(about time the guys started interacting with women, or at least trying to...)
After a slightly panicked hour of rehearsal, George was visibly relieved when Mr Sharpe called a ten-minute break. He had every intention of spending it all in the gents' loos, not out of any lavatorial necessity but simply for the sake of having some comforting walls between him and other people. His escape was intercepted by an unstoppable onslaught of Well-Brought-Up-Young-Lady-Being-Friendly-To-A-Newcomer.
"Hello there, I'm Ellen, I don't think we've met." said she with an expensive accent, extending the hand not carrying her cello.
"How do you do? I'm George". He hoped his intention to hide in a cubicle was imperceptible in his tone of voice, but he felt it twice as acutely at the prospect of making small talk with his new acquaintance. She was a few years older than he, tall and slender with dark hair and a friendly smile. She radiated casual class and was immaculately dressed; the Venn Diagram of women who wear tight white jeans, and women who could carry off tight white jeans had a happy intersection with Ellen. That part of him which didn't want him to flee wanted him very, very much to stay where he was.
"Pleased to meet you, George. You play wonderfully." Ellen was determined to
put him at his ease.
"That's very generous of you to say so, thank-you. I thought I'd made a bit of a mess of it, actually." He was beginning to talk to his shoes.
"Don't be silly! You're doing very well. Don't worry about Mr Sharpe, he's like that to everyone. The nastier he is to you, the more highly he thinks of you."
"He must be positively horrible to you then!" said George slightly too quickly, and immediately worried that it sounded corny.
"Talented and charming! What a catch you are for the orchestra!" Ellen did indeed think his jabbered compliment was corny, but she had a wonderful knack for making people feel good about themselves. "How did you come to join us for the tour?"
He gestured across the room towards his grandfather. "I'm Edward Kent's grandson, he said there was a shortage of violas and that I should come along. I'd only have been sitting around at home, so I thought I ought to. I need the practice! How about yourself?"
"I've been here since I was a girl. Mother's absolutely potty about music, she's in every orchestra within 50 miles, and I simply got swept along."
"Tally ho!" Edward had misinterpreted George's gesturing as a summons, and rampaged over to join them. "I see you've met Ellen, wasting no time there, you young stud!"
Ellen saw the look of sheer horror on his face, and deftly defused the situation.
"I was just telling him about Mother, about how she's been with the orchestra for twenty years. You've been here almost as long, haven't you? You and she must have some memories!"
"Well I'm just a newcomer, I've only been here fifteen years! Still, your mother and I have done a few concerts together since then! Nothing will ever quite compare with the time we played..."
Before the monologue got into full swing, George took the opportunity to excuse himself quietly, and rushed to the gents to spend the rest of the break cringing in the corner of a cubicle.
Monday 28 July 2008
Monday 21 July 2008
Ages of Man : VII
"So, what's the plan for today?" said George, as they pulled off the motorway.
"We're going straight to a rehearsal now, then we'll check into the hotel later. First concert is this evening."
"Fair enough. Which pieces are we doing?"
"Carmina Burana is the main piece, we're doing Tannhauser Overture in the first half along with a song cycle by some German composer no-one's heard of."
"Sounds very good. I've got Tannhauser on LP."
"LP? Don't they allows CDs in your dormitory?"
George didn't answer. He was considered among his friends as something of a technophile, and was as adept with cutting-edge technology as anyone, so it generally came as a surprise when people found out that he had a vast arsenal of 12" vinyl records. His love of modern technology had somehow become intertwined with his calculatedly old-fashioned streak, and the result was a fascinating clash of cultures. He had spent a week of his previous holiday creating a beautifully-designed website containing artistic photographs of his collection of rotary-dial telephones; he took the photos with his high-end DSLR camera.
"Do you know which desk I will be playing in?"
"Didn't I tell you? You're principal viola."
"Principal? Gosh, I didn't realise that. Can't a someone from the orchestra do it?"
"Not really, the only other violas who are coming are Mrs Atkinson, who hasn't been up to much playing since her arthritis set in, and Helen and David, but they both said they didn't want the job."
"But I've never played as principal. I thought I'd just be making up the numbers."
