The Awakening

The Awakening

Things that go bump in the night…

 

Last Friday night I was awoken from my slumber by the sound of tapping on glass.

 

I could see a light moving backwards and forwards across the bedroom curtain.

 

I checked the time: 2.30 in the morning.

 

I peered through the curtain and realised that there was someone at the rear of my neighbours’ house, someone with a torch.

 

My heart was racing. I got dressed and went to a room where I could, if I stood on a chair, see what was going on at the back of my neighbours’ house.

 

With trembling legs, I breathlessly raised myself up onto the chair.

 

I saw a figure, his face dimly illuminated by his mobile phone.

 

In the still of the night I could hear the sound of the phone ringing inside my neighbours’ house.

 

I returned to the bedroom to analyse the situation.

 

I wondered whether an intruder would behave like this. (He was still outside the house so he wasn’t really an intruder; more of an extruder.)

 

It seemed reasonable to conclude that he was trying to attract the attention of my neighbours and that he was known to them as he knew their telephone number.

 

It seemed most likely therefore that he was my neighbours’ grown-up son who occasionally stays overnight.

 

I began to feel a little calmer.

 

But why aren’t my neighbours responding to this impressively rousing behaviour?

 

Why are they ignoring the ringing phone, the flashing light and the tapping?

 

Maybe they’re away for the night.

 

Then there was more tapping. Tap tap TAP TAP TAP.

 

It was now 3.00am. He wasn’t going away.

 

I would have to speak to him.

 

I opened the bedroom window.

 

“Alex?” I said.

 

There was no response; an eerie quietness.

 

“Alex, is that you?” I continued in a louder voice.

 

There was a pause and then a feeble “yes.”

 

“Are you alright?” I enquired.

 

“They won’t let me in!” He wailed.

 

“Maybe they’re away Alex” I proffered.

 

“They are in. I can hear them snoring.”

 

“Oh right” I replied.

 

“I’ve tried phoning them and tapping on the window.”

 

“Yes, I heard you.”

 

“Oh” he said “I apologise. I wanted to wake them up, not you. I’m sorry.”

 

“That’s ok” I said.

 

“I just don’t know how to wake them up.” He said in a pitiful voice.

 

Then came a booming voice from next door “I’m awake now!” and the patio door slid open.

 

“Oh here he is,” said Alex “I really apologise for waking you up. Sorry.”

 

“Oh that’s good. Don’t worry, goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight - sorry.” His voice trailed away.

 

On Saturday afternoon I was in the garden and my neighbour sheepishly appeared over the garden fence. “This is from Alex.” He said, handing me a rather nice bottle of wine. “He feels really bad about disturbing you last night.”

 

“Ah. Really it’s fine. Thank you but there was really no need for him to do this.” I said, clutching the bottle tightly.

 

It’s important to accept a sincere apology with good grace, especially if it’s a good vintage.

The Tea Party

The Tea Party

When performing for the public, it is important to stay focussed...

Last Saturday was our first public engagement as a Tea Party String ensemble. We consist of three violinists, a violist and two cellists. One of the cellists proposed the formation of the group for Saturday’s event, a birthday party for his friend. The birthday girl apparently wanted a sophisticated celebration to mark the occasion of her thirtieth – a tea party - hence the enlistment of our string ensemble with a classical repertoire with a smattering of elegant salon music.

I have found, when giving a public performance that I enter into a trance-like state. I am focussed on the music and playing and, although marginally aware of my surroundings and the audience; I am not completely engaged and thus avoid being distracted. This trance-like state gathers momentum about 24 hours before the event.

We arrived at the venue and were greeted by a six foot tall white rabbit. He directed us towards our playing area, looked at his pocket watch and informed us that we were late.

The playing area set aside for us appeared to be a converted log store with brick walls on three sides and a tin roof. There was an antique rug covering the stone floor, a non-functioning wood burning stove and a stuffed wildebeest head hanging on the wall.

There was natural light emanating from the front of the log store augmented by static disco lighting and a mirror ball overhead. In front of the log store stage was a long dining table groaning with cake stands and tea pots. Cardboard hearts, white on one side and shiny red on the other, hung in the surrounding foliage and flickered mesmerisingly in the afternoon sunlight. All of these sensations served to deepen my hypnotic state.

We played our first set and the tea party guests maintained a dignified silence. Then there were shouts of “Speech, speech!” The birthday girl, sporting a rather impressive top hat, rose from her place at the head of the long dining table.

“Thank you” she said. “and thank them” indicating towards us with a cake slice.

There was no response.

“THANK THEM!!” she bellowed. The tea party guests begrudgingly turned towards us and applauded. I could see them applauding but could not hear them as most of them had furry paws which lacked resonance.

A man wearing steampunk goggles shouted “You’ve forgotten someone!” “I’ve forgotten someone???!!” exclaimed the birthday girl. “YES!” He shouted “The big fat git!” A sturdy looking chap then appeared.

Ah, I thought, I recognise him... Tweedle Dee or maybe Tweedle Dum... at which point our lead violinist whispered “Taydeeyum”. The violist muttered “Tedium”. No, I thought, either Tweedle Dee or Tweeddle Dum but certainly not Taydeeyum or Tedium.

