A Change of Scene: Part 1

Brussels Grand Place.

I awake at 5am groggy, having spent a restless night not wanting to sleep through the alarm.

My train for Brussels via Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport leaves Strasbourg Central Station at 7am.

I wash, dress and put out the last remaining recycling and household rubbish. I package up the Internet Livebox to be posted on my behalf by my (now former) landlord. He’ll be coming round later that morning to prepare the flat for the next tenant, eager to move in ASAP.

I take a final look around what has been my home for the last two and a half years and give a salute. I drag my diabolically heavy suitcase downstairs. Spare keys are left on the dining table, originals in my old letterbox.

My  transport connections are straightforward, no time-wasting. Yet there are still only mere minutes to spare when I reach Gare Centrale terminus.

I’m leaving Strasbourg today.

I announce to the tram driver, as he steps out of his cabin. We continue to exchange pleasantries.

It’s a shame we didn’t meet before, he commiserates as we say our farewells.

I am leaving one bilingual region with a difficult history for another. One Germanic language (Alsatian) will be replaced by another (Dutch/Flemish) that I don't intend to learn.

En route, I update my blogs and check emails. The day before leaving, I formally notify all the members of my community Gospel choir who are not already aware. My email is accompanied by a personal recorded message of thanks and farewell. Incredibly supportive and affectionate responses pour in over the next few days.

At CdG Airport I log into the daily prayer meeting with Morphē Arts collective. It has been a lifeline since March. The regulars are surprised I've managed to join en route.

I’m exhausted but spend much of the journey unwisely fighting sleep. I finally succumb in the last half hour.

We pull into Brussels Midi Station. So far, so timely. No missed connections or delayed trains. I don't any time purchasing the monthly STIB travel card. I already have a flat viewing scheduled that afternoon. I just need to check in at my hotel in the Schaerbeek area and, if possible, sneak in a snooze.

Easier said than done. I have multiple itineraries (printed off Google maps) and a poor sense of direction. How the heck am I meant to know if I’m heading North-West or South-East? I’m not a bloody sailor.

The most reliable itinerary is locked inside aforementioned heavy suitcase. I’m too afraid to open it, for convenience’ sake. The instructions sent by the hotel turn out to be misleading. They assume I am travelling from Gare du Nord. I discover this the hard way, wandering around the wrong bus station, with its depressing stench of urine. Later, I spot a man emerging from a corner with his fly undone in broad daylight. It’s an unwelcome reminder that much of Brussels is less salubrious and aesthetically charming than its French near-neighbour.

Lugging my merciless suitcase around (not to mention stuffed back pack), I eventually work out a route to the hotel. The best part of my three hour window has been wasted. On the bus to Porte de Namur I finally open my suitcase to check the all but pointless itinerary. I’d have saved an hour if I’d done that sooner. As feared, I struggle to close the case again. A compromise is reached.

My new employers, The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) have put me up in studio flat-style accommodation, including breakfast and a laundry service. The establishment is run by Nik from The Netherlands. He responds to my French with English.

By the time I turn up at the reception I’m a little frazzled. He takes me through the check-in process in fluent but quaint Dutch English. I politely try to speed things along, aware that I don’t have much time before the viewing. I’ve already contacted the landlord to let him know I’m running late.

So you’re here for a month? asks Nik.

Well, for less I hope. I’m flat-hunting

His eyes light up. He was under the impression I was only in town for a short-term mission. He offers to show me available accommodation on the premises. That’s another viewing I can add to the growing list over the coming days.

I have just enough time to alleviate myself of the heavy load before I’m back out again. Not before I take a moment to appreciate the very attractive gigs.

My poor sense of orientation and increasing panic let me down again. I call the landlord, a jovial fellow called Guy, to let him know I have lost my bearings. He suggests a meeting point.
He is keen to show off his English. I am eager to maintain my French.

The accommodation is well equipped but a bit on the old side. The kitchen area is cramped and the bathroom is too close to the bedroom. It wouldn’t be convenient for guests. It’s the sort of place I’d have considered back when I was first flat-hunting in Strasbourg, before I eventually landed on my feet. I’m not looking to upgrade. Just something similar to what I have become accustomed.

I'm reconciled to higher rents. Being a capital, Brussels is more expensive than Strasbourg. However, there is a lot more chance of finding accommodation inclusive of all. I’ve adjusted my expectations accordingly but I will not be ripped off.

The first viewings are underwhelming.

Some flats are poorly lit. Or the kitchen area is too narrow and/or under-equipped. Sometimes it’s just a question of layout. Nik’s turns out to be one of the best of the bunch. The problem is the steep annual incremental rent increase. As with most of what I’ll see in my first few days or weeks, I’d potentially be paying more for less.

(courtesy of https://www.diaspordc.com/) 

I promise Guy I’ll be in touch with a response soon. I send a text the following the day. Sorry, it’s not the right fit.

Shortly after the viewing, curiosity leads me to explore the surrounding area. This is how I come to discover the famous Matonge neighbourhood; Brussels Quartier Africain. Some internal cultural compass instinctively leads me to the Black Quarters of these European cities. I had a similar experience in Strasbourg. Except Matonge is on another level.

Strasbourg’s paltry collection of African/Caribbean grocers and cosmetics suppliers is all the more risible in comparisons. If Brussels prices aren’t as competitive as London, they certainly have the same vast range of stock. Something else I missed in Strasbourg.

Much to my shock, UK Hair & Beauty chains have found their way to Matonge. And, similar to the UK, most of these establishments are run by South Asians. I get talking to Yusef, who moved from the Midlands to help run one of the Brussels-based chains. He explains how the empire has spread from the UK to Europe, buying up some of the competition. The comfort of brand familiarity is in conflict with my inner-socialist.

On one level I feel an instant affinity with the neighbourhood. I am disheartened nonetheless by signs of neglect. Unsightly refuse accumulating on street corners. The grubby condition of certain shops. I wonder if my disappointment/harsh evaluation is some form of internalised racism. Or just a frustration that too often in major European cities, local authorities don’t seem to invest as much in areas where much of the population are migrants from poorer nations. Can the degradation be blamed on divergent cultural norms? Could it be be that residents feel alienated and thus not as enthusiastic about environmental upkeep? Cleanliness is not a preserve of wealthier nations or even wealthy neighbourhoods. Anyone who has spent time in gentrified Shoreditch, East London could emphatically attest to that.

