05 October 2006

should be pic here


Oh bleagghh! None of the fricking fotos has come out.

Well, I was going to say that,

Just when one thinks one's shrugged off the dullards, along comes some peterian twit (see comment) to give the pearls/swine interface another drubbing. Seems like he has the last laff.

Ah well, can't be fussy. If I'm to enjoy smart comments on mama's crocusia, I have also to entertain thicko contributions from the hosts of Midia.

As Mubarak our camel driver once reminded, "The dogs bark, the caravan moves on".

More sublime music to soothe my soul, this time on Genevieve's estate whose Venetian buildings include the spacious concert room.

should be pic here

Lovely acoustics, lousy lighting for puny cameras like mine, hence the rotten pics that do no justice.

  • Albinoni: Adagio
  • Pachelbel: Canon
  • Vivaldi: B flat concerto for violin, cello
  • Vivaldi: The Four Seasons

    I knew Seasons from countless playings on the stereograph but had never heard it en personne.

    For starters, it should not be given to us to compose such music. Second, it should *certainly* not be given to mere mortals to *play* such sublimity.

    I didn't know whether to risk vertigo just watching soloist Pavel Hula's rippling fingers, or close eyes and swoon at the swirling music and rich acoustics of the room.

    Nor have I ever heard the allegro played so fast without losing Vivialdi's intent.

    should be pic hereOn the final chord, we rose as one to applaud. We cheered, we wept; glimpsing a nearby vase of flowers, Panos wrenched them from their container and hurled the bunch at their feet.

    Later around the buffet I found myself reaching for a last pastry at the same time as Pavel.

    "Maître ..." I stuttered, standing back and gesturing for him to take it.

    Of course, these multi-lingual blokes have been trained all over the world and speak fluently, so he just grinned and thanked me.

    "Hungry business," he smiled, popping the crust into his mouth.

    "And that totally cool jacket?" I burbled, "Dude! Was it woven by Polish virgins from the fur of your finest lammas?"

    "Is ski jacket. I find it in Kitzbühel last time I take holiday. Is OK - like a matador. When I play Vivaldi, is like I am fighting bull and my orchestra they are my picadors." We laugh.

    "Tonight, sir, you were awarded both ears and the tail." We laugh again and raise glasses.

    Meanwhile, the local gentry are lining up to shake his hand, the ladies to curtsey and blush and wave their fans in unambiguous fashion."

    In a lull, I say that if he had a ring, we'd be kneeling to kiss it.

    He raises the killer left hand, "Ring not good for playing."

    "Was joke," I mutter.

    "Yes," he nods gravely, "Joke".

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