New Year, new start...

At least that's what I told myself in January when I moved to the West of London to start a new job. Well some things, notably myself, I suppose, never change. I still want what I can't have. And what seemed like an excellent decision to accept what I thought was to be the perfect job, at least short term if not forever, quickly proved to be one of the most stupid mistakes I have ever made.
Much has happened since I last blogged (and I am surprised by how long it has actually been) and I don't think it will serve anyone well to read it all in intimate detail; I'll impart the "highlights".
On the upside, I found the Methodists several more times and became quite attached, and I eventually did discover the source of the wobbly soprano who is never quite in tune. (Let's just call her) L, who does a lot of solos on Sunday mornings, is a fairly large, good natured lady, whose vibrato could break glass. I've suffered through "In the Bleak Midwinter" and "Gabriel's Message" to name the Christmas treats, although what really finished me off was the Easter rendition of "I don't know how to love Him" from Jesus Christ Superstar. Leaving aside the utter inappropriateness of that particular song for a Sunday service, (although I suppose there are those who could make a case for it) L's voice is not really what one would call... suitable.. for musicals. It's rather like how I imagine listening to Maria Callas sing pop songs would sound. But, like most of the Villagers, she is pleasant and well-intentioned so we soldier on. Edith told Gwyneth that if she needed more people to sing, they should ask me. That was nice. Especially since I didn't think I'd been in particularly good voice since returning home. Upshot is that I now have Gwyneth's phone number (she's married to the organist) and strict instructions to call next time I am home and tell them what I'd like to sing. No such luck at my (now) local Anglican church. The morning service has a "worship group" the leader of which has a variety of weird hand signals that let the rest of the band know what she wants them to do next. It took me two weeks to figure out what they all meant. One of those weeks was figuring out that they were in fact signals and not in fact, a variation on the cheesy arm waving. Curiously enough, it took the same two weeks to figure out that the evening service was where it was at. Me and about 20 people old enough to be my grandparents. They are delightful and lovely as it happens. The music is dull, the resident organist is in fact a grade 2 pianist and I pray constantly for some help in that department otherwise I shall go mad for the lack of some Handel. He, like everyone else, is doing his best and without him, we would have no one...
Other news, is that thanks to one of the grandparents at church, I found a choral society to join. I thought this would be a great opportunity to get out and meet some people, so I arrived very enthusiatically, burst through the doors only to stop in my tracks as I was greeted by the rest of the choir who are, you guessed it, 30 years my senior at the very least. Not that I have a problem with older people, some of my very best friends are on the older side, it's just, I did think it would be nice to meet some people my own age... However, we managed to pull quite a nice concert of Faure together last month and have just started work on The Merry Widow, which if nothing else, should be fun.
I shall leave my opinions of Southall off here. I'm sure there are people who wouldn't appreciate them; they aren't very positive. And it has just started raining which only serves to add to my negativity about the place. More another time. At least there is something other than Baby P to read now...