It's almost impressive the way half an inch of snow can paralyse the whole of London. We were off doing a recital at Blackheath Halls, and about fifteen people made it because the tubes were dead, the trains wounded, the buses maimed and the pavements slithery. All power to those who battled their way inclemently to hear four harps playing "Celtic Springtime". A dubious choice in the circumstances, but hopefully the quaver rhythms which I'm told evoke rising of springy sap warmed their hands and hearts.
It had been a day of cold weather disasters. I got off to a fine start when I turned on a tap to wash my hair and couldn't turn it off again. Nonetheless, it was nice to see Jason, our fabulous plumber, and at least I am now a harpist who can also change a washer. A brief period of serenity followed until I went to load the harp into the car. The bl***y boot jammed shut - so it was off to the garage for more emergency maintenance services. We did the gig - that was the easy part - then it was time to ride home. More hitting, swearing and prodding released the car boot, but it wasn't until I realised that in the dark we were using hairspray, and not de-icer, that we began to make progress.
My friend J. fared similarly when she left her flat, salon-perfect hair, gorgeous evening frock, apotheosis of harping loveliness. Then the blizzard knocked her harp sideways and, you've-been-framed style, she's on CCTV grovelling around in Battersea's finest sludge, trying to get 10 stone of ornate wood upright against the hurricane force wind.
You see, if we'd been flautists, we'd have been in sensible walking trainers and be high-hoing happily to work without a care. That's another thing. I should wear practical waterproof overalls complete with useful rope attachments to move harp, or at the least, flat shoes.
Shoes are interesting for harpists. You have so much pedalling to do, the idea is that you wear a carefully-selected, round-toed, thin-soled court shoe, with a discreet heel for anyone slightly short-footed. I did have a pair like that, but the heel snapped on my Christmas show in the middle of "Be A Santa", and since then, I've been using some virtiginous pointy stillettoes I got in Spain for about a tenner, but which still look spanishly elegant and exciting (why is there nothing like that on Chapel Market?).
They are officially temporary but even though I'm five eleven I think I might have become addicted to teetering about. Yesterday I got these fab croc platforms in the Hobbs sale, thirty-five pounds from a hundred and five, what a bargain, an investment, you might even call it. J. reckons I'll be able to play in them. So far I am mastering walking up and down stairs but it's only a small step from that to the Debussy Dances.
And, of course, to climbing into a boot from the passenger door, picking a tailgate lock, wrestling a harp into it through a blizzard and then fighting the elements with a can of Pantene Firm Hold. Who needs sensible shoes when you've got pro-vitamin B5.
