The Paternal Optimist returned to Geneva last night, and now has the luxury of a few hours' peace before the arrival this evening of Missy, the Surfer Dude, and of course the Boy wonder himself, for a few days of skiing - just the time, in fact, to write a brief résumé of his long Christmas weekend spent back in Blighty.
Dinner at the Palazzo Lovebird on Christmas Eve lived up to expectations and more. The welcome was warm, the food delicious as always, and the Palazzo was - well, palatial. The PO once lived in a mansion flat - a description it earned by virtue of being, well, a flat in an old Victorian mansion building. The Palazzo Lovebird, with its fifteen or twenty foot high ceilings and its huge bay windows with views over the whole of South London, could properly be described, I think, as a mansion flat, because, well, it's a flat as big as a mansion. After the shoebox - so-called, because it was, in fact, a box built entirely of shoes - in which Missy and the Surfer Dude lived previously, it's nice to see them ensconced somewhere where they could swing a decent-sized catamaran, let alone a cat.
Christmas Day was a sober aff- ... hang on, no it wasn't really. The Boy Wonder very intelligently got his seasonal greetings in nice and early with a late morning phone call, before the PO, the Recluse, the Principal and the Lovebirds had managed to quaff too much pop. But with such formalities out of the way, the Usual Suspects set about being very festive indeed. Present-opening was accompanied by salmon and blini and a spot of bubbly - everyone seemed pretty happy with their respective hauls and there was only one redundant present (the Recluse offered the Principal an English translation of one of Fred Vargas' novels, which the Principal had already bought herself - proving that the PO's book recommendations on A Flickering Light are fast becoming a serious rival to Oprah and Richard & Judy). As for the Christmas meal, the Principal once again did us proud, and we were reminded yet again of how superior goose is to turkey in every respect.
Having already drunk our way through copious quantities of champagne and fine wine, there was clearly only one thing to do on Christmas evening : play a wine-tasting game. When I said earlier that there was only one redundant present, this was true - but only because one can obviously never have too many wine-tasting games. Extraordinarily, both the Lovebirds and the PO had spotted what they thought was the ideal game for the family that has everything, and we found ourselves with a choice between an English version - which seemed to involve drinking as much as possible, then attempting to describe what one had drunk, using only gardening terms (freshly cut grass, lime mix, worm treat, etc.) - and a French version - which seemed to involve sniffing and identifying as many sample aromas as possible. Naturally, we chose the version that involved drinking.
Fortunately, the quality of the wines kindly donated by the Lovebirds for the occasion (an introductory box set of four mini-bottles illustrating the diversity and complexity of the wines of the Pays d'Oc - a Christmas gift from one of Missy's pupils) rendered the playing-field a little more level than it might have been had we been tasting "proper" wines. The PO was thus able to recognise the hint of cardboard in the Cabernet Sauvignon just like everyone else, and his oenological ignorance was not exposed as it might have been.
For the record, the Principal wiped the floor with us, and shortly afterwards, a rare performance of the little known Snoring Quartet for bass, tenor and two altos by Harrison Birtwistle (which, incidentally, is an anagram of "with 'orrible strains") was given in the living-room.
On Boxing Day - that's December 26th for any friends of Our American Cousins : the day on which we traditionally present the tradesmen who have served us so loyally throughout the year with a good box around the ears to remind them of their place - the PO drove up to the dark and dangerous region known as the Midlands to pick up the Boy Wonder, who had just about survived a day surrounded by no fewer than one hundred and twenty-six cousins, half-cousins, and other assorted fictitious relations. Before leaving for London, the PO was treated to a wonderful impromptu (if heavily prompted by the Mother Superior) concert by the BW (on piano and viola) and his sister Button (on piano and violin).
Back in London later that evening, a second round of present-opening took place, the highlight of which, at least from the Paternal Optimist's highly biased point of view, was undoubtedly the delivery of the present the existence of which the Laughing Buddha had unwittingly revealed some weeks earlier. Before you listen to it, please bear the following things in mind : first, this is an eleven-year-old playing; second, only a week before this performance, the eleven-year-old concerned returned from three weeks travelling in Asia with the PO; third, he had never had a performance recorded before in his life, and had not been warned that this would be the case on this occasion; fourth, this is a piece that lasts over six minutes - a long piece indeed for a boy who is still littler than I sometimes remember. Sure, there are four or five technical mistakes in the performance, but I am sure like me you will marvel at the feeling and the musicality, the subtleness of the dynamics and the lightness of touch. This, certainly, was the best Christmas present the PO could possibly have wished to receive : the BW plays Mozart's Fantasie in D minor.
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