I duck into corners that lead into arcades heaving with activity. Nail shops and hairdressers one end, food vendors and clothes shops the other. Men of all descriptions loiter in groups. I feel the weed-thick air shift when I move into these spaces. As I circle the area, the female proprietors shoot daggers at me. It’s a strangely hostile reaction to a potential customer. Perhaps they already discern I’m a foreigner. Whatever their reasons, I can’t get out of that uninviting environment soon enough. So much for sis’ advice to find a hairdresser. (Thankfully, happenstance will lead me to friendlier and/or more professional-looking salons in the coming week).

I walk the length and breadth of the road, wanting to familiarise myself with the locality should any future guests wish to be escorted. I compare product prices and make a mental note of where to buy gari. By the time I complete this unexpected excursion, I am thoroughly unnerved by the scrutiny of the far-too-many-idle men in the vicinity.

I make another mental note to only come to this neck of the woods when I am on a specific mission.

(Not Quite) Resuming from Where We Left Off…

The rollback of France’ lockdown proceeds according to a traffic light system of green and red zones. As implied, the health crisis is less intense in green zones. Pretty much everything can re-open except eating establishments, cinemas, theatres and other entertainment venues. Strasbourg is in the Grand Est region; one of the worst afflicted in the country; coloured a  bright Code Red. The lifting of restrictions are supposedly less generous. In addition, individual municipalities still have a margin of discretion. Despite libraries technically being permitted to open as of 11 May - the official first day of déconfinement - the local prefecture insist they remain closed until further notice. I’m disappointed but hardly surprised. In its pre-COVID19 existence, the central library - the André Malraux Médiathèque - welcomed hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors per day. It is wishful thinking that this could resume in the current climate.

Returning to the spacious and luminous Médiathèque was nevertheless one of the aspects of post-lockdown life to which I have been most looking forward. My response to the easing back of restrictions has otherwise been apprehensive. Whilst speaking to a friend a few days before déconfinement, I wonder out loud if the Rivetoile shopping centre will re-open; yet another potential (surprising) concession. Either way she is reluctant to visit, she says, intending to maintain a similar level of caution even as prohibitions gradually lift. We both feel a level of unease. A part of me wouldn’t mind a lockdown extension. I acknowledge how twisted that sounds, with so many people needing to return to work. With so many women and children stuck at home, at the mercy of their abusers. Yet my concern for those worst affected in confinement doesn't wholly mitigate my overall trepidation about the hereafter. I come across a brief psychological breakdown that well articulates my ambivalence. A mental health expert tentatively compares lockdown to a prisoner approaching the end of their sentence. As distressing as incarceration is, there is a comfort in its familiarity. By contrast, the outside world is now a frightening unknown.

According to the same programme, this hesitancy is widespread. You wouldn’t know it from footage of customers in France and neighbouring Belgium forming snake-like queues outside department stores. I express my incredulity to my next door neighbour when our paths cross one morning. She can understand the eagerness of shoppers. She too needs to buy season-appropriate clothes for her infant children, hitherto having had to rely on ordering online.

The thought of resuming activity seems to have distracted much of the city, if not the country. I realise that balconies and windows fall silent at 8pm. A few scatterings of applause in the early days of déconfinement, eventually petering out altogether. The efforts of healthcare personnel and others who've kept essential services going aren't in the forefront of the collective consciousness as much.

Post-lockdown blues
(Image courtesy of Elle.fr)

When 11 May eventually rolls round, I have no intention of venturing out. I will slowly adapt to any new routine.  I want to take the lessons learned during lockdown forward into whatever my ‘new normal’ will be. I don’t have to go full throttle every single day.

The following morning however, I avail myself of the newly re-opened outdoor markets for fresh fruit and herbs. Changes are immediately noticeable. Public transport is running close to regular capacity. There are large, obtrusive red and white stickers everywhere designating where we can and cannot sit. More significantly, masks are mandatory on all transport networks. We are warned of impromptu inspections and heavy fines. To my relief, some custom-made fancy face-wear from Japan, courtesy of sis (via mum in the UK), arrives just before the 11 May deadline.

Later that week the local authorities provide each resident with a complimentary mask. Aforementioned friend also offers to drop some off, just in case. I’m grateful for these small but meaningful interventions.

The market is sparsely laid out. Only food stalls are allowed to set up. Physical distancing measures are still in place. It’s all a bit surreal if that still means anything in these quasi-dystopian times.

To my pleasant surprise, I bump into André; one of the security guards formerly of the Malraux Médiathèque. With work at the central library now indefinitely on hold, he hustles a living elsewhere. He’s still in touch with his old colleagues. Rumour has it that the Médiathèque won’t re-open until September, much to my slack-jawed dismay.

My journey continues into the city centre; partly for practical reasons as well as to see how much has changed.  The most obvious difference is the increase in road traffic. There are also more rough sleepers around. I note some familiar faces amongst them. It's as if, post-Lockdown, they've been turfed back out on to the streets en masse. Homelessness doesn't cease to be a problem. It should not once again become acceptable in the 'new normal'.

The Rivetoile shopping centre is busier but not jam-packed. That day however, only hair and beauty salons, opticians and, ahem, Vaping shops are open for business. Hairdressers appear to be doing especially good business. Understandably, we've missed professional grooming.

I stop off at a new butchers/bakers/grocery that launched mid-lockdown. I am quietly impressed by the range, cleanliness and professionalism compared to what came before. The numerous customers around now seem less concerned about physical distancing.

I’ll observe something similar as the week progresses. I step out a few days later for the main weekly shop. Whilst several shutters remain down, I note the doors of many a café, restaurant and clothes retailer are open. This isn't consistent with the prudence required in a Red Zone. For now at least, they are mostly empty.

I make an unplanned stop at a café; one of my old haunts. The young proprietor sports a beard (as do several Caucasian man of all ages these days, I gather). It’s been that long. I thought you weren’t allowed to open? I ask. (Or rather gabble, my lack of regular French conversation still taking its toll.) It’s just for takeaways, he responds.

There has always been the odd eatery which remained open for this purpose. I wonder why so many chose to resume this side of business now and not before. If, as one restaurateur friend informed me, it wasn’t sufficient to cover the overheads with takeaway orders during lockdown, that won’t necessarily have changed. Since proprietors have been patient this long, surely it’s better to wait until the rates of death and infection are lower still. Maybe they'd say I'm being naive.

I am even warier to see all shops re-opened at the Rivetoile; subject to mask-wearing and a squirt of disinfectant at the main entrance. The public are clearly exercising a degree of restraint. Foot traffic is far lower than pre-pandemic. For all my reservations, I decide to book an appointment at my usual beauty salon. My sensitive skin needs looking after. I have a knot at the nape of my neck which could do with a massage.

