Thursday was a busy day.  I had two jobs on, a funeral reception at noon and La Bohème in the evening.  It was one of the hottest days of an exceptionally hot summer.  With a to do list the length of my leg, I got myself into a bit of a state the night before.  On Tuesday I heard of the cruelly untimely death of a lovely colleague who was only in her thirties, a car incident.  My head won't quite deal with it, it's too close to home.  I keep seeing her beautiful face and laughing eyes.  A true professional and a brightly quirky ray of sunshine, she had recently met a man and she seemed very happy.  It has tainted my week and beyond with an unshakeable sorrow.  I was meant to be working with her the week after next.

I am often told I leave ridiculously early for work.  Setting off at 7.30 to make a journey that should take an hour and forty, I was optimistic that I'd arrive at my coastal destination and maybe even have time for a stroll on the beach and a toe dip in the sea before starting to play at midday.  It was the day the lorry crashed into the bridge on the M6.  I arrived at the hotel a hot bothered heap just after 1, my record of over thirty years of never being late for work tarnished by a motorway.  The M6 and M62 are at the top of my list of least favourite motorways (I don't think I have a favourite, not in this country anyway), and in 2010 I pranged my car on the latter on my way to Leeds for the opening night of La Bohème.  Maybe there's something about me and Puccini operas.  I still got there with time to spare though.

I wish I'd had time to take in the simple elegant beauty of the art deco hotel where the funeral reception was being held.  I had been a prisoner of the unnatural air-conned ambience of my hot cramped sardine tin car for the worst part of 6 hours.  My relief was immense at the contrast between this and the cool dark interior of the lobby and the sea views presented in all their glory through the dizzyingly high glass walls.  The pure candour of potent lilies placed on plinths was refreshing.  There was a giddy feel of the Great Gatsby about everything.  

Death has been an underlying theme this week.  It's something we avoid thinking about and it can become a preoccupation.  Take La Bohème, the opera I've been working on.  It whisks you through a whirlwind of emotions that change from exuberant joy to tragedy in an instant and of course, Mimi dies at the end.  One of the most popular operas of all time, it's clear that its theme and characters are relevant and resonate with most people.  Bohème always brings up thoughts of my Dad and his premature death when I was 27.  A loyal member of the town choir in his retirement and with a love and passion for music to rival my own, he would have been blown away by Puccini.  How many conversations I've wished to have with him, and how our relationship would have grown with our mutual maturity.  There is regret but that's just how it is.  In the brief time I spent at the funeral do on Thursday, I heard the popping of corks and saw people enjoying their canapés, the expression in their eyes covert, mysteriously shaded by their sunglasses.  There isn't just sorrow at a funeral, thankfully it's a celebration of a person's life and how much richness they brought to ours.  The nostalgia was tangible.

It's nearly my birthday and nowadays they're more a time for reflection as well as looking forward.  As I review my year and think back to where I was twelve months ago, five, ten, twenty years ago, I think and feel it's ok to be where I am now.  I often feel I'm in a limbo state, neither here nor there, and learning to live with that is where my challenge lies.  Like driving, there's a feeling of urgency about getting somewhere instead of just saying what the **** and embracing the crap, and recognising the magic moments.  Sometimes I can't see them unless they grab me firmly and smack me in the face.  Take the funeral for example.  All I could see on Thursday was the disappointment at letting people down and the stress of such a horrendous journey.  Now, with a step back, a day off and some breathing space, I remember the staff who were calmly efficient and helpful, and the daughter of the deceased who was sympathetic and understanding and gave me a hug when I arrived with my flustered apologies while my harp was roasting away in the car.  Then there's the lady who complimented me on my crazy trousers and another lady who thanked me for my music.  An extra special mention goes to the hotel guest who offered to help me move my harp and gave me a hug after we had both tried to work out an alternative route to the alternative route that lay snaking menacingly ahead of me.  

A major magic moment turned out to be the route I eventually took through the Forest of Bowland, a damn finer sight than the miserable offerings of that unmentionable motorway.  After driving like I haven't for about ten years, I allowed my focus to shift to the breathtaking goosebump views that awaited after the long zig-zag climb up steep swirling B-roads in my heavily laden car.  Driving through quaint deserted picture book villages with their immaculate askew architecture and lifestyle magazine cottage gardens made me vow to return for a day trip on a road less travelled.  I apologised for disturbing the peace as I slowed through the village.

Unforeseen events like this also bring the worst out in people.  Take the man in the red prestige car who decided it was a good idea to drive within touching distance of mine as we went winding our way along the canopied backroads on the scenic route.  At a safe convenient moment I decelerated and indicated for him to pass.  He honked angrily at me as he zoomed past in his hurry to get to his destination.  I admit to a certain smugness while driving a safe distance behind him as I caught up to the slow moving queue we had now both joined which continued for the next 10 miles.  Who knows?  Maybe he was rushing to hospital?  He certainly risked lives and limbs.  I saw him negotiate a junction by crossing in front of another moving car with milliseconds to spare.  From this point, having shouted and sobbed myself almost hoarse, I felt a sense of acceptance fall over me.  I had phoned the opera fixer and discussed possible options and I was doing everything within my means to get there safely in time.  I stopped looking at the clock and the Satnav timer.  Even if I just made it for the second half, I was determined I'd get there.  I did.  With 23 minutes to spare.  I tuned, got changed, put on some lipstick, got harp 2 out of the hot car to the cooler backstage area and blocked everything out as I got on with Puccini.  Thank god for music!