February 13, 2013

The digging and plumbing is finished for the moment, and in the midst of my garden are three white towers through which plumbers can in the future gain access to the pipes– which, they say contradictorily, can never suffer the same fate as the old ones.  To me it’s like putting the Mona Lisa in a cage, a ruinous and unnecessary disfigurement to which I will never be reconciled. Why I can’t just be left alone to watch my plants grow I don’t know. I was sick and lay abed as they finished. The cost was five months of the cottage rent.

I called them to unclog a drain.

First blocking for The Mikado. If I had been in charge of it I would have thought it a disaster, but I learned before that opera does not work like a play. Opera goes on in a state of under-rehearsal that would appall a theater director, whose play goes on in a state of under-rehearsal that would appall a ballet director. Our stage director is a nice old lady who inspires no confidence whatsoever: “Oh, you could do that, but you don’t have to. . . or maybe you could do that. . . we haven’t figures out that yet. . . “ She did, nobly, remember our names.

Home on Fat Tuesday to a bottle of sparkling Italian wine and videos on the computer screen