Argh.  Could there possibly be anything more irritating, in this land of order and regularity, than the ungrounded late-night bus timetable wibble?  All day, every day, the bus leaves that particular stop at seven minutes past the hour.  Sometimes there is another bus in between; during peak hours, maybe even two.  However, regularly at seven minutes past the hour, comes the bus.  My brain is pretty good at patterns, and that one had sunk in.  So after a première (good) and the party thereafter (managed to resist dancing competitions with the dancers, which is A Good Thing, and even held back from too much madness on the dance floor as I had forgotten to bring alternative (flatter; premières mean networking, which means showing  the best ankle you can... dancing in suitable première shoes can be quite literally crippling) shoes), I sauntered down to the bus stop (I normally cycle everywhere, but knew I'd have a couple of glasses of wine this evening so opted for public transport). Arrived smugly at three minutes past midnight.

Only to spot the blasted bus pulling away from the stop.

Closer inspection showed that - for absolutely NO reason that I can see - the bus just past midnight leaves at two minutes past the hour.  And the next one, at fifteen minutes past one.  Much gnashing of teeth!! I can see NO reason for these irregularities apart from sheer joy at disrupting passengers' journeys.  

I walked. Warmer evenings mean the scent of acacia blossom still hangs in the air, and with such an accompaniment, even stomping home annoyed in high stilettos is a pleasure - but still - irritating!

Apologies for recent lack of communication.  Things have pretty much wound down for the summer on the opera scene here in Europe, but I was busy using the last weeks to keep the momentum going.  Well, that and (certainly in the past week) visiting other countries, figuratively or literally!

The figurative comes from celebrating Independence Day on the U.S. Army Base at Wiesbaden.  It's just up the road from me and I'd never visited before... but goodness, it really is America in miniature.  Bowling alley, hotdogs, ribs... but most of all, Americans in all directions, and all celebrating 4th July with gusto.  And with such *pride* in being American, not to mention good humour (I apologised for being British a few times and always raised a laugh).  The fireworks were splendid, too (even though an officious soldier kept on moving us back and back until we ended up sitting rather inelegantly on the tarmac road.  Whatever.) - the photo is of a firework on slightly longer exposure, which I posted as part of an album on Facebook, and a friend commented astutely that it looked like music.  I have been contemplating it ever since and trying to hear that particular symphony (Scriabin and his synaesthesia come to mind...).

The literal was hopping over to France for a camping trip with friends this last weekend.  Now camping is probably not the first thing that comes to mind when most people meet me, and certainly my friends were a little amused when I set to erecting the tent with gusto, dressed as always in lace, embroidery and sparkly stuff.  As I explained, my father would never have forgiven me for not knowing one end of a mallet from the other.  I ended up with sore hands (pride meaning that as long as someone else was toiling to hammer in tent pegs through what felt like solid rock, I was not going to give up.  (At one point, a group of Dutch blokes walked past as I whacked a particularly recalcitrant peg and the rubber mallet head flew off.  They were highly amused and let out a stream of ribald comments.  Minutes later, I asked my friend what I should do next.  "Oh, you could do the guys on the other side of the tent please," was his answer.  "Not really my type, but they certainly seemed keen," was mine...) (guys = guy ropes, hammered into the ground with previously-mentioned tent pegs in order to prevent the tent sailing off into the night when the inevitable gale arises, for those who don't get the joke...).

It was such a pleasure to speak French for a weekend, even if I was three times mistaken for Belgian.  I suspect that being taken for German last time made me think about my consonant sounds, particularly the "r", and modify them... but not quite enough.  I am certain, though, that *should* some work in France come off, my French would make a dramatic reappearance.  Fingers crossed.  And should some work in Germany come off, well I'd be pleased too; and of course I continue to try and improve my German.  In both cases, rain, or rather summer (indistinguishable at this point; rather like the English weather has followed me, damn it) has suspended play and I shall have to wait until the start of next season to hear anything concrete.