"Oh don't worry about it. The music's quite easy." Edward was not the type to embarrass easily. It wasn't that he didn't care about making a fool of himself, rather it never occurred to him that anyone could make a fool of themselves. To do so would require a sense of dignity, which he utterly lacked. He therefore assumed that everyone else was the same, and hadn't the faintest sense of when other people were embarrassed, especially when it was he who was embarrassing them. It hadn't occurred to him that George might have preferred a less prominent part in the orchestra - he didn't care what people thought of his playing, why should anyone else? Sadly, not caring how you sound is not conducive to musical excellence - he was a dreadful musician, but he neither realised this nor cared.
George, on the other hand, was mortified at the thought of leading the section, small though it was. Some orchestral players didn't care a jot about which part they played, would happily play anything that was put in front of them egolessly. Some sections would think nothing of rotating parts for different pieces. String players, on the other hand, defended their desk position with the same enraged defiance as certain middle-aged women defend their right to be called 'Ms'. The orchestra's few good players percolated to the front desks, and stayed there. Shy players, and those who knew their own limitations, stayed at the back. The middle desks were occupied by mediocre players who were either inadvisably trying to work their way forwards, or fighting to avoid the ignominy of being moved back; sometimes both at once. To be in a middle desk was to wear a symbol of status, however microscopic, and it meant having someone to look down on in order to feel better.
George was one of nature's back-deskers, though he was afflicted with the unfortunate ability to play very well indeed. He would far rather sit behind row upon row of inferior violists, secure in his anonymity and, though he'd never admit it to himself, a buried sensation of smugness at being better than those in front of him. Being principal terrified him, even though the music would be essentially identical. He would far rather be surprisingly good (or, in his unswervingly-modest words, 'not disastrous') than disappointingly bad, and the thought of being compared unfavourably to the other players turned his stomach into knots. George had, however, made one error of judgement: he had grossly over-estimated the skill of the other players.
"We're going straight to a rehearsal now, then we'll check into the hotel later. First concert is this evening."
"Fair enough. Which pieces are we doing?"
"Carmina Burana is the main piece, we're doing Tannhauser Overture in the first half along with a song cycle by some German composer no-one's heard of."
"Sounds very good. I've got Tannhauser on LP."
"LP? Don't they allows CDs in your dormitory?"
George didn't answer. He was considered among his friends as something of a technophile, and was as adept with cutting-edge technology as anyone, so it generally came as a surprise when people found out that he had a vast arsenal of 12" vinyl records. His love of modern technology had somehow become intertwined with his calculatedly old-fashioned streak, and the result was a fascinating clash of cultures. He had spent a week of his previous holiday creating a beautifully-designed website containing artistic photographs of his collection of rotary-dial telephones; he took the photos with his high-end DSLR camera.
"Do you know which desk I will be playing in?"
"Didn't I tell you? You're principal viola."
"Principal? Gosh, I didn't realise that. Can't a someone from the orchestra do it?"
"Not really, the only other violas who are coming are Mrs Atkinson, who hasn't been up to much playing since her arthritis set in, and Helen and David, but they both said they didn't want the job."
"But I've never played as principal. I thought I'd just be making up the numbers."
"Oh don't worry about it. The music's quite easy." Edward was not the type to embarrass easily. It wasn't that he didn't care about making a fool of himself, rather it never occurred to him that anyone could make a fool of themselves. To do so would require a sense of dignity, which he utterly lacked. He therefore assumed that everyone else was the same, and hadn't the faintest sense of when other people were embarrassed, especially when it was he who was embarrassing them. It hadn't occurred to him that George might have preferred a less prominent part in the orchestra - he didn't care what people thought of his playing, why should anyone else? Sadly, not caring how you sound is not conducive to musical excellence - he was a dreadful musician, but he neither realised this nor cared.
George, on the other hand, was mortified at the thought of leading the section, small though it was. Some orchestral players didn't care a jot about which part they played, would happily play anything that was put in front of them egolessly. Some sections would think nothing of rotating parts for different pieces. String players, on the other hand, defended their desk position with the same enraged defiance as certain middle-aged women defend their right to be called 'Ms'. The orchestra's few good players percolated to the front desks, and stayed there. Shy players, and those who knew their own limitations, stayed at the back. The middle desks were occupied by mediocre players who were either inadvisably trying to work their way forwards, or fighting to avoid the ignominy of being moved back; sometimes both at once. To be in a middle desk was to wear a symbol of status, however microscopic, and it meant having someone to look down on in order to feel better.