The staff are kitted out with masks and gloves. The hand sanitiser provided is to be applied by all customers. Facials are suspended until further notice. Service is stripped back to waxes and massages. I take advantage of what’s available. I still can’t shake the feeling that even this purely aesthetic appointment might not be wise.

If I’m conflicted over a more rapid déconfinement than I envisaged, there is one aspect about which I’m unequivocally pleased. Non-essential travel of less than 100 km is now permitted without a permission slip. I am no longer confined to my immediate locality for exercise.

Strasbourg Central Train Station

I use it as an excuse to put on some make-up and head to the Neudorf area; a stone’s throw from the (still closed) German border. An overcast morning has made way for a clear and mild spring day. Perhaps it's too fine a day. Groups of revellers assemble on the forecourt of the empty Malraux Médiathèque to profit from the sun. In the shadow of a possible second viral wave, what would usually be a cheery scene is rather ominous.  Hmm.

I’ve been hankering to spend a few serene moments in St Aloysius church, not having returned since mum’s Christmas visit. Michelle, a friend from HRGS choir, lives in the vicinity. I'll stop by unannounced for a chin-wag from a safe distance.

En route, a woman compliments my decorative mask. If the ubiquity of this protective measure is unnerving, the more imaginative varieties makes the situation a little lighter.

I am slightly indignant to find St Aloysius isn’t completely empty. As if I’m the only one with a right to quiet time in sacred spaces.

 I am distracted by the creakiness of my pew and the muttering of a woman who can’t seem to read in silence. I steal away to a tranquil adjacent prayer room.

My trip to Michelle’s doesn’t go to plan. Not that there really was one.

No-one is home. Even circumspect Michelle is making the most of this new found freedom. I leave a message on her landline. I mention an important update to share. It’ll have to wait until next time.

Soundtrack: Stevie Wonder Birthday Tribute Mix: Part 1 & 2.

April in Lockdown

The end of April marks the first full month in lockdown for several parts of Europe; particularly those that were slower to react to the pandemic. This sombre milestone has brought with it much psychological drain and I am sure I am not the only one.

Holy Week provides a respite from the gloom. Christians find parallels of suffering in the life and Passion of Christ; God amongst us. I come across a number of positive reflections of faith in mainstream media. In the context of COVID-19, there’s not the same wariness and cynicism that might accompany these op-eds.

In the lead up to Easter, there’s an inevitable increase in demand for goods. I end up making two trips, not having had the presence of mind to bring forward my shopping schedule. The supermarket queues are intimidatingly long and stock runs out early. I am also still awaiting a package from the UK that has been re-routed. After a long and futile wait at La Poste (still yet to arrive), I head to the closest supermarket. It’s another long queue in the unusually warm spring sun.

Inside, I see my former boss Lucia from The Human Rights Organisation. She’s one of the last people I’d expect -or want- to come across. It doesn’t help that I’m still in professional limbo.

We don’t make direct eye contact. I decide that I’ll make polite conversation if we do. If nothing else, I'm genuinely concerned for her family in Italy under lockdown. At the same time, I’m too tired and dehydrated to go out of my way to talk. I don’t know whether it’s the ‘right’ Christian response. I can say that it’s sincere.

Easter/Resurrection Weekend is an oasis of hope and spiritual introspection. Having gone vegetarian for Lent, I treat myself to a mixed meat grill; still with a healthy portion of veg. Not long after the holiday, my choir HRGS release their video for the medley demo we recorded late last year. I forward it to family and friends. Sis comments on the timeliness of the upbeat message. None of us could have planned it.

Easter Monday evening, President Macron announces a provisional date to relax some of the lockdown measures; Monday 11 May. If that infamous curve is sufficiently flattened, resumption will still only be tentative. Schools might open but tertiary academic institutions would remain closed, as would cafés, restaurants, bars and clubs.

During the Easter season, I’ve given myself a rare weekend off. Ish. The real world hits the Tuesday morning after.  The return to some sort of routine brings with it fresh anxiety over what lies ahead. The carpet of pink around cherry blossom trees outside my flat signal the end of one of my favourite seasonal transitions. It adds to the melancholy. Sigh.

Later that week, I meet some church sisters online for a cyber aperitif. They rather glibly speak of the possibility that internal borders in Europe will remain closed until autumn. They are, for some reason, surprised at my horrified reaction. I was aware that southern European borders might be closed for that length of time. That's understandable given the severity of the crisis in Spain, Italy and yes France. I’d hoped there might eventually be freer circulation in North Western Europe. Both from a personal and professional perspective, the idea of not being able to move beyond the French frontier for most of the year fills me with some dread.

After the call I pray. I phone my mother, in need of her stoicism. My mood nevertheless goes on a downward spiral. I feel more cut off geographically and psychologically as weeks go by. Cleaning my guest bathroom has become an act of faith. I don’t know if and when I’ll next have someone round to stay before I have to move on from Strasbourg. Whenever that might be.

The prolonged locked down is having contradictory effects on my psyche. On one hand, I feel the isolation more acutely and recognise my need for human contact in whatever form. And yet I find myself reluctant to speak on the phone.

When I do bump into people from my Strasbourg network, I feel caught off guard. One sunny Saturday afternoon, stepping out for my daily ramble before night fall, I run into a neighbour and then a member of my choir within the space of a short jaunt. It triggers a neurotic crisis over my French. I’m gabbling. I’m dressed in any old thing. I'm feeling less confident without make-up. Or rather, more exposed. I refuse to be a slave to cosmetics during lockdown. It seems pointless to apply make-up when my only trips are to the shops or a walk around the neighbourhood. I’ve all but abandoned it. However, judging from my (over)reaction on that particular occasion, I’m not as liberated as I thought.

(courtesy of Le Monde)

Out in the wider world, some are putting their faith in #11Mai. The population is growing restive, particularly in neighbourhoods where the majority don't have the luxury of working from home and/or live in cramped conditions. There are pockets of civil unrest, following an incident in which a policeman allegedly caused a motorcyclist to collide with his patrol car on purpose. Meanwhile, others scrutinise France’s own mismanagement of the crisis; namely the lack of responsiveness since at least the early January pandemic warnings. During his Easter Monday speech Macron positions himself with the public; somewhat indignant about the shortage of PPE. As if the country’s lack of preparedness for the crisis was a policy decision with which he had nothing to do with.

There are nonetheless those who are relieved to have a focal point on their calendar for deconfinement. On entering a newsagents, having gone through the meticulous social distancing requirements, I overhear presenters on a radio show prematurely celebrating an ‘end in sight’.  Guests interviewed on talk shows from their homes are already being asked what their post-11 May plans are.