So... a few weeks of being unable to really chase anyone up career-wise.  Pleasepleaseplease let there be sun!!  When it shines here, it is absolutely perfect, and there's the most wonderful open-air swimming pool just down the road.  Meanwhile, of course, there is practice to be done most days.  Just because there are no auditions planned for the next few weeks doesn't mean that I can let the standards drop.  My job at the moment is to keep my audition repertoire fresh, learn thew new stuff thoroughly, and not get downhearted because there isn't as much work around as I would wish.  And the occasional trip to a foreign country, whether real or imagined, certainly helps in that respect.

Last Saturday night the season turned unmistakeably to autumn.  (This was a bit annoying, actually, as I had met a friend and was wandering around the wine festival in town, and my lack of jacket meant that suddenly, the idea of sitting around until late in the evening testing one wine against another rather lost its appeal.)  Anyway, I decided to use the new crispness in the air to look towards the future, rather than mourning the non-summer and the past.  From now on, I am a freelance singer who happens to be based in Germany, and whatever auditions come along, I shall be more than ready for them.  I have been doggedly going to practise in the theatre most days to that end - all sanctioned by the new management there, so there's no need to feel awkward (although I have to admit that I did at first, seeing as how I was employed there for two years, and now am no longer.  This was one of those things where you just have to take a deep breath and do it.  Without such practice facilities, I'd have to heave my life up and reinvent myself yet again, as I can't really sing in my tiny flat.)

So, readiness to audition - tick.  Availability of auditions.... ah, well that's another story.  I sang for several agents last season and they all said they'd think of me whenever anything for my voice type came in.  Then, erm, nothing did.  The general advice over here seems to be, ring them often so you're in their minds.  I did - and every time got the same response - sorry, there are very, very few opportunities around, and nothing for your voice type.  Financial crisis is definitely hitting theatres.

So it's not the most wonderful vista out there, but I'll do what I can to expand what opportunities there are.  I have rung all my agents at least once (provoking some irritation in at least one case, as not all the theatres are yet back after their summer break), and am in the process of contacting new ones (more the merrier, provided I can afford to travel to audition for them).

And finally, it's important to me to keep the artistic flame burning, as it were.  I have practised my handful of audition arias until they are deep in my bones, and shan't cease to refresh them now and again, but if that's all I have to think about, they will quickly go stale.  So I have chosen two roles for which I would cheerfully rip off an arm to have the opportunity to sing (Azucena in Il trovatore and Klytämnestra in Elektra, since you ask) and am learning those thoroughly.  Not to mention preparing an eclectic range of song literature which I have fallen in love with over the years but not really had time to explore.  Artistically I shall not be bored.

Nor, if I can help it, shall I let myself just sit around at home and mope between practice sessions and badgering agents.  My current project is making a dress.  Regular readers will not be totally surprised to discover that I am doing so totally without patterns and on a whim, with only the vaguest idea of what's meant to happen in dressmaking, having occasionally watched my mother sew as a child, and never made anything myself.  Should be interesting to see what happens!

So - new season, new start, fingers crossed!!

100 not out!!!

Good lord. According to the counter on this thing, this is my centenary post. Extraordinary. Who'd have thought I had so much to say? And with so little substance or logic?

Anyway, it's quite timely, as another season is beginning here at the opera house, and that means I am now beginning my second year of the Fest contract. An interesting time for me to reflect upon the past year and what I've learned along the way.

First, however, a quote which seems appropriate. Kierkegaard.

                  "To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself."

Too damned right. Much of what I've done in the last year has involved screwing my courage to the sticking place, gulping and just going for it. I have been terrified more times than I can count, and in more ways than you probably imagine (I'm quite practised at covering up my fear in public!). But every time I overcome one of those nasty little moments, I feel a little triumph, and my goodness I have been surfing on quite a steep learning curve... Various disjointed observations follow!

• I'm in the right place for me at the moment. I LOVE performing, even in a small role or a role not particularly suited to my voice. Walking out on that stage is a never-ending thrill, and I am immensely grateful to have the opportunity to live out the dream I've been chasing for so long.