George was one of nature's back-deskers, though he was afflicted with the unfortunate ability to play very well indeed. He would far rather sit behind row upon row of inferior violists, secure in his anonymity and, though he'd never admit it to himself, a buried sensation of smugness at being better than those in front of him. Being principal terrified him, even though the music would be essentially identical. He would far rather be surprisingly good (or, in his unswervingly-modest words, 'not disastrous') than disappointingly bad, and the thought of being compared unfavourably to the other players turned his stomach into knots. George had, however, made one error of judgement: he had grossly over-estimated the skill of the other players.
Saturday 19 July 2008
BOOK IV: HARRY PINTER AND THE GOBBET OF PHLEGM
Harry has entered an international music competition; he consults Dumdedum for repertoire advice.
"Harry, I have a very difficult choral piece for you to conduct" said Dumdedum.
"I hate you! That's so unfair!" said Harry's hormones.
"It is a vital part of any hero's repertoire - you never know when you might need it. It is called 'Deus Ex Machina' - learn it well."
"God used to be a robot?" said Harry, whose Latin left something to be desired. "I can't conduct that. I'll just do all the stuff I learned in first year, that'll always beat everyone!
At the competition, Harry's splendid performance wins tuition from a world-famous conductor, who later turns out to be Baron VoleKiller, or 'He From Whom No Arboreal Rodent Is Safe'. Challenging Harry to a showdown, the Baron flourishes his baton with consummate skill; he is clearly a superb conductor at the height of his powers.
"Hahahaha!" said VoleKiller.
Harry, a pimply teenager who never does his homework, despairs at the hopelessness of VoleKiller's obvious superiority. He then remembers the uncannily useful solution that Q gave him.
"Holy Android!" screams Harry, and successfully conducts 'Deus Ex Machina', a piece he hadn't a hope of conducting correctly when it wasn't a dramatic necessity. The amazing music summons Rowan, who lobs a handful of snot in VoleKiller's face, incapacitating him and thus resolving a hopeless situation with an unstoppable attack of slapstick.
"I told you bogeys were important!" shouts Rowan. "That Deus Ex stuff is well powerful."
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship..." said Harry.
"Harry, I have a very difficult choral piece for you to conduct" said Dumdedum.
"I hate you! That's so unfair!" said Harry's hormones.
"It is a vital part of any hero's repertoire - you never know when you might need it. It is called 'Deus Ex Machina' - learn it well."
"God used to be a robot?" said Harry, whose Latin left something to be desired. "I can't conduct that. I'll just do all the stuff I learned in first year, that'll always beat everyone!
At the competition, Harry's splendid performance wins tuition from a world-famous conductor, who later turns out to be Baron VoleKiller, or 'He From Whom No Arboreal Rodent Is Safe'. Challenging Harry to a showdown, the Baron flourishes his baton with consummate skill; he is clearly a superb conductor at the height of his powers.
"Hahahaha!" said VoleKiller.
Harry, a pimply teenager who never does his homework, despairs at the hopelessness of VoleKiller's obvious superiority. He then remembers the uncannily useful solution that Q gave him.
"Holy Android!" screams Harry, and successfully conducts 'Deus Ex Machina', a piece he hadn't a hope of conducting correctly when it wasn't a dramatic necessity. The amazing music summons Rowan, who lobs a handful of snot in VoleKiller's face, incapacitating him and thus resolving a hopeless situation with an unstoppable attack of slapstick.
"I told you bogeys were important!" shouts Rowan. "That Deus Ex stuff is well powerful."
"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship..." said Harry.
Wednesday 16 July 2008
Ages of Man : VI
Item 3: To receive the tour manager's report
Mr Coote stood to say that he had successfully secured a rehearsal venue for the first afternoon of the tour (c.f item 2 of previous meetings minutes re: Mr Sharpe's concerns about guest players not attending earlier rehearsals). He expressed that he was having difficulty with the logistics of transporting around so much percussion and asked that for future tours consideration be given to this before choosing pieces because the seven percussion parts in Carmina Burana by Carl Orff were causing him grief. Mr Kent helpfully offered to bang a few pots and pans when the bassoons weren't busy. Mr Sharpe said this wouldn't be neccesary. Mr Kent said that he had played some lovely bongos in his time to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote then gave a detailed account of the transport arrangements for the many instruments on the many legs of the journey. Both pages of this account are attached to these minutes. Mr Coote was thanked by the committee for the lengthy trouble which he had obviously gone to.
