Ding that dang.
11:48 p.m.
One of the pieces on the programme was Gershwin�s American in Paris, and I sat through it trying to remember Gene Kelly�s last name. I went through all the various Genes of Hollywood pictures, and finally, when it was over, I leaned over to Hubby and had to ask him, whereupon he told me and I felt like an idiot. Kelly, of course! They also played Walking the Dog by Gershwin from the Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers film Shall we Dance. It was so charming. Gershwin was a genius orchestrator. The Weber was with solo clarinet, and while I found that the clarinettist was really very fine (he also soloed in the second Gershwin piece), I found the music like pocket lint, you know, a bit of fluff. C�est la vie. But the Dvorak was excellent. And the English horn solo in the third movement was so exquisitely beautiful. Weepingly beautiful.
At the reception afterwards I kissed Georges� wife Chantal and now I smell of her perfume. It�s not one I would have chosen, I think it�s Lanc�me. Phew. I�m very particular about my scents. My dollars and cents. Georges was happy I had received my cheque, and of course the joke about being able to feed and my clothe my poor hungry and naked children had to make the rounds again. This time I was chatting with Alston and mentioned that I had some extra money I could have played the stock market with it and he, this being his hobby since he has retired, informed me that yesterday he could have made me a fair bit of profit because today the markets soared. Right. Like I really know about these things.
Anyway, I just had to write about the concert before I crawl into my shell for the night. I love living here, being on the edge of the country where the air is clean and the streets are safe and I�m not excessively worried about my kids getting into trouble. But every so often I long for the culture of the big city. Triple dang!
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