment, my hair naturally sports a white streak amongst the darkness, and I love it (it suits so many of my roles, too, which is Not a Bad Thing).  However, as an opera singer, one must always be aware of the ageism within the industry (I find this idiotic - surely we are the ONE place where the only thing that matters is what you end up looking like on stage, rather than what age you actually ARE?), and so naturally I have always thought, hmmm, if that white streak decides to start expanding, I'm going to have to think about colouring my hair.

However this wig makes me think again!  And also makes me think, goodness, how LUCKY we are in the performing arts to be able to try on different looks, different ages, different personalities.  We can thereby explore the possibilities of different hairstyles without actually having our hair cut, of different make-up whilst reinforcing what suits our features, and of aspects of our personalities becoming something completely different.

This latter I have been working through via the (I have to admit, still utterly terrifying) scene where I have to interact with the public and improvise in German until rescued by the dialogue starting up again.  We had an open rehearsal last night which included this scene, which meant that I actually had the chance to practise for real.  And it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated!  OK, so I had to untangle myself from a conversation which had accidentally slipped into Russian.  And also greeted a few people who had absolutely nothing to do with the performance, having come for a wedding reception being held in the posh restaurant at the top of the theatre, but all in all, I am thrilled to realise that as an acting exercise, this is working.  Because it isn't really ME who is pouncing on all these unsuspecting members of the public, but my character, the nerves are coming back under control.  And this from someone whose hands, at the first proper run-through, shook so much that the apple juice in her glass leaped out onto the floor... (yes, YES, it should be champagne, I thought I had that in the bloody contract, seems not until actual performances, but at least they've now provided me with proper smoked salmon sandwiches...).

Really - is there a more interesting way to spend one's life? 

Today I had occasion to really appreciate the work of our prompter.  Before coming to Germany I really hadn't worked much with prompters, and so hadn't quite realised how hard they worked, especially in the rehearsal period of a musical.  In opera, we are supported by the music (well, so long as it is through-written, and thank goodness I generally sing that sort), and the roles I've had over here haven't been the massively wordy kinds, so I haven't really ever needed the prompter (oh, except for one slightly panicky moment in Salome one evening, when my mind went blank, I goggled around dry-throated for the prompt box, only to discover that, because it was to one side for staging purposes, I couldn't see the damned thíng from where I was standing...).

I had my own reasons for being thankful, of course - we're in the early staging rehearsals for these scenes, so this is the first time we're out there without scripts.  Naturally a few words get left out, or mispronounced, or (in my case) accidentally bunged in the wrong language or mis-stressed.  The prompter carefully noted where my mistakes were in the first run-through, and even before my facial muscles had had time to tense, the missing or mangled word came through clearly just before I needed it.

The exactness of her timing and the precision of her prompting, though, I had time to appreciate from a dark hole of a storage room in the very depths of the theatre (lots of stage curtains, miscellaneous lumpy, well-wrapped objects and audience-gathering ropes, and who knows what else, since I couldn't see the edges...).  It's where I ended up after an offstage-right exit in this particular scene.  No getting out from there (well, none that I could see or knew about.  Buggered if I was going to explore pitch-black corners!!)  So, as I couldn't very well trot back across the stage without upsetting the others' concentration, I gathered my garish red polyester dressing gown (with original 70s cigarette burn - ahhh, rehearsal dress is such a joy) and lay flat on the floor to listen before my return to the scene.

Without visual clues, therefore, and from a position behind the protagonists, I could hear all the prompts. I was massively impressed.  I knew how much work she put into it - her scores are a riot of colour, with every part marked up differently - but goodness, in full flow, this is amazing.  Prompts were clear and precisely directed, at exactly the right moment.  And they're not always the first word you have to say or sing - this isn't much help if it's another "and" or "so" or something.  Nope, she picks the one which is going to recall the sentence to you.  And apparently her voice is so clear and focused that if you need a prompt on stage, you can hear every word and the audience nothing.

And as a person, impressively scary for someone who comes about up to my chest, and that's if she's standing on tiptoe.  The sight of her coming towards you with a scowl and the score held out in front like a weapon can make the strongest man here quail...  In such moments it really doesn't help to remember that she's a mad Harry Potter aficionado, good company and bakes like a professional.  Abject apology and learning the damn thing perfectly before the next rehearsal is the name of the game.

Still, always good to learn a bit more about what various people who inhabit the underworld of the theatre actually DO!

(Unrelated photo of the day is of the new synagogue here - saw most of its construction whilst living nearby and was fascinated to see it complete whilst on a bike ride last weekend.  Beautiful!)

