Last month, I mentioned the physical benefits research shows come from singing once a week, and that both Dymock and Redmarley have church choirs for those who want to extend their vocal efforts beyond congregational hymns. This month my mind is again drawn to singing but in an altogether different context.
Last October, Farmers Weekly magazine again invited me to their annual awards ceremony at the Grosvenor House Hotel, London. Although their generosity does not extend to travel and accommodation, I am grateful to meet old friends and rub shoulders with farmers who cheerfully feed the nation despite, as it seems, the efforts of politicians, campaigning groups and supermarkets to burden and vilify the British Farmer, whilst offering aid and sympathy to all the others.
I caught the train from Gloucester and to while away the time bought a copy of the Economist. I soon realised that my eyes could not now cope with the print used by that magazine and so they have lost a reader of long standing. I suppose the editorial team have so many interesting things to say that they use a small font, and so don’t mind losing older readers in order that those with better vision have lots to see.
I took a Taxi to my hotel and then went for a walk up Oxford Street. What a difference to either Ledbury or Newent! There were no familiar ruddy faces, in fact, no one was looking at anyone else. As I strolled along everyone was studying the pavement or scanning the brightly lit shop windows. It seemed that people were oblivious to each other, anxious only to get ‘there’. Wherever ‘there’ was. I was seized with the thought that I was at home in the solitude of the Parish byways but, in the midst of an Oxford Street throng, I was alone.
My reverie was broken by the sound of exotic drums and sight of a saffron robed group moving along the pavement repetitively chanting Hari Krishna, Hari Krishna. No doubt, the group were engaged in a kind of sublimal marketing activity, but I admit that their rhythmic progress brought a lighter touch to the dark intensity of the crowd.
Usually, whenever I see a crowd I tend to head off in another direction, however no journey is without its excitements, and it was on the journey home from Paddington that my interest was drawn to fellow passengers.
I took my seat on the train and a black lady from South Africa sat opposite. As we chatted, she said that she had come to Britain to escape crime in her native homeland, and was travelling to Cheltenham to meet the headmaster of her son’s school.
Then, as the train pulled silently away, a young woman across the aisle took out her mobile phone and dialled a number. Now readers may have noticed a curious thing about mobile phones and trains which is, that users imagine that they have to shout to be heard. It was not long therefore, before the entire carriage was in thrall to the tale of Sharon and Jason. We knew even before he did, that when Sharon got back from Prague, she was going to kick him out of their flat because he (Jason) had gone off to Tenerife for two weeks without telling her. We were then agog to hear that, “Melissa had not been into the office either since Jason went away.”
The conversation then took a nasty turn during which Melissa’s previous conquests were examined in some detail. Meanwhile, the South African lady opposite had put on earphones and attached them to an iPod. As we came to a particularly juicy episode in Melissa’s life, the carriage went silent and everyone’s ears were strained for tabloid type revelations. However, as the story reached its climax, the black lady seated directly opposite launched into full voiced accompaniment to her iPod.
Although having a mellifluous soprano voice, my seating companion did not sing soto-voce but at fff. This, to non-singers, is very very loud. Indeed the entire carriage soon shook to the pulsating lyrics of, “You got shoes, Ah got shoes. All a’ God’s children got sho o o o es, when I get to heaven gonna’ put on my shoes, and gonna’ walk all over God’s heaven, heaven, heaven. Gonna’ walk all over God’s heaven.”
Passengers tensed at the potential for verbal conflict: On the one hand, we were keen to hear more about the exploits of Melissa, but on the other hand, we were being entertained by a comprehensive repertoire of gospel songs.
In true British fashion therefore, we pretended to read our newspapers and wait for normality. This occurred when the telephonic young woman disembarked at Swindon, and my companion rested her voice around Kemble. By the time, we reached Stroud the sun was shining and all once again seemed well with the world.
As to my jaunt in London. The awards ceremony was a bibulous and cheery evening; the highlight of which was the opportunity to get my hands on a box of Yellow Peril, a new cheese, designed especially for Farmers’ Weekly 75th anniversary by the well known Gloster cattle breeder and local cheese maker of Stinking Bishop fame.
View from the Pew 