Mr Coote stood to say that he had successfully secured a rehearsal venue for the first afternoon of the tour (c.f item 2 of previous meetings minutes re: Mr Sharpe's concerns about guest players not attending earlier rehearsals). He expressed that he was having difficulty with the logistics of transporting around so much percussion and asked that for future tours consideration be given to this before choosing pieces because the seven percussion parts in Carmina Burana by Carl Orff were causing him grief. Mr Kent helpfully offered to bang a few pots and pans when the bassoons weren't busy. Mr Sharpe said this wouldn't be neccesary. Mr Kent said that he had played some lovely bongos in his time to which Mrs Sharpe replied that there was no need for that sort of language. Mr Coote then gave a detailed account of the transport arrangements for the many instruments on the many legs of the journey. Both pages of this account are attached to these minutes. Mr Coote was thanked by the committee for the lengthy trouble which he had obviously gone to.
Saturday 12 July 2008
Ages of Man : V
(attempt at sustained dialogue, and at creating impressions for the reader without explicitly stating them. Nothing startling, just some basic character exposition.)
It was some minutes after they had left the house before conversation started in earnest. Edward's 'driving head' appeared to require such concentration as rendered him incapable of speech, at least until they reached the motorway, where he steadfastly drove in the middle lane irrespective of his or anyone else's velocity.
"That's better. Always good to get out on the open road and stretch the old wheels!" said Edward in enthusiastic tones.
"Quite." said George, at once relieved to break the silence and shy of the impending conversation.
"Second lane to the right, and straight on 'til morning!"
"I hope it won't take that long."
"Won't be much more than an hour."
"That's not so bad."
"So, tell me. Glad to be rid of school?"
"It hasn't really sunk in yet that I've left for good. I'm well accustomed to moving between there and home, so it just feels like another summer holiday. Funny to think I won't be going back."
"Did you like it there?"
George paused. "Yes, I suppose I did. A lot of the other boys hated it and couldn't wait to leave, but I never felt like that."
"Home from home, eh?"
"Quite."
"I remember the day I left school. We bounced the headmaster's car between two trees so that he couldn't drive it home. Goodness knows how he got it out again."
"I never thought of you as a troublemaker."
"I didn't actually bounce the car myself, but I helped them by watching out for teachers. Not that they could have done anything to stop them."
"There was a big water-fight around the school grounds."
"Get very wet?"
"Not really, we went and played croquet instead."
"Croquet? How civilised! Does anybody still play that these days?"
"They certainly do. At least, we did. For all its apparent gentility, it is a vicious game, and excellent fun. There was a group of us played every Sunday. We thought we wouldn't get another chance to play at all, let alone with each other, so it seemed a good idea to get one last game in."
Edward considered this for a moment. "I bet you'll miss your friends."
"We'll keep in touch, by post, or possibly by electronic mail. We've already arranged to meet up again after the first university term."
"What are you going to study?"
"Aeronautical Engineering at Bristol."
"Oxbridge not appeal to you? I'd have thought the cloistered passageways were right up your alley!". Edward beamed, pleased with himself.
"Shall we say they appealed to me, but the feeling wasn't mutual. Still, Bristol is closer to home, and it has a very good reputation. Most of my friends are going to Cambridge, though."
"Must be a bit of a disappointment! All your friends off to Cambridge and you to Bristol, talk about kicking you when you're down."
"Hadn't thought about it that way, really." He hadn't, but he did now. Conversation halted while George gazed blankly out of the passenger window and realised that he was the only member of his beloved Croquet Club who wasn't going to Cambridge. He wasn't ambitious by nature, and felt no envy for his more successful friends, but instead he felt left out of all the fun. Being a Cambridge undergraduate fitted his self-image so perfectly that he couldn't imagine fitting in anywhere else. He didn't like where this new train of thought was going, having boarded it so suddenly thanks to his grandfather's tactless questioning, and after a while he restarted conversation purely to stop having to think about it.
"How is work going?"
"Still chuntering away, pretty quiet for me at the moment."
"Not much business these days?". George wondered if 'chuntering' was a real word.
