Having a junior moment: the sequel


I’m sure that the readers of my blog found my account of my singing-related memory loss to be as thrilling as an extremely thrilling thing, so it only seems fair that I share the sequel – what happened following this nerve-wracking episode?

The sequel begins at the end of the concert.  The church we were performing in likes to make it quite clear that it appreciates our presence, and does so by having an extended period of embarrassment at the end where a speech is made and presents are given to the performers.  Chocolates were handed round the choir, the accompanist got something, the conductor got a bunch of flowers, and the soloists got a little something as well.  Except me.  It seems that somebody had miscounted the number of soloists and had not bought quite enough wrapped chocolate goodies to go around.  And it was assumed that once the supply of chocolate goodies had run out, so had the supply of soloists.  I didn’t mind this at all, as I hate taking curtain calls of any kind, and receiving flowers (for the ladies) and chocolate (for the men) meant that one had to stand up and acknowledge the assembled company.  I was quite happy to be overlooked, particularly since I wasn’t ever supposed to be performing the song in the first place, being a stand-in for someone who couldn’t make that concert.

As it turned out, I did get some chocolate anyway, as one of the men has no sweet tooth at all (how is that possible?  how can one live without chocolate?) and passed their lovely Cadbury’s delights on to me.  So I got chocolate without having to take a bow – best of all possible worlds.

And then…

The following week, the concert was reprised in another local church, this time with less present-giving, speech-making and associated post-concert embarrassment, which suited both audience and performers, I’m sure.  However, the vicar from the previous church was in attendance at this concert, perhaps to see how they do things (the village churches are more competitive in such things than those in the city of Canterbury).  At the half way point, I saw him in discussion with the chap that I had been standing in for the previous week, a friend of mine who we shall call Bill, for that is not his name, but the name of a character he has played recently.

Following this conversation, young Bill looked perplexed, and I discovered later that he had good reason for this.  Not only had he never seen the man before (as he’s new to the Society, he’s also new to the churches we frequent for our concert seasons), he had no idea what he was talking about.  “So sorry” quoth the vicar, “for not thanking you last week.  You did very well.  I’m not sure how we missed you out.”  Bill, you see, had heard the story of the forgotten lyrics (he was much better than I, and remembered every word), but I had not explained my delight at my lack of chocolate-induced curtain call.  With remarkable aplomb, he had murmured some form of placatory “that’s quite all right” and was quite relieved to discover what the vicar had actually been going on about. 

It is most odd that the vicar got the two of us confused.  We were singing (more or less…) the same song, of course, and we do have a number of features in common.  We’re both in our twenties, we both sing tenor and we’re both Christians.  However, we don’t particularly look alike, not least because I have facial hair and he is clean shaven, and we also have quite different ways of singing.  Or perhaps I’m wrong.  Maybe we really are interchangeable.  Which could be handy in the future if we lived in a farce or a sitcom.  Unfortunately, we don’t, but I will update this blog with ‘Tales of the Tenor Twins’ if any wacky hijinx happens to ensue.

  1. Maybe the vicar thought that ‘Bill’ was you with your beard shaved off! (:

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