• You CAN buy lamb in Germany if you try hard enough. Turkish supermarkets are your best bet.  (My GOD I wish I'd known this when I first arrived!)

• Germany is great in lots of unexpected ways. Welcoming and Mediterranean climate, for one thing, and wonderful sense of humour (seriously! I have never laughed as much in rehearsals as I have here). Although I have to admit that most things were "unexpected", because I had frankly no idea of what life would be like here! My mind was a complete blank when it came to preconceptions of "German life". I really don't know why; I happily hold weird and unfounded notions of life in other cultures.

• Ibuprofen gel really does work upon aching shoulder muscles. Absolutely no idea why my entire (medical) family automatically assumed it wouldn't, but there you go.

• It IS possible to beat the cashier at the supermarket (i.e. stick all your purchases in your bag before they fall off the end of the counter because they're being whizzed through at such a rate); however this takes cunning, legerdemain and above all practice. But ohhhh, the joy, the JOY of outwitting them!

• The health insurance system here WORKS! No disrespect meant to all those I know who work so hard in the poor old NHS, but having gone somewhat through the wringer healthwise, I am tremendously grateful for the efficiency over here.

• It is technically possible to file all one's paperwork without actually reading any of it. This is however inadvisable.

• Contrary to all my snobbish oenophile expectations, German red wine can be glorious. SPÄTBURGUNDER!!! Hooray. However I still get in arguments with waiters in bars about what they reckon are dry whites and I judge to be medium sweet at best...

• Amazing how you can whittle down what you actually need when it comes to living space and furniture. I will however go on record as being rather pleased that I now have a bed. And that guests no longer have to sit on the floor.

• Having friends who are happy to visit you even if they have to sit on the floor is a complete sanity-saver and an immense blessing!

• They say you get used to anything, and it is indeed true, but ohhhh, the longing for properly-salted butter never really goes away...

• The German language, whilst strenuously resisting easy conquest, can be wrestled to the floor and sat on within a year if you really try. I'm not what I would call fluent yet, but I'm happy to natter away to anyone auf Deutsch and even understand most (most) of what they say to me...

• When faced with a pack of suicidal rabbits whilst cycling along a river path late at night, it is probably advisable not to have been indulging in Spätburgunder by the very large glass. Falling off so slowly is embarrassing and makes the rabbits stare.

• If you like your curries hotter than "a chili was once waved over this (probably)", tell the chef in the Thai restaurant in no uncertain terms that you are not German.

• Voices CAN be reworked from scratch and polished into something even better. Yep, even those whose throats have unexpectedly been cut. Not saying it happens without quite a bit of blood, sweat and tears, but it's amazing where perseverence and a stubborn refusal to give up can get you.  (Some of the blood, incidentally, I found I had fished back from the hospital in one of those intravenous tubes, and stored in the fridge; something to do, as I remember, with a desire to make a "statement" necklace.  Good drugs, those were.)

So there we are.  I never thought I had it in me to write such nonsense, or indeed, having written it, to foist it upon an unsuspecting public.  To those who've been following this, apologies for the flightiness and thanks so much for sticking with me for the ride.  It's ridiculously therapeutic translating one's experiences into fodder fit to publish, and I hope you had a few giggles along the way.  I have every intention of continuing to bore you for the foreseeable future at least; the eagle-eyed may have noticed that I changed the name of the blog, however.  This should make bugger-all difference on a practical level (I hope!) but I have now come to the point where I no longer feel so "abroad". 

Dear god.  One hundred posts.  BOTTOMS UP!!!

PS the photo is of the windows in one of the glasshouses in the Palmengarten in Frankfurt, taken a couple of weeks ago when watching (to be honest, nearly missing, the place was such a photographer's delight) a friend starring in an opera put on there.  Something about the idea of reflections and thorns rather appealed!

The curse of the Fest contract...