Today, it is raining. It has been doing so since before dawn and shows no sign of letting up. The sky is uniformly grey and heavy, and even the birds seem mostly to be hiding under leaves rather than singing. I am with the birds on this one. It is not a day for singing.

However, as with any other job, sometimes you just have to get on and do it whether you feel like it or not. One of the awkward things about singing is that it is glaringly obvious when the "performance energy" is missing. This impacts not only on the audience's experience, but also on the other singers on stage. Watching my colleagues, I respect more and more those who can summon up the right amount of energy *whatever* the circumstances. This does NOT mean a perfect vocal performance - sometimes that really isn't possible - but a basic commitment to the piece as theatre. Such commitment is necessary to be a decent soloist.

So today has been an exercise in raising the requisite energy to perform well in tonight's dress rehearsal. Yesterday unfortunately was our last salsa class - a group of us had managed to convince one of the extras, who is a dance teacher, to show us the basics of the dance, and we had four extremely enjoyable hours getting all the steps wrong and stepping on each others' toes in various rehearsal studios before rehearsals - that was a failsafe way of getting in the right mood! I often whizz around on my bike, appreciating the ride, cycling through nature, in order to whip my mind into shape, but today that really isn't an option. It's a take-the-bus-and-buy-a dratted-umbrella-as-soon-as-possible sort of day. Another tried and tested option for me is ashtanga yoga, but at the moment it's not helping my injured shoulder, so that's out.

Getting into a practice room and singing my heart out always works for me, too. Unfortunately my voice feels a bit under the weather - rather hoarse and scratchy (a few colleagues reported the same yesterday; we're all hoping it's just something temporary in the air) - so I have to go carefully there, and yodelling gaily through my entire repertoire is out of the question.

Even so, I have to get there somehow! What helps for me is starting *something* creative. Doesn't have to be any good (as my dreary grey and green pastel streak of misery purporting to depict the riverside today amply demonstrates) - just gets me in the right mood. I finally got around to uploading and working on my latest batch of photos, and ended up thoroughly enjoying reliving the good times when they were taken. The picture above, for example, was taken on my way to work last week...

Add in a bit of stretching, a gentle vocal warm-up and appreciating the costume and make-up as they go on, and we should be there!

Seldom if ever have I actually welcomed a revolting head cold, and my first feelings upon experiencing the familiar acid trickle that heralds the same, a couple of nights ago, were of frustration. I'm in the middle of

rather demanding rehearsals, for goodness' sake, I can't get ill now!

However after today's run-through, in which I acted whilst the conductor sang in my part, I realised that I could learn a lot from this, and indeed that it complemented what has been in effect a self-taught and compact masterclass in the wonders of opera as an art form.

When I first opened the score and started to study this role, I was firstly exhilarated that it used my voice in the way it wants to be set free, and was secondly rather dismayed that the character was so relentlessly forceful and negative. All attempts to vary that, to contrast the anger with vulnerability, were thwarted by close examination of the music itself, which demands a constant level of churning bile. Red and black are the limits of her vocal palette. I learned the role, and leaped into stage rehearsals wondering what would happen.

Immediately, I found that, more than for any character I have ever played, I am using my own current fears and anxieties; that I could allow myself to feel the natural insecurities of every woman of a certain age in our society and use these as the taproot of Herodias's blistering anger. Naked, I could not be more vulnerable; I am forced by the physicality of the stage and by striving for the honest expression of this music (inspired in this respect as always by Philip Langridge, and determined even more after his death to honour his memory by not giving in to the ever-present temptation to cheat!) to show my own weaknesses to the audience. I can't say it's an easy process. I suspect the rawness of such honesty, at least during the rehearsal process, is what has led colleagues to kindly ask in private whether I'm OK, and to worry about me actually falling over on stage, when it was always done for effect...

And then the cold stymied my voice and today I just acted. I found I had the freedom to think about what various bits of my body were doing, and concentrated on the physical tensions between my body and those of the other singers on stage; an interesting experience. However I missed very acutely the energy rush that the act of singing provides, and in doing so realised afresh just how powerful opera can be when the musical and acting aspects complement each other. The sum is infinitely greater than the parts. Add in the visual aspect; the set, the costumes, the lighting; and I have to say I am awestruck by the possibilities of the art form in which I am involved. How lucky I am!

Of course I am only grateful to this cold on the proviso that it clears off completely by Saturday at the latest, and leaves no lasting traces on my vocal cords...

There must be a parallel to be drawn between such musings and my continuing attempts at illumination. However any time I try, the results are worthy of the "Pseuds' Corner" bit in Private Eye, so I've just bunged up top my preliminary line drawing for a congrats-on-the-pregnancy card for my darling sister, and an oddly distorted view of the finished product.

Learning. Always learning.