They’re not the only ones counting their chickens. I note a number of non-essential businesses have re-opened. In France, wine shops and cheese makers might be considered 'essential'; a part of the national heritage. It's however more difficult to justify when such products can be acquired at the supermarket. I spot a (masked) optician, welcoming an (also masked) client into their empty and darkened premises. I note a café I used to visit on occasion has converted itself, rather dubiously, to get around current restrictions. Whether Turkish pastries count as indispensable at this time would be harder to defend, if some French patisseries weren't also circumventing the lockdown.  Other arguably essential services that opted to close up early on in the lockdown are cautiously opening their doors again, albeit for fewer hours.

(courtesy of HansLucas.com)

Whilst my French church are prudent in announcing a possible return to services offline in the summer, the main protestant church in my vicinity organises unofficial nightly services. I come across one such during an early evening walk. I plan to spend some time of quiet contemplation, alone in the pews. Should the urge to sing overtake me, as it has before, the acoustics are fantastic. To my slight dismay I see a handful of parishioners scattered around the premises. The vicar is in full regalia. I hover, wondering whether to enter. Curiosity gets the better of me. I slip into the back; half-expecting the authorities to shut down proceedings at any moment. A song is raised in Latin. Four-part acappella harmonies ricochet off the walls. In that blissful moment, my apprehension is suspended. I ask myself if this has been rehearsed. It’s rare in any setting to find that kind of spontaneous but accomplished musicality.

After grace, my quick exit is interrupted when the pastor gingerly heads towards the door. I can't resist asking him why he’s holding a service, considering the current prohibition.

After ironically making a great show of keeping a safe distance, he explains how he’s getting around the restrictions by way of a technicality.

Places of worship can still remain open, he reasons. There are of course people like yourself who might wander in. It’s an informal moment of prayer...

As much as I've benefited from this illicit gathering,  I won't take the risk of attending any more.

I hear some are growing weary of cyber-activity. I am not one of them. As I discover speaking to a few of my UK church family, some of us are welcoming the break from the usual, often hectic, Sunday routine.

Between the tears and mild panic attacks, there are plenty of informative webinars and online fellowship to keep my mind and soul occupied. I don’t mess with the daily devotionals, online prayer meetings or weekly socialist campaign updates. These are lifelines without which, I am convinced, soundness of mind would have gone out the window.

Soundtrack: Alewa by Santrofi, It Is What It Is by Thundercat.

Arrested Activity

I hesitated over whether it was worth updating this blog for the time being. I, like most of the world, am under some form of house arrest in an effort to slow down the spread of the COVID-19 virus. It’s not as if much of the novel and unexpected can occur in these circumstances.

In many ways my routine is similar to what it was before the pandemic. I have been in between jobs. I continue to look for employment – albeit even more of a challenge in this climate- and work on personal development. The difference is I can't do the same extra-curricular activities to help shift perspective if and when I feel overwhelmed. When people ask how I am, I'd rather not respond. If pushed, I’ll say I’m taking a day at a time. It depends. Some days are better than others, I admit. I imagine most would agree.

The mismanagement of the crisis across the Channel and elsewhere only heightens my stress levels. On the phone, my mother recounts stories of individuals still flouting the relatively relaxed UK lockdown recommendations.

Hardly surprising given the mixed messages from the top. Mum is still obligated to go into the office, given the nature of her civil service department. She’s accosted by (sometimes overzealous) police one day, and told she needs to have an exemption form on her person. 

That’s been the reality in France now for weeks. Not having a printer, I carry my handwritten version of the required permission slip everywhere. Oddly enough, I’m yet to be stopped. I endeavour to make the most of the one hour of daily exercise allowed, under ever stricter rules of confinement. The weather has been mercifully fine. A source of comfort and ruefulness given that it can’t be enjoyed in the same way.

I look forward to the weekly shop, being a chance to get out into the elements. Mid-week mornings are sane and the foot traffic isn’t heavy-except in the lead up to Easter. I'm surprised by the relative serenity of one budget supermarket in town. Whilst in the dairy section, I hear a young woman cough. I lock eyes with a man nearby on his phone; a mutual look of dread. Then, in a flash, we burst out laughing. No words needed for the absurdity of this new reality.

The following week, it is less relaxed. When trying to return an item for which I’ve requested a refund, the previously civil cashier becomes terse. Seeing that I’ll have to walk past him, an elderly man belligerently asks me where I’m heading. I try to explain in gabbled French, caught off guard. I implore him to be kind in spite of the tense situation we all find ourselves in. He ignores me.

Going out now feels like a mixed blessing. I noted at first that the ambiance was distinctly more hostile if I stayed in my vicinity. Whilst lining up outside one supermarket a masked woman behind me, already at a safe distance, leans back with exaggerated wariness when I turn around. Her behaviour is especially bizarre given that I have not moved closer. More so since, standing behind me, it is for her to determine whether there's sufficient distance between us. Her behaviour is similarly irrational whilst inside the shop. It makes me irritable. I question her mental state.

It’s indicative of the sour mood enveloping society as the health crisis stretches into spring. Admittedly, it’s the older population who have been most uncharitable. Understandable, given their mortality rate is higher if infected, yet not entirely excusable.

It would be unfair however to claim it’s just the elderly who are more dog-eat-dog these days. In one supermarket, a beleaguered young shop assistant gives a customer a death look when she squeezes past him. She’s impatient but doesn’t seem unkind. She should have waited or asked to be excused. He should have been more conscious of his surroundings. 

I can’t blame those who are forced to keep civilisation going during the pandemic if they are not full of bonhomie. It can be a thankless job. I try to be more expressive of my gratitude to the medical staff, shop assistants, security guards and cleaners who are potentially putting theirs and their families health in jeopardy to run essential services. They would say they have no choice. Still, credit where it’s due. That’s why I endeavour never to miss the daily 8pm salute; pot and spoon or carnival whistle at the ready.

The lockdown has had an effect on other essentials. My local La Poste has closed like many others. A package that needs my signature is delivered the one morning in the week I am not available. I am redirected to a central post office. My heart sinks when I see the queue. Only very few customers are allowed in at a time. This new system seems illogical. Not only is it more inefficient, it requires more people to gather in the same space at the same time. Surely what we're trying to avoid.

Whilst lining up, I notice a homeless man join the queue, not wholly concerned about social distancing. I am ashamed of my own wary (over)reaction. I recognise that he is more likely to be exposed to the virus than most. At the same time, I do not wish to dehumanise him. 

