This last week has been a bit of a nightmare but, thankfully, the worst is over now. All I’m left with is residual pain, although that’s quite severe enough, and being barred from drinking until next weekend because of a really nasty antibiotics that I’m taking.
Anyway, I guess I should get back to the complicated story of a schoolboy musician and broken rugby player. To be honest there isn’t a great deal to say about the remainder of the winter term. After the sheer wonder of performing at the Royal Festival Hall everything else seemed flat and rather pointless.
We did a shortened version of Messiah for the school Christmas concert but with only 30 odd singers and the school orchestra it was frankly dull. We sang well and did our best but there just wasn’t the same intensity and I found myself in the middle of a power struggle between choir and orchestra. In the end I took my life in my hands and made my choice, I sang.
There was actually more enjoyment in the trip that our Choirmaster organised to sing carols on every ward of the local hospital and the audience, even though most of them weren’t feeling terribly festive, were wonderfully appreciative.
At church I moved from my accustomed position in the front row, nearest the congregation, to the back row to sing tenor in the choir. It felt weird, being such a short-arse, standing in the back row completely dwarfed by the men.
Christmas and New Year dealt with it was back to school and another term of standing on the touchline, shivering and wishing more than ever that I could play. The sympathy and respect that injury brought had well and truly expired and now really helpful epithets like “spaz” were starting to be thrown my way.
Thankfully I had music to comfort me and the more my Form “mates” tried to make me feel inadequate the more I withdrew to the sanctuary of choir and orchestra. I had grading exams coming up again, the County Youth Orchestra to attend and more instrumental lessons a week than was easily manageable now that it had been decided that learning piano was an absolute must.
As an added bonus I got my customary winter cold which tried its hardest to become something worse and copped the best part of a week off school which I thoroughly enjoyed. Comfort food and the isolation of my bed were just about everything I could hope for.
As I headed towards my 15th birthday and the end of term, harsh reality poked its head up again, a letter arrived from St Richard’s with my appointment at the orthopaedic clinic. The letter was addressed to my parents of course, at nearly 15 there was no reason why I should have any input or consideration.
The appointment wasn’t until after the holiday so I’d be 15 before I finally saw the consultant and, hopefully, got permission to start playing rugby again. Not that rugby would happen for a long time anyway, summer term meant cricket, athletics and the hated swimming.
Before that, however, there was another residential course to attend, a week of intensive choral work during the Easter holiday. There was to be no repetition of the Lodge Hill incident this time. My girlfriend, I was still in heroic denial about my true feelings, announced that she’d be on the course as well.
I couldn’t help wondering if Fenny would be there, that would be an interesting meeting.
We do a great job burying ourselves and our hearts in busy work, until the curtain is ripped away to expose it all to us, in all it’s glorious muck. I can’t wait to hear the rest of the story…
I’m very glad your in much better health now. I hope the meds help to cure you up to at least some degree. And who knows maybe a miracle will happen in the medical world and a permanent cure can be found for your recurring condition! Hey, let me dream a bit, yeah?
Biki
I think that the only miracle cure would be an arse transplant but thanks for the thought
Love
Mac
I can see music is becoming a big and deeper part of your life. Your life is less about interaction with others your age and even less physical. you don’t speak of any emotional desire for “companionship”, so I am curious as to what is happening on that front aside from your “girlfriend”? You did say deep denial, but that implies it is in your mind and your body is trying to tell you something.
Hugs and best wishes,
Scottie
Oh I did a Google search for a “butt Pillow” image to send you but I think maybe it would be better for you to do as some of them are ….wow…..
Scottie
I was always a pretty self sufficient kid and never really thought that making friends was terribly important. That just got reinforced when the bullying started at grammar school and music started taking over my life. I had one very good friend and I wanted that to be a lot more than friendship but at the same time wanted to hang on to my girlfriend as camouflage. As long as we were together the queer insults were just that, petty insults, they were obviously not true. Pure schoolboy logic!
I can imagine what a google search fro “butt pillow” would show but thanks for the thought. It seems the old “doughnuts” we used when I was nursing aren’t around anymore, they certainly don’t have them in the hospital.
Love
Mac
I so wish someone would come up with an antibiotic that works with alcohol. Just a little! Then I could say I need my whiskey on ‘the doctors order’. I have always wanted to say that phrase.
Hope you will get well soon, Mac. Thank you so much for your brilliant stories. Even though the subjects might be tough there’s always a sheer pleasure to read them.
Love
Daniel
Daniel
What a great line that would be!
I guess the nearest I’ve been to prescribed alcohol is when my Mum was pregnant with me and in hospital waiting for me to arrive (late of course), she was given a glass of Guinness every evening as were most pregnant women in those days to “build them up”
The strange thing is I don’t even like Guinness!
Love
Malcolm