I knew it would get me eventually! I've been extremely lucky so far in having had plenty of time to mentally switch from one role to another, and, compared to many of my colleagues, have had a darned sight fewer foreign words to keep safely penned within my brain. This last week, however, we had the last performance of the Offenbach, rehearsals for the forthcoming Smetana, a talk (on the day of my performance; I did get an apology and thanks for that) about a complicated new opera, and a Salome performance. The fine detail of my Strauss unfortunately fell prey to the occasional memory lapse, exacerbated by the fact that my best friend had made the trek from London to see the show, and I naturally wanted her to see a perfect performance (they don't exist; doesn't stop every singer I know yearning for them).

Words disappearing from one's brain just before one is meant to sing them is of course a recurrent nightmare for performers. It occurs to me that I'm at just the wrong stage of learning German; were I fluent, I'd be able to make some sort of sense come what may. And were I LESS fluent, well, the words I have learned would be the only alternative, and the only thing to do in such circumstances is take a deep breath and think "Hmm, interesting, wonder what's going to come out now? Goodness, those were the words!!" (This works better than you might think. You have to get the right balance of trust and benign amusement, however.)

The problem here was that I knew the gist of what I needed to say, but unfortunately several alternatives presented themselves to my brain just before singing, and I couldn't decide which one was right. It's utterly amazing how much rubbishy thinking one can get through between one breath and the next! These were short, everyday sentences, for which I now have several options, and frankly I have no idea what actually came out or whether it made sense... Luckily I managed to rein in the panic and just kept on acting my way through, and the big set pieces worked beautifully.

It's not as if I hadn't studied the role thoroughly in preparation; I'd also gone over it with concentration several times in the run-up - as ever, the difficult bits are where I thrive, and the easy stuff, well I reckon I just took my foot off the pedal mentally. Ah well, lesson learned for next time... and there will be another occasion, especially considering the amount of time we have between performances - it's four weeks to the next (and last) Salome!

It probably didn't help, either, that I moved house (flat) (oops, apartment for the Americans) in the same week! Careful planning, that... I am thoroughly indebted to various friends for their invaluable help, and as ever rather determined not to move again for a good long while. I have a beautiful view of the Rhine from the huge picture window with balcony that stretches across my whole flat, and rather think I shall be happy here. Certainly the peace and quiet is wonderful, and the Rollläden (roller blinds which shut the light out completely) are a godsend in terms of getting a decent night's sleep. They did however lead to a completely surreal experience when my friend was here; my phone flashed up a message, which woke me up, and I thought, oops, better get that flashing light out of here. I stuffed the offending article in the kitchen then tried to make my way back to bed - only to realise after a few steps that I really couldn't see a thing, and indeed was completely surrounded by directionless and dizzyingly strange lightless space. It took me an eternity to find my way, terrified of stepping on a sleeping limb or crashing full length into a cupboard or wall... such spatial knowledge comes with time, of course, but having spent nearly all year with the residual light from a street lamp permeating my living space, it felt momentarily exceedingly odd!

Greetings from a Germany which has decided in the space of two days to switch from sullen overcast spring to hot and glorious summer!

One of the most energising things about being an expat (although I do realise, obviously, that this view may well change over the years) is that friends and family who visit are naturally in holiday mood. So, whatever the weather, you really have to make the most of things (I don't know about you, but I would find it extremely hard to admit that I'd ended up in the lowest trough of the universe with nowhere else to go but cabbage fields or whatever...).

This was brought home to me by my auntie's visit last week. The weather for May was, to put it mildly, absolutely appalling. The sort of weather where, left to your own devices, you head back to bed and hide under the duvet until things sort themselves out a bit better. HORRIBLE!

However, café life, as usually lived in this city, was definitely not a goer unless you really fancied being laid low by pneumonia. We'd visited quite a few museums, but the one that interested us most was closed for restoration. We therefore decided to visit the spa in Wiesbaden.

Well, OK, I decided. Hadn't been there before, and it looked fabulous. Beautifully restored, originally Roman (Irish-Roman, said the translated leaflet; Celtic, perhaps, thought I, but for once decided not to quibble). I'd fancied visiting for a while, but not on my own.