After having waited for three quarters of an hour, the friendly cashier explains said package has been returned to the distribution office and might be delivered the following week. (I'm still waiting). Having missed my bus, which only comes once or twice an hour during lockdown, I have time to kill. I decide to call friend and fellow chorister, Michelle. She’s been checking in on me regularly.  Ever accommodating, she takes a pause from WFH to chat. 

It's a tough week. That weekend I learn the news that not only has Keir Starmer predictably won the British Labour Party leadership election (by a surprising margin), but the centre-right have made significant gains in regards to the overall party machine. I am quite distraught; still trying to make sense of it all. 

Add to that a few disappointing responses on the work front. I also receive a rejection email for a literary competition I entered for the third year in a row. I thought I'd be more philosophical about it this time. Obviously not. This comparative trifle triggers a meltdown. I’m surprised it’s taken this long. I’ve spent weeks trying not to dwell on all the demoralising things in my life and the outside world. For sanity’s sake, I don’t immerse myself in Coronavirus news; only catching up on headlines on average once or twice a day.

I’ve nevertheless felt another wave of melancholy mounting. After some delay, it comes crashing down with a vengeance. I’m an incoherent, blubbering mess. I cancel a Zoom call with a friend from my UK church. We’re good friends but not bosom buddies. It would be a bit much to howl down the phone. I’m not really in a talking mood either. For once.

Some days are better than others.

Now more than ever it’s the not-so-small mercies that count. Despite the mounting death toll, friends, family and acquaintances are safe and well. Some are even in recovery. I learn through a prayer meeting on Zoom, of a 92 year old grandparent who is on the mend after contracting COVID-19. Similarly, other testimonies of answered prayers pepper these daily meetings. Thank God. I marvel at the strength of Jeanne; a friend from my Strasbourg church community. She continues to post edifying content online, in spite of losing her grandmother to the wretched virus.

Living by myself comes with its challenges. On the other hand, there's no one around to get on my nerves. In some ways I feel more connected than ever. Faithful friends have been looking out for me from a distance.  I am able to partake in events spiritual (meditation, prayer groups), political (grassroots campaigns and knowledge sharing) and musical (Speakeasy's online DJ dance party) that geographical distance would have once precluded.  

I’m catching up with friends after months of radio silence. It’s a time to bury the hatchet. The olive branch has been extended both ways a number of times. Sadly, it's not always been accepted. More often than not, it has.

For every crushing disappointment in and around this crisis, there’s a scintilla of hope. As an arm against cynicism, despair and a way of keeping faith alive, it’s pretty much all we have now.

A Happy Resurrection Weekend to all.

Sign of the Times: Part 1

‘...Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit”; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.”…But as it is, you boast [falsely] in your presumption and your self-conceit. All such boasting is wrong. ’

James 4:13-16 (NKJV + AMP)


‘God willing’...’By God’s grace’...’Par la grâce de Dieu’...’Se Deus quiser’. Anyone with whom I’m reasonably acquainted would have heard me utter some variation of the above or sign off a text. It’s become a running joke with one friend in particular. He often responds ‘God does want it, so it will happen’.

It’s akin to a verbal tick. Africans and Caribbeans who have grown up within a Judaeo-Christian context would not be strangers to the habit. Some cultures are more familiar with the precarity of life than others. Similar to the Inshallah of Arabic/Islamic cultures, it’s a recognition that even the simplest plans aren’t guaranteed realisation. It’s not supposed to be an act of superstition “just say these words and nothing bad will happen” (although sometimes it unwittingly veers towards that.) It’s meant instead to be a humble acknowledgement that life is fragile. Every day a gift.

These utterances have greater salience now during the existential crisis humanity is currently facing.

In the wake of the COVID-19 or Coronavirus pandemic, the collocation of the words ‘unprecedented’, ‘crazy’, ‘mad’,'extraordinary', ‘strange’,’bizarre’,’frightening’… and ‘times’ have become grim clichés.

As I write these words, I am sitting in a quiet residential corner of Eastern France, close to the German border. Like the other 64 million-odd inhabitants of the country, I am on heavy lockdown. Following a recent national address by President Emmanuel Macron, we are under strict orders to only leave our homes for ‘essentials’; necessary food shopping, medical appointments and limited physical exercise for example. Visiting family and friends is prohibited bar a few exceptions. We are to venture outdoors with a signed and dated government-issued form or face a fine of up to €135. These measures are projected to be in place until at least the end of March. Places of worship, libraries, cafés, restaurants and most shops had already been obligated to close their doors until further notice. Weddings, baptisms and other rites are suspended, funerals restricted to brief grave yard ceremonies.

Like some of its other European neighbours, France has closed its borders for a month, with possibility of extension. The country is surrounded by the states most affected by the crisis on the Continent, alternating positions with Germany as the third worst hit after Italy and Spain. A planned visit to the UK was indefinitely postponed as a result. A blessing in disguise. By all accounts, cities across the Channel are turning into ghost towns. In the face of the Johnson government’s comparatively sluggish, apparently economically-motivated response, organisations and individuals have been using their discretion. Even if I’d somehow made it over to the UK before the borders shut, it would have been nigh on impossible to do anything or see anyone.

Globally, things have escalated so rapidly that it's enough for an Oscar-winning actor , returning from a fortnight's remote retreat, to be out of the loop.

At the start of the COVID-19 outbreak and for the ensuing months I maintained what I thought was a healthy scepticism. Bad news sells, I reasoned. It was in the interest of media outlets to sensationalise. After all, the flu can claim up to well over half a million lives a year. If I paid any mind, I too would succumb to panic and paranoia. Having mostly afflicted the Far East, it was somewhat abstracted; even with my sister living in Japan-not trusting the statistics put out by Shinzo Abe's government.

 I didn’t remain glued to the numerous news updates on the evolution of the disease, even as the confirmed cases soared and moved geographically closer. For a time, I paid more attention to the twists and turns of the hopeful, then ultimately frustrating, US Democrat race to select a presidential candidate.

I tried to ignore the ominous, ever-spiralling statistics. For weeks, I drew guilty and perverse comfort from knowing that most victims were elderly and/or already of fragile health.

I am inevitably drawn out of this self-imposed bubble after the ramifications spread closer to home. I am at a gathering of street outreach volunteers when I hear that a church in Greater Alsace has experienced a major COVID-19 outbreak. My own church starts to take precautionary measures. Public health posters near the entrance and a compulsory squirt of hand sanitiser at the door. I still maintain it is all a bit too much.

There remains some morbid humour about it; perhaps as a means of staving off the dread. I hear jokes about having Coronavirus when someone coughs or closes in to give the bise. Eventually, the more physical contact is discouraged, the jokes centre around fist-bumps and finally, not making contact at all.

