Unexpected indoor slip

The alarm got me out of bed at seven fifteen and walking to St Catherine's by half past seven. I expected the ground to be icy, but not wet and slushy. It seems there was a heavy downpour in the night flooding the drains, with a spell of drizzle as it tailed off, turning to sleet and then a light flurry of snow, coating gardens and parked cars. Quite a surprise. There were only five of us for the service, half the usual early Communion congregation. 

Back home for breakfast, then a drive across town to St German's for the eleven o'clock Solemn Mass. Twenty of us instead of the usual thirty. I will miss being here for Christmas. Bless them, they gave me a lovely bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape for a Christmas present.

The road home across town skirting the city centre was far less congested than last Sunday so I was home by one. My lunch was waiting for me, but Clare had gone for a siesta, bearing in mind the demands of the afternoon. We left at two for the drive to Llantwit Major, collecting Mother Frances from the Rectory on the way. I was grateful the air temperature was 3C and the roads ice free. They stayed that way when we drove home in the dark later.

By ten to three all the Fountain Choir singers were in place, attending to lighting and taking a quick run through of some of the pieces, in a warm up session. Then at half past three an audience began to gather. Around a hundred people altogether. Filling the nave. Anna talked them through each of the pieces before we sang, and then we gave it our best effort. It was a spirited performance, flawed by minor errors which Anna and singers may have spotted, but hopefully few of the audience.

Welcoming us at the end of the concert was Philip Morris, retired Archdeacon of Margam, attending with his wife Sheila, a couple we've known for more than fifty years, since I was in St Mike's, when we got to know his parents. Clare taught him English in Whitchurch High, during her first teaching job. They live now in Llantwit and he helps out as I do, most Sundays. He was standing in for Edwin Counsell, Rector, but as a choral music fan would have come anyway. He said it was the first concert of fourteenth century in Llanilltud Fawr anyone could recall. Music from the same century in which the church in its present form was re-built. Our audience was most appreciative which pleased us all. Next Sunday we're singing in St Catherine's, but will there be quite such a good audience I wonder?

We got home at twenty to seven. Before we ate, I had a belated bereavement phone call to make, which I did upstairs. Clare called me down and as I neared the bottom, slipped on the last but one step and my back leg caught on the third step twisting my leg and ankle up behind me. Agony overnight but pain slow to recede. Luckily nothing is broken or torn,  dislocation avoided, and it can bear weight but free movement hurts, so I'm laid up with an aching ankle. I think I'll be limping for a while once I get moving.

While laid up after supper with a foot bandage, an ice pack and a glass of wine, I watch a full length performance of Schubert's 24 song 'Winterreise' cycle on BBC Four. Two youngish musicians Baritone Benjamin Appl and pianist James Baillieu  perform in a pop-up theatre on top of the 2,250 m Julier Pass in the Swiss Engadine, built as a temporary structure for a series of summer festivals. It cannot be used in winter for public performances due to snow, but the recital was filmed in and around the place, with the singer role playing Schubert walking in the snowy wastes in between indoor shots. An unusual arty music video lasting 90 mins, with a few clips of musicians talking with shining eyes. A lovely distraction from the unpleasant discomfort of my twisted ankle.