"Hardly, we've the highest utilisation on record, we've a huge backlog of orders. I've been back at work nine months now, they gave me lots of compassionate leave after Marjorie passed on, were very good about it."
"It must be good to be working again."
"I've been with the company for a quarter of a century now. I've got the gold pen and everything. Nothing surprises me any more. No point getting another job at 63, not that I could, so I'll just hang in there for another couple of years and top up my pension fund. Still, keeps me out the house!"
"Remind me exactly what it is you do?"
"I'm a chemical engineer. I work down at the plant, making chemicals for industry. Compressed nitrogen and oxygen, mostly."
"Do you work a lot with the machinery?"
"All the time. Well, I spend more time in the office than the crawl-spaces these days, the younger lads do that.
George gazed again out of the passenger window, and spent the next half-an-hour in silence, watching cars under-taking them.
It was some minutes after they had left the house before conversation started in earnest. Edward's 'driving head' appeared to require such concentration as rendered him incapable of speech, at least until they reached the motorway, where he steadfastly drove in the middle lane irrespective of his or anyone else's velocity.
"That's better. Always good to get out on the open road and stretch the old wheels!" said Edward in enthusiastic tones.
"Quite." said George, at once relieved to break the silence and shy of the impending conversation.
"Second lane to the right, and straight on 'til morning!"
"I hope it won't take that long."
"Won't be much more than an hour."
"That's not so bad."
"So, tell me. Glad to be rid of school?"
"It hasn't really sunk in yet that I've left for good. I'm well accustomed to moving between there and home, so it just feels like another summer holiday. Funny to think I won't be going back."
"Did you like it there?"
George paused. "Yes, I suppose I did. A lot of the other boys hated it and couldn't wait to leave, but I never felt like that."
"Home from home, eh?"
"Quite."
"I remember the day I left school. We bounced the headmaster's car between two trees so that he couldn't drive it home. Goodness knows how he got it out again."
"I never thought of you as a troublemaker."
"I didn't actually bounce the car myself, but I helped them by watching out for teachers. Not that they could have done anything to stop them."
"There was a big water-fight around the school grounds."
"Get very wet?"
"Not really, we went and played croquet instead."
"Croquet? How civilised! Does anybody still play that these days?"
"They certainly do. At least, we did. For all its apparent gentility, it is a vicious game, and excellent fun. There was a group of us played every Sunday. We thought we wouldn't get another chance to play at all, let alone with each other, so it seemed a good idea to get one last game in."
Edward considered this for a moment. "I bet you'll miss your friends."
"We'll keep in touch, by post, or possibly by electronic mail. We've already arranged to meet up again after the first university term."
"What are you going to study?"
"Aeronautical Engineering at Bristol."
"Oxbridge not appeal to you? I'd have thought the cloistered passageways were right up your alley!". Edward beamed, pleased with himself.
"Shall we say they appealed to me, but the feeling wasn't mutual. Still, Bristol is closer to home, and it has a very good reputation. Most of my friends are going to Cambridge, though."
"Must be a bit of a disappointment! All your friends off to Cambridge and you to Bristol, talk about kicking you when you're down."
"Hadn't thought about it that way, really." He hadn't, but he did now. Conversation halted while George gazed blankly out of the passenger window and realised that he was the only member of his beloved Croquet Club who wasn't going to Cambridge. He wasn't ambitious by nature, and felt no envy for his more successful friends, but instead he felt left out of all the fun. Being a Cambridge undergraduate fitted his self-image so perfectly that he couldn't imagine fitting in anywhere else. He didn't like where this new train of thought was going, having boarded it so suddenly thanks to his grandfather's tactless questioning, and after a while he restarted conversation purely to stop having to think about it.
"How is work going?"
"Still chuntering away, pretty quiet for me at the moment."
"Not much business these days?". George wondered if 'chuntering' was a real word.
"Hardly, we've the highest utilisation on record, we've a huge backlog of orders. I've been back at work nine months now, they gave me lots of compassionate leave after Marjorie passed on, were very good about it."
"It must be good to be working again."
"I've been with the company for a quarter of a century now. I've got the gold pen and everything. Nothing surprises me any more. No point getting another job at 63, not that I could, so I'll just hang in there for another couple of years and top up my pension fund. Still, keeps me out the house!"