A tribute to Philip Langridge

I have been devastated this week by the death of the great English tenor Philip Langridge. Words have simply failed me for quite a few days, and whatever I attempt now, I know it will never be quite right.

Philip was first and foremost one of the most honest, generous and genuine men I have ever had the good fortune to know. From the beginning, I trusted his judgement (I first met him many years ago at a masterclass); once he gently pointed out something that a fellow singer could do to improve their performance, it seemed retrospectively obvious. He had an unerring nose for the emotional truth of a performance, and would happily stop you even before you'd sung a note if he suspected (always, ALWAYS rightly!) that you were faking the emotion. Singers are a neurotic breed on the whole, and it takes courage to be this honest. Courage, and in Philip's case the solid knowledge of having put his money where his mouth was. I never saw him or heard him in anything less than a totally committed and inspiringly truthful performance. For those who did not have the pleasure of hearing him live, I would recommend listening to his Aschenbach in Britten's Death in Venice - a consummate recording, searingly honest, and one I know he was pleased with.

I have him to thank for so much of my development as an artist. From the first he supported and recognised the potential, always completely positive but leaving me in absolutely no doubt as to what I needed to do to grow and move forwards. He was one of the only people I have ever met in my artistic journey who could deal with an overthinking and overanalytic singer and do so in such a calm and humorous manner that one let the barriers down and allowed the sheer nakedness of honest performance a chance. It took me many years of tears and frustration and banging my head hard against countless walls, but the day that Philip said to me that he was proud of me for having reacted to the music without "singing", without "acting", without pretence, was one of the most uplifting days of my life.

Philip's performances were pure inspiration, always. A couple of years ago he was singing Loge in the Covent Garden production of Wagner's Ring. I'd bought tickets to the whole cycle, wanting to see both him and my other personal inspiration, the glorious Rosalind Plowright, on stage together. Naturally, being a singer, I couldn't afford an actual seat; I was in the gods (the nosebleed section, but of course curiously appropriate for the Ring cycle...). I had some sort of virus and all I really wanted on the first such night was to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. Well, watching Philip whipping around the stage like a man truly forty years younger, without even pausing to snatch an extra breath, made me ashamed of even thinking of sneaking off to sleep. I took heart from his vitality and revelled in the entire performance (OK, I fell asleep on the tube later, but that wasn't at all his fault!).

His Lieder singing was faultless. No, I suppose; not faultless, technically. But inspirational at the deepest level. He taught by example that the most beautiful voice does not necessarily speak to the spirit if it says nothing honestly; that simplicity and honesty speak straight to the human soul; and that a wicked sense of humour can rescue just about anything! (The latter has been my saviour on several occasions; Philip could always be relied upon, even with his ridiculously full schedule, to reply straight away to anguished messages, often making me laugh out loud. His encouragement and genuine pride in what I'd achieved will be sorely missed, but remembered with a glow for as long as I live.)

The temptation is to be horribly angry with the universe. He had so much more to give; as an artist, as a teacher/mentor, and as a man (he was so happily married, and his children meant the world to him). Eventually however I know I shall be immensely grateful for having known such a truly wonderful man.

Hats Off!!

I was highly amused today to receive an e-mail from my sainted aunt, asking me to please contact a certain person. Said aunt had received, along with quite a lot of my long-suffering family, a handmade hat for Christmas, and, given the freezing weather still menacing much of England, had evidently been wearing her hat around town. She was apparently bearded by a lady wanting me to get in touch - this lady being the buyer for a department store! I can't imagine much will come of it, the logistics being what they are, but I was desperately flattered, nonetheless. (Although knowing what I do about luck, I feel rather sorry for the imaginary aspiring milliner whose dream opportunity I just pinched!)

I append above, just for the heck of it, a somewhat weirder outcome of my hatcraft than the elegant example my aunt is currently modelling. The excrescence on top, although it's hard to make out from this angle, is actually a flight delay made concrete (I was finishing quite a few of my gifts off when we were horribly held up flying from Germany to England for Christmas). Calmly-crocheted weirdness, I have discovered, is a super means of keeping one's place in the queue when travel chaos descends (irresistible nosiness of one's enforced neighbours seems to mean they're less inclined to thump you when things get nasty). I would also like to say that my sister has the weirdest taste in hats in the world: for no-one else would I have dared to crochet a fluorescent pink and yellow flight delay... but good for her! Won't get lost on the ski slopes, say I...

I was also tickled today, when cycling, to be described in awed tones by a child of around eight as, "Mummy!! There's a LADY riding a bike!!" (in German, of course). Made me laugh when the mother grinned and relayed it to me... then of course I looked down and thought, OK maybe most Germans don't scoot to the library wearing floor-length skirts dotted with pearls, good gloves, fur coat and hair loose and curling right down their back. But if it makes someone smile, why not?