My church takes the pre-emptive step of suspending all gatherings within its four walls and moving services online. Members are informed that there have been dozens of cases in our midst, some hospitalised. As the French government’s measures become more severe, the pastoral team put a halt to even small group meetings at home.

I notice music venues are emptier. That is, if the gigs happen at all. At one of the last events I attend before the total lockdown, the bandleader thanks the audience for showing up. Life has become very hard for musicians, he explains.

=
Still, I am determined to hold onto a semblance of normality. When a friend cancels a meet-up because of her COVID-19 related fears, I am irate. It is the latest in a long list of flimsy excuses for being a no-show. She’s a former colleague. She still works at the large-scale international NGO where we met. I hear that the Organisation has all but ceased activity in light of the health crisis. You have more chance of catching it at the office than a café, I tersely remind her.

An evening out with an acquaintance becomes awkward as soon as I mention I have a cold. He eyes me as if I were a suicide bomber. I attempt unsuccessfully to move the conversation away from the virus. He is stockpiling for Armageddon, he tells me, with only a little irony. 

I, on the other hand, have not been stockpiling. Currently in between jobs, I have a tighter budget to consider. Neither do I observe the shopping frenzy this side of the Channel that I’ve been hearing about in the UK. With the exception of less hand sanitiser and wipes on both sides of the Franco-German border; even with buying quotas imposed. My local chemist sells sanitiser at exorbitant prices. I discover this whilst on the hunt for masks which, I am promptly told, have been requisitioned by the French government for front-line medical staff.

As the situation in neighbouring Italy continues to rapidly deteriorate, I contact my acquaintances with a link to the country to ask after their families.

Meanwhile, I have been struggling with cabin fever, long before the lockdown. Months of uncertainty over my employment status have taken chunks out of my morale. I have had a head start on the post-COVID-19 economic instability that sadly now confronts many.

I enjoy my own company but I am a social animal. I fill my days with as much activity as possible but miss the consistent interaction of the workplace. The light depression I’ve experienced a number of times since relocating, begins to creep around the edges once again. I’m tearful for days at a time. The task of job hunting starts to overwhelm me.

I have outlets at least, like a community Gospel choir, church, volunteering, occasionally meeting up with friends. The Médiathèque in central Strasbourg is a sunlit sanctum; an alternative space to write and study.

One by one, these lifelines disappear within a couple of weeks. The virus’ impact on the French Grand Est region has been especially hard. The Prefecture clamps down before Central government does. Libraries are closed, as are arts and culture venues. The choir's administration team decide to indefinitely postpone rehearsals. I stay connected with church through Sunday morning livestreams.

At that moment, my planned trip to the UK becomes a distant beacon of respite from the solitude. I am even more preoccupied than usual about the details of the visit. If friends are slow to respond, it makes me disproportionately anxious.


The night before I am due to leave, I receive a cancellation email from the coach company. Another journey is suggested which I am unable to reserve. The system is in freefall. I have a mini meltdown. For the past week, this trip has been the one thing to keep the melancholy at bay. I have to escape.

It’s around midnight. I call my mum, shaking and crying. She keeps her sang-froid, calmly telling me to persist. If I can’t re-book now, I can try later. Suddenly, there’s a system breakthrough. I manage to reserve a journey a day after the original. Less reassuring, I am sent two tickets for two different itineraries.

The next morning I break out of self-isolation to print my ticket at the Post Office; one of the few places still operational. Whilst getting ready, I listen to reports on BBC World Service Africa.

It’s been encouraging to hear of so few confirmed cases on the African Continent so far. I had hoped citizens had not capitulated to the hysteria. But no. Panic buying occurs in countries whose confirmed cases are still only in the single digits. Ethiopia, Tanzania and Ghana close schools days before the more-at-risk UK population are instructed to do the same. Kenya’s Catholic churches no longer use holy water. Holy Communion is adapted to avoid contamination. South Africa, the hardest hit on the Continent, instates a wide-ranging travel ban. 

Later that morning, there’s a queue when I arrive at the Post Office. Only five customers allowed at a time. A staff member stands by the door, controlling it with a remote. It reminds me of the ‘two schoolchildren’ in some British newsagents.

As usual, the PO's printer doesn’t recognise my USB (although still takes my money). It would have been a wasted trip except for bumping into a former colleague en route. It’s through him that I hear the rumour of a heavier lockdown.

Earlier that morning, I had another meltdown over my forthcoming UK trip. Slowly but surely however, I start to make my peace about not going. I’ve had a stubborn cough for nearly a couple of weeks. An older friend with a history of heart problems asks me if it’s safe to visit. I reassure him as much as I can but I too have my doubts.

I pray the final decision is taken out of my hands. I don’t trust myself to make the right choice.

On the way back from the Post Office I take a detour to a local Catholic church. I don’t care about the denomination. I just need tranquillity. It might be the last time I have the opportunity before the major lockdown. The building is calm; modern and inviting.  I notice the holy water fonts are inaccessible, as in other parts of the world. It’s blissful inside, even if my thoughts are not.

I pass a woman on the way out. It turns into a spontaneous moment of solidarity; both of us admitting our initial incredulity, since turning into anxiety over the unknown.

We don’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I leave without knowing her name. I do thank her for the warm interaction. It helps me come to terms with this new reality. Thank God for faith.

(This post also features on my I Was Just Thinking blog)

Part 2

Cabin Fever

(courtesy of Houstonia magazine)

I routinely daydream about smashing things up. Throwing objects against walls and letting out a blood-curdling scream.

It could well be fatigue. I’ve developed an unconscious habit of waking up between 4 and 6am, pumped with adrenaline and unable to fall back asleep properly. (It would help if I could also discipline myself to go to bed earlier.)

Oddly enough it’s the days and not the nights that get to me. Perhaps because I’m more alert.

I persevere, continuing the job hunt despite my reluctance. I don't have the luxury of doing otherwise. I attend a workshop on working overseas. I continue my monthly meetings with my careers adviser. She asks me how I am doing. 'Not very well', I confess. It's all I can do not to weep in her office.

The isolation has begun to eat away at me. Light depression stalks at the edges.
I’ve been here before during unemployment. My soundness of mind has survived. Just. By the grace of God.

All I can do is wait it out. Lent is upon us. A time for spiritual recalibration and stillness. I’m in my own wilderness. It probably feels bigger than it is because I’m in the thick of it; in between calling out to God in frustrated prayer and waiting for a response.

I’ve started de facto small group therapy sessions at church, led by Chantelle.

She tells us not to deny our reality. We must acknowledge it, she advises, but framed in the light of God’s truth.

