For three years now I’ve been venting here about the spectacle I make of myself whenever our artistic director, in his ‘wisdom’, incorporates choreography into our repertoire. I mean, I’m not talking mild ineptitude, I’m talking about a horrifying lack of co-ordination; an inability to clap and sway at the same time; and a constant fear of crashing off the risers and taking the entire soprano section with me.
Well it’s time to stop whingeing and do something about it. Our last show was a monstrous demonstration of badly executed movement, compounded by a ridiculous array of costumes, all of which detracted from the beautiful (if I say so myself!) sound we work so hard to make.
Enough already! I have found a choir which promises we can ‘make music without the use of jazz hands’ and where jeans and black tops count for costuming. Oh joy!
Sadly, I’m already missing my peeps at the other choir. Three years is a long time for me to stick at anything. In fact the only other thing I can think of is motherhood, and really what choice did I have?
So … this post is dedicated to all my dear songbird friends who I will sorely miss. May your wings carry you in a glorious display of rhythmic movement. As for me, I think I’ll keep both feet planted firmly on the ground, and my wings by my sides – because there’s no way you should expect me to stay upright while trying to remember the words, the tune and the steps all at the same time.
After spending a week in Vancouver with Roxy it’s hard to decide what in particular I should write about…
I could use this post to gush over how fabulous she was in her show, and what incredible talent she has (in a purely calm, impartial manner, of course).
Alternatively I could very easily take the opportunity to rant about how depressing it is to come back to brown, dreary, cold and miserable Calgary after a glorious week of green, lush spring in Vancouver. Every street was an explosion of pink blossom and verdant gardens overflowed with a mass of fragrant, colourful blooms.
Here in Calgary we’re probably due about 4 more pre-blizzard false starts before Spring actually arrives, and then we can finally start looking forward to our two-week growing season.
It astonishes me that Calgarians have the audacity to criticize the English weather.
But fortunately for you I’m not going to do any of that. I’m going to write about Rodney’s Oyster House, in Yaletown, where Roxy and I spent our last evening in Vancouver.
At six o’clock on a Saturday evening it didn’t come as a great surprise that we were given a 40-minute waiting time for a table. Not being overly hungry we happily used the time to wander down to the water with a cup of tea to sit and laugh at the joggers. Why, we wondered, would anyone would want to wreck their experience of this beautiful waterfront by stomping breathlessly and sweatily along it? And they weren’t even being chased!
When we did get into the restaurant we were a little disappointed to be led, not to a table, but to the bar where we were pointed to high stools for the perching on. It only took about 2 second before we realized we’d been given the best seats in the house. Against the wall behind the bar there was a long table covered in ice and about 15 different types of oysters with fascinating names. It was a hive of activity back there, with about 8 young men all joking and jostling; shucking oysters by the gazillion; pouring drinks; steaming mussels right before our eyes and generally providing a show to go with our dinner.
One of the first thing we noticed was all the flirting going on, and the shirts they were wearing, emblazoned with “Suck me Off” in very large letters and “the half shell” in very teeny letters.
One of them tried to sell me the girl’s version which says “Eat me Raw” in very big letters and “from the half shell” in very teeny letters. Tempting as that was, I thought it might not be entirely appropriate attire for a middle aged suburban housewife.
Roxy had mussels in the butteriest white wine sauce I’ve ever tasted (even in France) and I had giant, succulent scallops in a creamy tomato sauce. Both were sopped up with slice after slice of rich, moist sourdough bread.
Despite being full we decided that it would be rude to leave without sharing a banana brulee. I was surprised when it turned out to be a regular creme brulee with a banana grilled on the top, but I would definitely hesitate to use the word ‘disappointed’ as it was the perfect sweet, creamy way to end the meal.
By the time we left we were a tiny bit pickled, and very satisfied with our choice of restaurant. And at around $15-18 for an entree it was actually quite reasonably priced. Definitely worth a visit.