And for those wondering how my coaching went after all those margaritas, well I absolutely didn't deserve it but it was wonderful! Such marvellous music! And only one point where the pianist, with whom I'd been chatting about last night's fun in the corridor previously, caught my eye after a huge high note, intended to be held for the drama and then swooping down around a 13th, unintentionally cracked about an octave lower... A superbly-timed lift of the eyebrow and on we went - who says the Germans don't have a sense of humour?

Di...str...ac...tion....

As an opera singer, you pretty much learn to deal with whatever happens around you on stage, pretending that all is calm and clear in, say, your tender love duet, whilst carpenters hammer their thumbs and swear under their breath, the set wobbles when you lean on it and the tenor is treading rather heavily on your toes. Part of the business.

However, for the record, I would like to say (despite this situation being rather unlikely to to happen often, especially in this particular opera) that it is nigh on impossible to maintain a solemn and dignified mien when your first sight, upon turning to face the audience, is a well-muscled young man wearing stilettos and a red leather miniskirt slowly descending a ladder, and when your immediate thought upon seeing him is, goodness, I don't believe he's wearing any knickers...

You have been warned! Should this ever happen to you, you now have no excuse for any, erm, cracks in your composure...

Another performance tonight. I am wandering around the flat, in a scenario instantly recognisable to all singers at this time of year, clearing my throat in a gently worried sort of manner, wondering whether the slight soreness and phlegm (apologies to anyone who is of a delicate disposition, but you should hear what we discuss amongst ourselves!) will affect the voice to any extent during the performance, and trying to reassure myself, in between bouts of humming, that any rasp is unnoticeable. I think my yoga practice today will be moderate, aiming to relax the body and mind and wake up the support muscles, without anything too taxing. You seldom bounce onto the stage with the voice and everything else in perfect gleaming working order, anyway, and often (paradoxically) you often find you sing better through a bit of a cold. We'll see.

The performances are settling down into more of a "job" now. Turn up, get into costume, chat with the make-up ladies, sing, read Asterix (peculiarly appropriate for operetta, I find), sing, complain briefly with colleagues about how long the can-can lasts during the curtain call, then cycle home in the rain. The excitement and adrenalin generated by the first night doesn't last, and it means you have to find your own ways of keeping up the energy during performances. The second outing is notoriously hard in this respect, but I managed to keep my energy levels up by the simple expedient of accidentally inhaling one of my fluorescent pink marabou feathers during the first phrase of my aria. Keeping a smooth legato line flowing whilst attempting not to gag on the feather quite literally tickling one's tonsils certainly hones the concentration! I suspect I was as pink as my outfit when I snatched my gin bottle off the unsuspecting tenor and gulped desperately - luckily it's all perfectly within character!

I haven't had much time to mess around with the horses' heads I so rashly promised the theatre in Frankfurt, but the deadline for delivery is looming so I've been fiddling around with them today. The picture shows them with chicken-wire armature complete, manes knotted in and enough layers of papier mâché to hopefully survive a couple of performances intact. Before anyone says anything, I am morosely aware that they currently resemble nothing so much as pigs having their highlights done at the hairdressers; however I am hoping that a few licks of paint will sort it out to some extent. Fingers crossed!

Well, the hat at least materialised!

Vaguely head-shaped (always a Good Thing in hats, I find), and it will definitely keep off the rain. Some ruffles appear to have made it in there, too which is very reassuring (when I started I think I had quite a severe pattern in mind - good thing my fingers know better!).

Slightly less progress on the horses'-heads front. Firstly, it took a good deal of ingenuity to track down chicken wire. The first three DIY/building materials superstores I tried didn't have any. A friend who's lived here a lot longer than me suggested that there was probably a shop somewhere selling chicken wire alone, but I persevered (this meant a half-hour cycle ride to the Baumarkt furthest out of town) and was eventually rewarded by finding a small selection of large rolls of chicken wire.

This of course prompted my speech, well polished in English but possibly slightly shaky in German, about how ridiculous it is that EU rules do not allow the shop to cut your chicken wire into lengths for you. So, large men in leather aprons and wearing leather gloves, with access to specialist cutting equipment, are no longer allowed to cut you off say three metres of wire; you have to buy enough to fence a small garden, then wrestle with it yourself, invariably ending up looking like something out of a horror film (well, I do anyway). The effect of this speech, to the young man who'd shown me where to find the wire, was quite disconcerting, though - he started blushing furiously when I got to "leather" and I ended up in uncontrollable giggles... Oh well. With some difficulty, I hauled my prey home, and am looking forward to seeing how the heads will turn out!