Both had a good afternoon out.

I sang with the choir on Sunday afternoon and frolicked once again amongst the treasures of the little church of Heisville. I stood in the line of Altos to the left of Ann, in front of Veronique and behind Solange with the tenors on my deaf side. Of all the Altos,  I am the only justified volunteer to stand against the men as I am unaffected by their rhapsody in base. They are in real need of new blood to flourish their numbers, but always manage to hold their own when the chips are down or the crochets are up which ever way you want to view the situation. So there I was in line for voice warm up when I saw at the far end of the isle over the front entrance this delightful statue of Joan of Arch. My Belgian Aunt, Bayia, often talked about the story and how the French would never forgive the English for murdering good old Joan. Bayia’s passion and reverence on the subject has always had me fascinated as to why they might hold a grudge and frankly, I must confess that  if the real Joan was as pretty and powerful looking as this statue then I too would never forgive they, who did her in.

As we mingled into place the audience assembled and we sat, all fifty of us waiting for the last of the stragglers to take their seats. A long haired cultured gentleman walked to the front and sat in one of the private pews that would have been reserved for the gentry of the time. Veronique was sat next to me and exclaimed that the long haired hippy type in the front row was a great musician, renowned and respected for his talent and I could see she was a bit twitchy in his presents, perhaps like the Simon Cowell of the choir world she was scared of his opinion of our promised performance. I turned to Ann and past on the information in a whisper but she simply replied that she loved the French word for Magician and as she was sat on my deaf side I let the comment go but wondered throughout the performance, which was rather good if I may say so myself , that Ann thought the long haired gentleman was a magician and not a musician and perhaps she was expecting a white rabbit and a pair of doves to embellish the afternoons program. As Ann, Sarah and I  dawdled back to the Mairie in the afternoon sun for the traditional pot d’amity after the concert we fell about laughing like a gang of school girls at the translation mishap and the possibilities of the error. I asked a little boy what French magicians say for abracadabra. He was a little concerned and confused as to why an aging chorister might ask him such a question and replied c’est pareil, I remarked to Ann what a very non magical word to use and she was unable to contain herself as she tried to explain that the word pareil means “the same”, well I knew that!  and then tried to say abracadabra with a French accent, we both went into a silly giggle again and needless to say both had a good afternoon out.