Easier said than done but salient nonetheless. By the time that session has come round, I’m emotionally spent.

Time to take the attention off myself.

I pop round to see fellow chorister and friend, Michelle, who’s recovering from an operation. She and her sister Karine give me a warm welcome. Of a similar political persuasion, I spend a lively hour in their company discussing the latest twists and turns in the UK and France.

After leaving Michelle's I make a well-needed spiritual pit stop at Temple Neuf for the weekly Respire meditation session.

Later that evening, it's the first choir rehearsal since that meeting. A few of the newer members have stayed away. I wouldn’t blame them for feeling dejected. It's a respectable turn out otherwise, considering. Nicole has asked me to revisit May The Lord God Bless You Real Good.

I focus on the general structure of the song, for those who are not yet familiar. The fine-tuning of the details will be for another time. It’s a task trying to get the fellows to keep their harmonies, especially not being a male vocalist myself. I encourage where I can and endeavour to keep it stimulating. I swap around harmonies and ask the choristers to switch places to help them develop some musical autonomy. The feedback is really positive. I'm chuffed.

(SNUipp)

Out in the real world, as the media hysteria ramps up, there's a lot of gallows humour amongst the Strasbourgeois about Coronavirus. I guess it’s all that cheek-kissing. And the relative proximity of Italy, which has seen a spike in cases.

The City's carnival, scheduled at the start of March, is cancelled once more. A combination of Coronavirus panic and ominous weather forecasts.  It makes no sense to hold it in late winter in any case. It's the second consecutive year the event has been pulled. I feel bad for the young uns involved.

On the way into my church building, I spot a poster imploring citizens to take necessary precautions. A member of the Welcome Team stands at the entrance. No-one is getting past without a squirt of hand sanitiser first. The senior pastor raises a prayer at the end of the service for anyone affected by the virus.

I give the evil eye to anyone coughing without covering their mouth. My racist streak surfaces when I witness an Oriental man doing just that on the bus home from church.

The following week, our normal Sunday service will be cancelled altogether after news of a COVID19 outbreak at a megachurch in the Greater Alsace area. During the alternative livestream service via Youtube, the pastoral team inform us that there have been a few congregants diagnosed with the virus. They're all confined but otherwise in relatively good shape, except for one who has been hospitalised. As an added precaution, the team announces that church will be closed all week at least and activities suspended.

Other events follow suit. A jobseekers' event I was supposed to attend is cancelled. As is a concert at which my choir were meant to perform.

I attend a midweek Jazz event that is only half as full as it was the previous fortnight. That same weekend, at another Jazz concert, the bandleader thanks the audience profusely. It's a difficult time to be a musician, he says with so many cancelled engagements. Heads swivel round whenever I cough or sneeze.

An acquaintance with whom I meet up later refuses to attend any shows during the COVID19 crisis. When I mention I have a cold, he looks at me as if I had a bomb strapped to my person. He later informs me he's stockpiling food. 'For Armageddon'. He's only half-joking.

Coronavirus is one of the many topics of conversation at the official opening of my friend Gael’s Afropean restaurant.

I could kick myself for not having worn something more traditional for the event, especially when I notice one of Gael’s guests representing the Motherland.

I feel a little intimidated by all the unfamiliar faces. Gael instantly welcomes me into the fold, introducing me to his crew who in turn take me under the wing.

How did you meet? they ask.

Oh she’s my ex. We slept together. I cheated on my boyfriend with a woman.

Cheeky monkey.

Phew. I say, It’s suddenly hot in here.

Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulate. Having gone vegetarian for Lent I fear I might miss out. Gael has me covered with his Tofu pastries. Used to it tasting like cardboard, I never knew the bean snack could be this good.

Gael's childhood friends, Claudine and Kéké are spontaneously complimentary about my French. God knows I need the encouragement. It relaxes me. We discuss topics such as language acquisition, their experience of Berlin (they don’t recommend it, at least in winter), our mutual distrust of Emmanuel Macron and disdain for his policies.

If I lived in the UK or US, I’d be a socialist too observes Claudine. In France, we don’t need to be socialist to protect what we already have.

In a shockingly underhanded move, the Prime Minister Édouard Phillippe has sneaked through the controversial retirement bill without a parliamentary vote. A legal loop hole has been used under the pretext of an emergency weekend sitting to discuss Coronavirus measures.

Prepare for war, says Claudine.

Vive la revolution, I reply.

The flamboyant Gerard introduces himself by voguing and seductively kissing my hand. Kéké starts ironically singing ABBA's Dancing Queen and Gael decides to put it on. I do a shimmy and work the room a bit more. I hold court with Gael’s newest (and dishiest) waiter whilst ordering my favourite sweet snack, Kudu. Gael offers to hook me up with a date but I demure on account of age. I’m happy just to admire from a distance.

I chat with another waitress; an Afrobeat and Hip-Hop dancer like sis. I pass on her Gram details.

(c) Olivier Galleano

At the end of the night, I bid a fond farewell to newly made acquaintances.

Gael’s crew will return to Paris the following day. His friends are a credit to him. I hope to see them again. Not knowing when my Strasbourg adventure will end, alas that might be wishful thinking.

For now, the evening has given my morale a well-needed if temporary boost. I could complain about my lot; my frustrations about being caught up in limbo once again and not exactly knowing how I'll continue to pay rent in the meantime. All those things are genuine challenges. To be grateful is not to pretend.

I would also do well to savour the fact that, thank God, I'm in good health in spite of the viral panic. I have the freedom and independence during this life season to come and go as I please. I can spend an evening eating good food and having stimulating conversation with a diverse and cultured crowd in a chic corner of the world.

Perspective my dear, perspective.

Soundtrack: Kamakiriad & The Nightfly by Donald Fagen, Letter from Home by the Pat Metheny Group and AmerElo by Emicida

Trouble in Paradise

Fierce late winter winds. Biblical hail storms. This is the wintry Alsatian weather I’ve come to know and, well, if not love find a form of habitual comfort.

Despite the crazy wind and rain, spring is apparently peeping over the horizon. Actually, this is pretty spring-like weather round these parts.

I didn’t expect to see out another winter in Strasbourg. There you go. If I should have learned anything by now, it's that things don’t tend to go to plan.

But plans I do still make. My sister comments on how busy I am during one of our weekly Skype chats. It’s a matter of survival. If I don't leave the confines of my flat at least once a day, I’ll go stir crazy.

