It’s a few days after Christmas and the house is quiet and empty, just how I don’t truly like it. All three kids had been home with us since Christmas Eve, but have now returned to their respective flats, and the house is suddenly silent and lifeless. In a while Ben and I will settle back into the groove of the two of us, but for this brief period home feels a little sad, and the fragments of Christmas mess left lying around – half-empty boxes of fancy biscuits, an unopened chocolate orange, a small pile of presents – give the impression of a place that has been abandoned in a hurry.
We need to get out, and luckily Ben has booked two tickets for one of the Sunday morning concerts at the Wigmore Hall. They’re a regular fixture – hour-long performances by solo players or small ensembles – and I’ve been before. This time it’s a piano recital, and given my recent rediscovery of my own skills in this area (ahem), I am ready to be transported into the worlds of Franck, Liszt and Poulenc.
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