"Remind me exactly what it is you do?"
"I'm a chemical engineer. I work down at the plant, making chemicals for industry. Compressed nitrogen and oxygen, mostly."
"Do you work a lot with the machinery?"
"All the time. Well, I spend more time in the office than the crawl-spaces these days, the younger lads do that.
George gazed again out of the passenger window, and spent the next half-an-hour in silence, watching cars under-taking them.
Wednesday 2 July 2008
Ages of man : IV
(attempt at a vivid description of a minor character who will appear in only one scene, vaguely in the manner of Dickens.)
After the previous night's exertions, Edward and George surfaced too late for breakfast at the hotel, and set forth in search of a greasy spoon cafe recommended to them by the ineffectual girl at reception. They eventually located it, through a process of elimination, by walking in the opposite direction to that in which she pointed them, and then finding it across the street from the petrol station to which it was allegedly next door.
Taking seats at the only vacant table, it was immediately apparent that this was a very popular establishment. Unending legions of worried-looking waiting staff charged about the place carrying vast platters of cholesterol. Each of them paused at their table just long enough to insist on taking an order for tea. Edward expected being given a cup of tea from each of half-a-dozen waitresses, which George rather liked the sound of. They found it difficult to maintain conversation over the most penetrative voice imaginable, which belonged to a small lady in an apron barking orders at the cholesterol legions; the Napoleon of grime. At once nasal and gravelly, with a distinct Irish burr, her voice was clearly audible from behind the kitchen door. Mrs O'Neill was unquestionably the proprietor of the cafe; any attempts to imagine her boss started and ended with Zeus, and even then there would be a power struggle. She was very short and slender, but her sheer presence would stop armies in their tracks; she would stride into a war-zone to tell them to keep the noise down. They would. She patrolled around the cafe, ensuring good order and making light chit-chat with her customers. At least, she believed it was light, and she was genuinely trying to be friendly, but a barked interrogation as to George's satisfaction with his breakfast elicited no more than a whimper. He would happily have rubbed his stomach and made yummy noises before a plate of fresh turd if Mrs O'Neill were watching; happily this was not the case, because the food was genuinely excellent. She clearly ran a very tight ship; customers were left in no doubt that they would get exactly what they wanted, generally before they ordered it, but this was not a place to linger, particularly if one wanted to keep one's hearing. Some eating establishments hire cocktail pianists to add quiet background music; Mrs O'Neill could hire a military marching band.
After the previous night's exertions, Edward and George surfaced too late for breakfast at the hotel, and set forth in search of a greasy spoon cafe recommended to them by the ineffectual girl at reception. They eventually located it, through a process of elimination, by walking in the opposite direction to that in which she pointed them, and then finding it across the street from the petrol station to which it was allegedly next door.
Taking seats at the only vacant table, it was immediately apparent that this was a very popular establishment. Unending legions of worried-looking waiting staff charged about the place carrying vast platters of cholesterol. Each of them paused at their table just long enough to insist on taking an order for tea. Edward expected being given a cup of tea from each of half-a-dozen waitresses, which George rather liked the sound of. They found it difficult to maintain conversation over the most penetrative voice imaginable, which belonged to a small lady in an apron barking orders at the cholesterol legions; the Napoleon of grime. At once nasal and gravelly, with a distinct Irish burr, her voice was clearly audible from behind the kitchen door. Mrs O'Neill was unquestionably the proprietor of the cafe; any attempts to imagine her boss started and ended with Zeus, and even then there would be a power struggle. She was very short and slender, but her sheer presence would stop armies in their tracks; she would stride into a war-zone to tell them to keep the noise down. They would. She patrolled around the cafe, ensuring good order and making light chit-chat with her customers. At least, she believed it was light, and she was genuinely trying to be friendly, but a barked interrogation as to George's satisfaction with his breakfast elicited no more than a whimper. He would happily have rubbed his stomach and made yummy noises before a plate of fresh turd if Mrs O'Neill were watching; happily this was not the case, because the food was genuinely excellent. She clearly ran a very tight ship; customers were left in no doubt that they would get exactly what they wanted, generally before they ordered it, but this was not a place to linger, particularly if one wanted to keep one's hearing. Some eating establishments hire cocktail pianists to add quiet background music; Mrs O'Neill could hire a military marching band.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
