We had a music society committee meeting last night. Consensus was that the brass quintet at the last concert had talked too much, and it was agreed that our guidance notes to performers would be amended, so that talking was only permitted to expand on the already ample programme notes (the chairman is very proud of the programme notes) or to explain technical features of the instruments. This was great fun, the nearest I've got for ages in real life to playing the When I'm Dictator game. (You must play that. Charlie Brooker is going to execute people who talk in cinemas after the film has started. When I'm Dictator there will be adequate rainfall, but only at night, and people wearing ugly shoes will be sent to re-education camps.)
The programme for the winter of 2012-2013 is taking shape. The bookings secretary had narrowed down the dates when we could potentially have a well-regarded and moderately expensive string quartet, which at extra cost could be expanded into a quintet, with clarinet, viola or horn. The chairman wanted to know what was with the horn, and the secretary explained that a modern composer had written a horn piece especially for the quartet, who had given its world premiere. 'What sort of music is it?' enquired the chairman 'Is it very modern?' The bookings secretary, looking weary and chosing her words carefully, said that the quartet's agent said that it was very rhythmic, but without much in the way of melody. 'How long is it?' demanded the chairman 'Our lot can stand ten minutes of that sort of thing, but not half an hour'. I must have looked especially agonised, because she then looked at me and asked if I wished to say something. I said that I was just imagining spending half an hour listening to a horn piece with no discernable tune, and thinking how lovely clarinet quintets were. Everyone agreed that the Mozart clarinet quintet was indeed lovely, as was the Brahms, and we agreed to forget about the horn. Sometimes it is good for arts groups to have someone who doesn't mind being the voice of middlebrow conservatism. I'm sure the others were all secretly relieved to be let off having to pretend to be that musically adventurous, even the bookings secretary, and we'll sell more tickets with the clarinet.
I took my hand to the doctor this afternoon. I thought I'd better on Monday, when my knuckle turned purple and my entire hand throbbed, though with hindsight I think that was the cold. I rang the doctor's surgery, who said they did not have any appointments for Wednesday. I asked if I could have an appointment for Thursday, and was told that they had not yet released the diary for Thursday, and I would have to ring in the morning. I really thought the NHS had been told to stop playing that sort of silly buggers. I made sure I was up on Tuesday morning in time to hit the phone at 8.00am, and managed to get through and get an appointment, but not everybody is well placed to call their GP surgery at eight on the dot. If you are travelling to work then, or getting the children to school, or have just walked into the office, sitting with the phone in your hand and hitting the repeat dial button until you manage to catch the moment when a line is free could be tricky.
There was good news and bad news about the hand. The good news is that it's not infected, the joint and tendons seem fine, and the problem seems to be in the overlying tissue. This means that using it, while painful, probably isn't making anything worse. The other good news is that the doctor agreed that there was an issue, and said that she would refer me to the hand clinic if there was no improvement in two to three weeks. She thought that something must still be lodged in there, that my hand was busily encysting, and would in due course expel. The bad news is that, if it doesn't fix itself, she wasn't sure what the hand clinic could do. They don't like digging around in hands, all full of nerves and tendons, looking for tiny objects. Two to three weeks puts it so close to Christmas that in practice that means go back if things aren't better by the New Year. Come back before then if it gets worse, she said kindly.
I spent the day doing gentle, surface, non-knuckle threatening weeding, and cutting down the stems of Helianthus salicifolius, an excellent perennial sunflower, that runs about a bit and makes tall, wavy stems clothed in willow-like (naturally) leaves. In autumn it has little yellow flowers, but the leaves are the point. It was beloved of Christopher Lloyd, and I first encountered it in his books. It isn't the easiest thing to get hold of. I've suggested we should list it at work, but the boss doesn't seem keen. There were mutterings about it not doing well in a pot, but I'm not sure that's the real reason. They had it at Langthorn's, the last time I was there.
The Systems Administrator has a sore throat and a rich and fruity cold. This is a house of wrecks.
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