It was indeed wonderful. Full points to my auntie for blenching only slightly when informed of the compulsory public nudity (on health grounds). And I thank her from the bottom of my heart for the glorious sight of her face when dared to lower herself into the freezing plunge pool... Given a little warning, I managed to compose my features into something approaching pleasure when doing the same, which was probably not fair, but rather amused me...

There are good grounds for trying to do this whether you're an expat or not (for those interested in the philosophical underpinning, Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel is a great read), but I think it's easier to do if you're on strange ground to begin with. I am very grateful for this opportunity!

Time to move?

I've been looking at possible new flats for a while now. Whilst my current accommodation is lovely, its situation is a little unfortunate as it's right next to a park (bear with me, I know this is usually a Good Thing), which has benches just perfect for drunken parties, come the warmer evenings (some until 5.30 a.m., some with occasional harmonica accompaniment, many with singing - or it could be scuffling, it's difficult to tell). Come summer, we have a LOT of warm evenings here, and as the gatherings are pretty much underneath my bedroom window, I can't sleep properly. Now, I try not to get precious about my voice, but there are two basic things that singers need, and those are hydration and sleep.

So I was glad on Friday evening when the place provided me with yet another good reason to move. It's the doorbell, you see. Or rather lack of one - it stopped working during the ice storms before Christmas, and has never been fixed. I've asked the Hausmeister and his wife about it many times (it means that anything that comes by courier is sent back undelivered, which is annoying), but was presented with a series of excuses, starting with the cold weather and mutating recently into the entire system needing to be overhauled and they are looking into it...

I'd invited a couple of friends over for dinner on Friday. They hadn't met before, but I was hoping that a shared nationality would mean they got on. First friend arrived - as instructed, she rang when she was outside the door, and I buzzed her in. I fixed her a G&T (gin and tonic, for non-English types) and we went to guzzle our drinks, with a little background music and a few jokes. Eventually I thought, hmm, maybe I should ring my other friend, to see where she'd got to. I looked around. Drat, must have left the phone in the kitchen when I fixed our drinks. I retrieved the phone, saw a few missed-call notifications, and pressed "call". Only to be greeted by my poor friend in a slightly hysterical state. She'd managed to arrive on time - it must have been only a few minutes after my first guest - but her calls had gone unanswered (my fault - combination of background music, leaving the phone in the kitchen, having unwittingly turned the phone volume down, and (I must admit) assuming she was going to be late). However, evidently I'd not managed to replace the intercom phone thingy when I'd buzzed the external door open, because apparently, our voices upstairs were being relayed, albeit slightly muffled, to the outside world via the intercom system. The poor sod had been standing shivering outside in the cold, clutching her very nice bottle of Spätburgunder (did I mention I now have a passion for this grape?) and listening to us giggle and fail to answer the phone...

All I can say is, thank GOODNESS for friends with a sense of humour!!! As it happened, we had an absolutely glorious evening; once my original abject grovelling had been dealt with, I seldom recall so much laughter in one night. Wonderful! However, on my list of requirements for a new flat, along with peace and a bathtub, is now the need for a working doorbell.

Storm clouds

I love what I'm doing. I am eternally grateful for the chance to perform to the best of my abilities and to create something meaningful as part of a team. And sometimes, I wish I could just walk away, but I am restrained by conscience and by responsibility and if I'm really honest with myself, by the wish to bring this role to fruition. I am utterly torn, as my father is currently in hospital, having apparently somehow managed to explode a kidney; as a daughter, I feel I should drop everything and fly back; as an artist, I am tempted to throw these terrifying fears into the mix with the rest of the negative energies I am exorcising with this role, and see what happens.

I am so lucky to have parents who have taken the decision out of my hands by forbidding me to fly over before the première, and feel even luckier that such a flight is not currently necessary.

To those considering following in footsteps similar to my own, I offer the following thought: not every Mephistopholean bargain is absolute. One can sell one's soul in incremental, measured-out packages. It may well be worth it; but it certainly needs to be weighed up carefully.

Life Lessons from the past few weeks

• Crochet is really tricky if you attempt it immediately after applying body oil.

