Why does spring remain unsprung?

Hubby has been asked to write an opera. He wrote one a long time ago for the Canuck Operatic Society when I was pregnant with Buddy Boy. In fact, it was premiered just two weeks after his entry into society. It hasn’t been reprised; I’m not quite sure why. It was only a one-act, one-hour project as part of a composer-in-residence programme which entailed many long trips in the car to the city of my birth while I was expanding with child.

But that was then and this is now. The people who are commissioning this opera want to send him to see a play by a certain playwright which is being performed in Boston and Chicago. I just got all excited at mention of the latter city because there are certain diarists I would love to meet in the flesh should we go to that particular metropolis (this is assuming I accompany him, of course), but he is leaning towards the former, as it is much closer in distance to us. He could drive there in four to five hours, while the other requires travelling by air. Still, you never know.

We were a quartet at recorder group practice this morning, and much good work was done on the Mozart. I actually took charge, admonishing our alto player to quit fooling around, something he does every time we stop playing. We played our parts in pairs, perfecting them before putting them back together again as written. It made quite a difference. We’re cutting the minuet and trio. Hubby, who is running the ensemble class, would have cut it anyway, and this way we can spend more time on the other movements.

In Latin we started translating one of Virgil’s Ecl0gues, a conversation consisting of insults between an old shepherd and a young man, mostly sexual in nature. Okaaaay. I must say we have very lively and lewd discussions for a classics class.

Oh, the weather. It totally sucked today. First it seemed milder, then it snowed profusely, then it rained. I give up. I’m moving somewhere warm.

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