Rrrrr-ex tremendae majestatis

Jenny and I are just back from a singing tour of northern France, having participated in no fewer than four renditions of Verdi’s Requiem. The concerts took place in Amiens, Compiègne and twice over in Rennes, all of which were sell-outs. We, the English, sang music composed by an Italian, alongside two French orchestras, an international array of soloists and the maestro himself was from de Nederland.

There was little to grumble about, with transport and accommodation costs taken care of, and even a small daily allowance for beer (and potentially food to soak up said beer) which, given the thirsty nature of performing the Dies irae and Rex tremendae sections, seemed only reasonable.

As luck would have it, I was in the front row of the choir, immediately behind the timpani and a ginagerous Verdi bass drum …

Percussion and basses – I’m the one underneath the 19:21

But two relatively minor incidents provided food for thought on the French economy.

1. Whilst in Rennes, we stayed at a hotel on the city outskirts – picture roundabouts and airports. Given that Saturday’s concert started at 8pm, Jenny and I decided that we’d spend the morning in the city centre, then walk homeward and have a late lunch near the hotel. We managed to locate the only eating establishment in that area of the Rennes which hadn’t closed down, the Brasserie Pizzeria Marius. We arrived at 3pm, with the restaurant almost full, and our pockets full of euros, raring to go at a bleu steak et frites, but we were greeted with “FINI!”, accompanied by a trace of smug amusement at our misfortune and the familiar gesture with the raised palms of hands moving apart. But, but surely, even in France, pizza bars stay open on Saturday afternoon? NON! So back to the hotel room to eat supermarket bread and cheese instead. French economic recovery delayed a bit more.
2. Nor was that all (as Augustus Carp would say). On the ferry from Calais to Dover, Jenny attempted to continue reading the story of The Talking Parcel to me. We sat in a virtually deserted area at the back of the ferry and she began reading. But everything was spoiled by a cascade of loudspeaker announcements which sought (unsuccessfully) to persuade us to buy several things we didn’t need or want, but particularly bottles of absurdly expensive 25-year-old Chivas Regal single malt. The only reason we were given (over and over again) for buying it, was that it was cheap compared to “high street prices”. Next we were told relentlessly that it was “happy hour, happy hour” (crossing time: around one hour) and that a hot drink and pastry were available in the bar at the front of the ship on level seven. And so the bullying continued all the way to Dover. It was utterly barbaric, and a powerful advertisement for DFDS’s subterranean competitors.

So we were victims of both “you want it, but you can only have it when we say you can” and “you obviously don’t want it, but we’re going to try to make you have it anyway”.

Dona eis Requiem those who expect to be treated as a customer, not as “the consumer”.