My fellow ensemble members then started to play... Te Deum... composed by Marc-Antoine Charpentier. I missed the first few bars but managed to catch up and regain my focus.

We played on to the unresponsive cats, rabbits and dormice who were intently concentrating on their sandwiches and cakes. I was only vaguely aware of the occasional appreciative exclamation; notably from an unidentifiable furry creature screeching something which sounded like “It must be my eyebrows!”

Then I could hear a rhythmic beating noise. I thought perhaps the pressure was finally getting to me. Then it felt as though a chanting effect was resonating inside my head...chanting which sounded like “trifle trifle trifle trifle.”

Our leader counted us in for the next piece... 1, 2, 3.. at which point my esteemed colleague to my left exclaimed “TRIFLE!!!!!.... I LOVE TRIFLE!!!!”.  I had successfully managed to ignore the occasional glimpse of his comedy cufflinks but now my concentration was shattered. I looked up to see the Queen of Hearts presenting an enormous bowl of trifle to the tea party guests who were excitedly banging their spoons on the dining table.

I can remember little else. It became cold as the sun went down... so very cold. I vaguely recall the violist saying that next time he would wear a vest - tucked into his pants.

We played an encore… a small boy (or perhaps it was a caterpillar) cheered with delight.

The next thing I knew I was at home... there was a little bottle of wine… I looked at the label, “Drink Me” it said. So I did.

I reflected upon the very curious and thoroughly wonderful afternoon that had passed and felt a renewed appreciation of the perfectly amazing people in this wonderland that we call life.

So that is the story of our Tea Party Adventure… “Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” ~Lewis Carroll~

Come Dine With Me

Come Dine With Me

My boss had a rare visit at home from a friend…

 

Me: “How did it go last night, with your friend?”

 

My boss: “It went very well. Do you know what? He brought a bottle of wine!”

 

Me: “Oh that was nice of him. Did you cook?”

 

My boss: “No, no. He came round to watch the football match with me.”

 

Me: “Did you have nibbles then?”

 

My boss: “HE brought nibbles with him. We had a glass of wine and some peanuts watching the football.”

 

Me: “Don’t you think you should have bought some nibbles?”

 

My boss: “I did buy some Doritos but I didn’t need to get them out because he brought peanuts.”

 

The cleaner <under her breath whilst mopping the floor>: “Tight git!”

 

Me: “Will you be seeing your friend again soon?”

My boss: “No, I don’t think so. He said he’s usually very busy every evening and at weekends.”

 

I notice a small packet of “Tangy Cheese” Doritos on his desk.

The Wine Connoisseur

The Wine Connoisseur

I dashed to the local supermarket to pick up some wine; a simple enough task you would think...

 

I noticed that they'd reintroduced the 5% discount if you buy 6 or more bottles. I generally just go for any red wine that is under £6 and preferably has already been heavily discounted which means that I supposedly get a superior taste on a budget.

 

I was just perusing these factors when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the imminent approach of Colin, the supermarket’s resident wine connoisseur. I tried to ignore him as he sidled up to me.

 

“This one is very nice” said Colin. I pretended that I had assumed he was engaging in a little self-talk.

 

“Have you tried this one?” he said.

 

There was no getting away with it now, surely no one would talk to themselves like that; I would have to engage with him:

 

“Oh, hello again Colin. Yes, you recommended that one to me last time, it was very nice.”

 

I tried my best to appear polite yet distracted and in a hurry.

 

“Yes the Riojas are very nice” he said, carefully stressing the ‘j’ as an ‘h’, taking a step towards me and now cradling a different variety and gently tapping the label.

 

“The Crianza…” he purred, adding extra emphasis to the soft ‘th’ sound for the ‘z’.

 

“The CrianTHa of course has been aged in oak barrels for a year before being bottled and…” delicately directing my attention to another bottle, “The Reserva…” he continued, pronouncing each ‘r’ with a soft yet strangely clicky inflection . “…the Rreserrva, is aged in oak barrels for eighteen months and then bottled for a year. The Rreserrva is my favourite, but I wouldn’t buy it at that price, I only get it when it’s on special offer and then I buy it by the case. Now… the Grrran Rreserrva…”

 

By this time I was starting to feel quite oppressed and agitated. I hurriedly placed three of the bottles that I had originally decided upon into the trolley along with two bottles of the CrianTHa.

 

I think Colin sensed that he was losing his audience and took another step towards me. “Yes, as I was saying, the Gran Reserva, well that’s a bit too oaky for me. You just need one more bottle now to get your 5% discount… This one is lovely… it’s ‘Taste How Different’”.

 

Taste How different! Taste How Different!!!! - said without even the slightest hint of a Mediterranean accent!

 

I took the bottle of ‘Taste How Different’, put it in the trolley and, in the chirpiest voice I could muster, said “That’s great Colin, thank you very much, bye then!” before swiftly heading for the check-out.

 

I could hear Colin’s diminishing voice cry out after me: “I haven’t actually tried that one… the ‘Taste How Different’…you’ll have to tell me all about it next time”.

 

Next time…. I think I might go to different supermarket, a less helpful one.