• Juggling does not get any easier if you fail to take the balls out of their tube from time to time.

• It is inadvisable to succumb to a rush of enthusiasm for juggling if you've just returned from a première, full of bubbly.

• I need to hoover (vacuum) under the bed.

• Improving my German is doing weird things to my French. When nattering away in the latter, I now find that while the words come fairly easily, they are curving themselves automatically into German phrase and sentence constructions. The result is an occasional frustrating brain-crash, and a pianist wondering slightly bemusedly whether I was German...

• A short holiday with friends in a chaotic family house overflowing with children, animals, noise and hospitality definitely counts as a change that's as good as a rest.

• But goodness, my flat is nice and quiet!

• It is possible to cycle slowly and infinitely carefully through the icy hard-packed snow and not come to grief (although double-layered gloves are a must otherwise your fingers freeze).

• It is also possible to skid and crash spectacularly on the grit that's left over once the snow has thawed. Nice serious Germans picking you up, however, may fail to appreciate the irony and therefore why you're laughing like a hyaena. Good thing I have no reputation to lose!

On the road to recovery (I blasted well HOPE)

If you're going to be ill over here for more than three days, you need to provide some sort of bit of paper from the doctors to your place of employment. So first thing on Monday morning, I dutifully trotted down the road to a general practice I'd spied before and thought, aha, useful, a doctor within five minutes' walk. I signed up (nothing easier; they scanned my insurance card and relieved me of €10, which is, it would appear, the quarterly mandatory fee) and settled down to wait.

I was thunderstruck by the general level of politeness in the waiting room... I'm used to the English way of doing things - sneak in, cast a lightning-quick eye around the room to judge the least sticky-looking chair furthest away from the snotty wailing children and the obligatory gently-rocking weirdo, then dive into position, wondering what everyone else is in for but spending a lot of energy avoiding catching anyone's eye. Here there was a cheery round of hellos as each new patient entered the room and hung their coat up, and equally polite goodbyes when anyone left. Goodness, it almost felt like being in the doctor's surgery on a Monday morning was a respectable place to be!

Once I finally saw the doctor (I sat for two hours, grateful to have brought a nice fat book, and thinking, well good thing I'm not desperately ill any more!), he diagnosed acute viral bronchitis within seconds, forbade me to sing whilst any vestige of it remained (not that I would anyway, as I said to him - I'm a singer!) and signed me off work for a week. I'm actually quite proud of getting through the whole thing in German; it never even occurred to me to look for an English-speaking doctor. Not to mention, I understood that the bits of paper he gave me should go to the theatre as my place of work and to my insurance company; and THEN I even managed to ring the insurance company and ask for an address to send said bit of paper to...

Of course I had to ask whether I was infectious - and unfortunately the answer is yes, until I finally stop coughing. This is the point at which it occurs that everyone I know here is either a singer or works closely with singers - I am effectively in quarantine from my entire social life! Roll on recovery....

To every thing there is a season...

Never has this been more obvious, nor indeed more regulated, than here in Germany. After a coaching this morning, I looked out of the window to the lowering grey sky, and remarked to my repétiteur how depressing the weather was, becoming distinctly colder and wetter every day. True, he replied; then a grin spread slowly over his face. But what a perfect time to drink Glühwein, he said.

Not at all coincidentally, the Weinachtsmarkt (Christmas market) opened here yesterday evening. A mug of Glühwein (hot spiced wine) is clutched in the hand of pretty much every adult visitor to the market. There is not a glass of Federweisser to be seen. I'm not complaining, mind; what could be nicer than sipping Glühwein and inevitably burning your mouth on roast chestnuts, at this time of year? However it's very noticeable that Things Are Done at the Proper Times, over here. The flower stalls in the market at the moment, for example, are overflowing with Advent decorations for the table consisting of evergreen wreaths planted with four sturdy candles, one to be lit each Sunday in Advent, and optional bits of kitch decoration covered in glitter. I have absolutely nothing against these; but a few weeks ago, the In Thing, decoration-wise, was an assortment of oddly-shaped and colourful squash - these are now NOWHERE to be found. The squash, in their turn, completely ousted the previously ubiquitous sunflowers. It reminds me of the sudden fall-off in attendance at the outdoor pool after summer. Evidently the Rules are out there somewhere, I have simply yet to find and translate them! (Incidentally, it feels rather daring to put a picture of my completely unseasonal squash on here - rather like crossing the road before the Green Man shows up. Having lived in anarchic London for so many years, the sight of young, not-entirely-sober people waiting patiently at pedestrian crossings at 2.30 a.m., with not a vehicle in sight, is strange in the extreme!)

