A Fifty-Three Year Old Man Writes …

A huge thank you to Speedway.
I awoke this morning to find I was fifty-three years old.
Aww, crap …
I was somewhat surprised that I didn't start screaming as soon as consciousness allowed, but no; my reaction was more of a "meh …"
Oh, well, what the hell. Another year closer to blesséd oblivion.

And so, stumbling around the house like a zombie with a half-grown Frank Zappa moustache, and groaning like Grandpa Simpson I arrived at the downstairs Mac, coffee in hand, to find a birthday greeting from our Speedway in my email inbox.

Of course I clicked on the link. What unalloyed delight!



I've admired the genius of Florence Foster-Jenkins for many a decade, but to be woken and serenaded by her on my birthday was … well, let's just say that this is probably the best thing an opera buff living on his own can wake up to in the morning, so my gratitude overflows copiously in Speedway's general direction.
I laughed so hard at the high notes that I couldn't eat breakfast.
And I dare say Mozart giggles in his grave whenever anyone plays this.



Here's how it SHOULD be done: the beautiful (even in that Star Trek wig) Diana Damrau giving it to Dorothea Röschmann's Pamina in Colin Davis' glorious adaptation of die Zauberflöte at the Royal Opera House Covent Garden (the one with Simon Keenlyside as Papageno - a regular rainy Sunday DVD treat over at my house … come on over).