Singing and Fighting

I can't sing. I like to open my voice and bellow something which my brain thinks is a tune, but if I actually listen to myself when the sound

comes out, I have a sensation that might be described as minor nausea. Other people don't like to hear me sing. The Other Half gives me a piteous, begging look when I, very occasionally burst into song.

You get the point. I don't like to sing. I don't want to sing. Other people don't want me to sing. But we have a day's singing class. George, our elfin music teacher, is full of enthusiasm and energy and gets us to produce a loud noise that sounds fairly tuneful to my uneducated ears, as I enunciate as quietly as I can. Milt, beside me, who has form when it comes to singing, makes up for my reticence in a pleasant full tone. So far, so good, but it appears that future lessons are going to involve smaller groups and solos and my sense of discomfort grows.

On the bus home I find myself sitting next to Bethany. She is - believe it or not - Welsh and of course she can sing. I make a minor comment about today's class and unwittingly provoke an outburst - well, Bethany is sweet and polite and her outbursts are about as offensive as a vicar's wife saying "bother!" when she accidentally decapitates the cat - an outburst about George's teaching technique which, in B's opinion is wrong, wrong, wrong. She begs me not to tell anyone in the class and I promise not to do so. I also silently promise myself not to tell her about this blog...

Next day, stage fighting. It's fun as we mock slap, punch, eyepoke, strangle and abuse each other and practise being slapped, punched, eyepoked, strangled and abused. At one stage I have Kitty, our motherly Canadian (that's being premature, she's too young to be motherly, but you know at one point in her life she's going to have a full-time career and a kitchen full of her own and the neighbour's kids and she'll be dispensing wisdom as fast as she can hand out cookies) on the floor with my hands round her throat and I'm shouting "Die, bitch!". Milt the Builder, points out that I did that rather well and I comment that it brought back a lot of good memories...

But the real acting comes when a group of us are in the pub afterwards. It's a pleasant place, with comfortable seats and background (not OVERLOUD) music and we're chatting about the course and life. I'm playing the role of a straight man (as in sexual, not comedic), by which I don't mean that I'm talking about Birds and Getting My Leg Over, but I'm having an ordinary conversation with a group of people who do not appear to be gay in orientation. Which is unusual in my life and the lives of many of my friends, because as we get older, we tend to settle into groups of like-minded people who think and live the way we do. So no matter how critical of the course I and others might be (why is there so much movement and voice; why don't we spend more time doing different scenes learning how to develop character?) I'm enjoying these three weeks because it's bringing me new friends and insights into other people's lives  -  of which more anon.