As you know, gentle reader, that Mrs Davey and I go for singing lessons to our local municipal music school. For us both it's a "get involved, make friends and improve your French" thing, and for me it offers cheap breathing training (I'm asthmatic).
There is a financial cost, though not a large one as the lessons are short and subsidised by the municipality, but there's another kind of cost, too. Now and then you have to sing. I mean, in front of people.
Last year we all had to take an exam; Three Daveys in a row. Catrin sang some lyric thing about victory, Pat sang a song called Syracuse and I did a bit from Figaro.
This year Catrin couldn't continue because of her university course but Pat and I were scheduled to sing a duet. I found something that vaguely fitted our range - a setting of "It was a lover and his lass" by Vaughan Williams, where Pat was to sing the low voice line and I the high voice. I don't have a high voice, but with a bit of volume I could squawk it out reasonably.
We had our first rehearsal with the pianist. It went OK. We came back hoarse and all sang out. I checked my diary for the following day.
"Darling. You know our grand concert debut. When is it?" ... "And when is your flight to England?"
Pair of chumps. Maestro Sechet was displeased.
The situation seemed irredeemable.
"What if Alan sang alone?"
So it is that this evening I have my grand operatic debut solo, singing the same piece what I done last year for my exam. The poor pianist is having to almost sight-read, but she's a trooper. We hammered our way through it a couple times last night and, as I tell myself, no-one will die. I shall channel Bryn Terfel, though my voice doesn't have his size, of course.