I admit that I am not a particularly cultured man. Like the Irish labourer at his interview, I know the difference between a joist and a girder. One wrote Ulysses, the other wrote Faust, but the joke apart, I haven’t read either work and neither have I felt the loss.
But if classics literature is the tiniest blip on the horizon, then opera is off my cultural radar altogether, so why we found ourselves at Clonter last night I don’t know, other than it was at the invitation of a good friend.
If I have a problem with such singing it is that it is seldom has English lyrics. The vocal gymnastics are all well and good, but not much use when you can’t make out what it is they’re warbling about. Rapt attention soon lapses into an unintentional doze.
And, of course, you have to get dressed up. There was me in my DJ and bowtie, courtesy of 1860, and Mrs P is a posh frock and what she calls her ‘concrete knickers’, the ones that firm things up that need a little support.
The food and company were good though. Whether we go again depends on two things: 1) if we’re asked again as I wouldn’t want to pay for the privilege and 2) can we ever find the place again.