Those who have an interest in the language-learning aspect might be interested to note that today I turned on the television whilst absorbed in something else, and only gradually noticed that I understood the gist of pretty much everything that was said without diving desperately for the dictionary. I have of course a long way to go, but four months after moving over here I have reached a basic level of competence that is somewhat reassuring. Absolutely bugger-all use in practice, of course, in a city where the accent is impenetrable, and in rehearsals where even I can recognise that the director has a terribly strong accent, but uplifting nonetheless!

I love this place!

I have never in my life seen such a fabulous rehearsal dress as the one I got given to wear today! Transparently the costume department could find nothing worse along those lines in my body shape; it is the most stunning hot pink satin fishtail dress (à la Jessica Rabbit), just skimming the floor and with a plunging décolletage that appeared to inspire the director to hilarious flights of fancy. It could have been made for me to wear to a ball (it felt vaguely blasphemous, actually, to be fainting around a rehearsal stage in it...). What fun! I do hope they don't find something worse (i.e. more suitable to actually rehearse in) and confiscate it. They will have to work bloody hard to make the actual costume any better!

I got a little light-headed because I found the rehearsal so funny (OK, yes, I admit it; not helped by enquiring of the costume assistant whether I had to take off my slip before changing into this dress. From her aghast expression, I very quickly gathered that "slip" in German probably means the same as "slip" in French - knickers, rather than an actual blasted slip, as intended... I apologised, but imagine my reputation is forever sealed). I suspect I shall have trouble mastering myself during my friend's first words to me - she's meant to be remarking on my sour expression, however every time I looked at her I was overtaken by giggles. Good thing there's a long rehearsal period...

It now feels like the building I'm living in is polarising around me. On the anti side, we have tired-looking youth below, and hermaphrodite to the left. On the pro, luckily, the building superintendant and his wife, and a lovely couple on the first floor (I got a card from the postman saying he'd left a package with them, and when I knocked and asked for it, they were so charming, saying we had to have coffee, they loved my voice, and would I please accept this gift of a book from his publishing company about the "underworld" of the city - i.e. the cellars etc; he said that the theatre had the deepest point in the city, and of course that was of interest, as I was heading off directly to my rehearsal in that very place). Ah well, I've always said I would prefer to be either loved or hated, rather than simply tolerated, in terms of my voice; this is simply such preferences made concrete and quotidian. Interesting thought.

There can't be that many jobs out there where you get to see a colleague walk to the corner of the room, take a deep breath, and smash herself over the head with a wine bottle! Priceless. It was of course sugar glass, and part of the preparation for a particularly lively bit of slapstick in the operetta we're rehearsing, but still... unforgettable!

I'm also feeling fairly smug because I caught the Hausmeister on his way down to post the list for the laundry room in the basement, and therefore finally managed to bag a couple of days for my washing. (I hasten to add that I have actually been doing my washing, just taking it to the launderette rather than the basement.) The way this interesting arrangement works in theory is: the list is put up "towards the end of the month"; you sign up not more than three times (although the Hausmeister and his wife each appear to have bagged at least four days on the extant lists); and the key is dropped in your postbox by eight in the morning on the day you've signed up for. Because I moved in here right at the beginning of August, I had no chance to use the laundry room for that month; and the September list actually went up around 23 August and was full by the time I saw it... so I consider this a small triumph. (Sad, I know, but I can't help it!).