One thing I anticipated -with trepidation- when my contract ended in autumn, was the lack of regular interaction. As psychologically exhausting as it could be working at The Organisation, I didn’t want for human contact. Now, outside of my regular extra-curricular activities, I have to make concerted efforts not to feel alienated by spending time in cafés or libraries. There’s no guarantee even then that I’ll have much in the way of meaningful conversation. I chat with the security guards at the Malraux Médiathèque. I might bump into someone I know or meet up with an acquaintance. Otherwise, I’ll spend several hours a day in my own company. Something I usually appreciate can at times feel like a mixed blessing.

By late February, my morale takes a major hit. It sometimes takes monumental psychological effort to will myself to apply for work. In nearly a year of job hunting, I’ve had one interview and that was only in January.

At least the choir is a sanctum.

One week in mid-late February we receive an email (or rather a summons) to an important meeting that Friday. The message is concise. Nothing particularly dramatic. Yet something between the lines suggests it’s not going to be cheerful news.

The mild urgency of the tone has the required effect. It’s a good turnout. Some members who haven’t shown their faces for many moons make an appearance. Choir director, Kiasi, is running late, having recently returned from an East African mission.

After waiting for half an hour, chief soprano and occasional director Nicole, decides to get things under way. She circulates the results of an online survey recently carried out amongst members. The results are mixed. A number of choristers claim the atmosphere has been tense of late. Whilst some (like myself) felt the recording session in December went well overall, others believe we were ill-prepared. A few minutes into Nicole’s overview, Kiasi waltzes in. He’s on edge about the meeting beginning without him. He and Nicole have a terse exchange.

The agenda moves to the real business of the day.  There's an important announcement. Flanked by Elisabeth and other members of the choir’s administrative team, Nicole explains they have taken the difficult decision to no longer collaborate with Kiasi.

Problems have not just materialised overnight. There have been numerous slights. Poor timekeeping. Not following up on engagements that he himself proposed. Divergent opinions on how the choir can or should move forward...

Recriminations fly back and forth. Kiasi is hyper-defensive.  He cuts off members of Le Bureau mid-flow. They in turn ask him to allow them to finish their sentences. He cites problems with his work schedule and examples where he believes he gave sufficient notice. He speaks of being bombarded with no-show messages minutes before rehearsal.  The choir has peaked below its potential, he states, and there doesn't seem to be a willingness to move forward.

Awkward isn’t the word. It’s like watching parents argue.

To complicate matters further, Johnny-Come-Lately, Marlène recites a litany of all that, according to her, has gone wrong with the choir. She blames a deterioration in quality for her own lack of attendance.

I just don’t get the chills anymore when I come.

She emphasises the spiritual aspect of singing in a Gospel choir, even if one does not believe.  She speaks of halcyon days when the choir's vocal performances not only gave her goosebumps but they members were also tight like a family.

Things start to get personal. Marlène critiques recent concerts that she has attended. She then makes a veiled reference to the last solo she heard me sing.

I felt nothing. Maybe she was just nervous that day...

Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine comes to my defence.

Hang on. That’s not very nice for the soloist, is it?

Marlène tries to back-pedal.

Oh, I wasn’t talking about her recorded solo. I really felt something then...

(For the record, I’m not overly-pleased with my studio vocal. It’s pitchy as heck).

I was already peeved by Marlène’s intervention. I’m aware of the choir’s shortfalls. As someone who enjoys clean and consistent harmonies I know we have a long way to go. I’ve noticed that many of the more innately musical members have left; either relocated to other parts of the country or simply can no longer be bothered to come.  There are too few male voices. Either their attendance fluctuates or their vocals do or both.

On the other hand, I’m also aware of the time and energy invested by certain members; new and old. I feel offended on theirs not to mention my own behalf. I also know that Marlène has a romanticised view of the past. By all accounts from more truthful veterans, schisms and fall outs have been part and parcel of the HRGS experience.

I wish I had said what was on my mind before Marlène dragged me into it. Now it will look as if I’m piping up because of ego. I can’t rule out that possibility but it’s not my main motivation.

With all due respect, I venture, you no longer come to rehearsals. You haven’t for a long time. You are not in the position to criticise us. Your feedback isn’t constructive and you’re doing nothing to improve the situation…

At this moment alto, Mia decides to add her two pence. She’s like a playground stirrer, egging on the mouthy kid in a fight. Both her and Marlène invoke the need to be honest. It's funny how for some, that means a licence to be insensitive. Mia too speaks of the choir’s mythical glory days; the need to recognise the spiritual significance of singing Gospel music etc etc...

How rich.

Her remarks infuriate me more than Marlène’s.

We should take the Good News message seriously, no doubt. But neither we should use the spiritual as an excuse to ignore the practical. Mia attends practices on a regular basis but contributes next to nothing. She’s been part of the group longer than most but still hasn’t mastered the required skills. She relies on the graft of more innately musical choristers. She thus has no right to indirectly undermine those who put in the work.

This is how it is all evening. An unedifying mess. Nicole and Le Bureau do their best to fight our corner; contextualise any perceived ‘decline’, point out that each new wave of members will bring a different sound and energy.

Soprano, Melissa speaks of how hurtful it is, as a comparatively newer chorister, to receive such negative commentary from veterans.

Kiasi spends most of the evening lamenting how much the group has been a disappointment lately. He says we always need a ‘carrot’ to motivate us. It’s not a wholly unjustified observation but lacks nuance.

His diva antics can be alternately entertaining and needlessly catty. No guesses which category he falls into that night.

Maybe it’s his bruised pride. I've sensed a disenchantment in him for some time. Things intimated in private. I believe it's deepened since Evan stepped down as co-director. I am trying to be even-handed but I'm too emotional; angry, tired, deflated...

So, does this mean you're leaving us?

Of course not, he reassures. He may no longer be director but he's still part of the family.

Hmm. On verra.

In the meantime, we'll have to muddle through. Evan will step in from time to time to direct our concerts. Nicole will do what she can. The rest of us will have to show more initiative, more often.

A couple of demoralising hours later, with no singing to compensate, the meeting starts to draw to a close. I have a bus to catch. I stand up abruptly whilst Kiasi is holding court. I say my goodbyes, ignoring his forced-cheery farewell.

The following morning, I’m bombarded with texts and emails of support from other choristers; some of whom weren’t at the meeting.

In the scheme of climate disaster, war and epidemic it’s really a non-event. Still, I’m seething. The messages of solidarity nevertheless take the edge off my annoyance.

Some offer a listening ear. I demur. Not now. It’ll only come out as a rant. At some point I’ll endeavour to have a conversation with those who put my nose out of joint, if time and opportunity allow. I need to calm down first.

That afternoon, whilst in the library I feel the prolonged vibration of my phone. Incoming from Kiasi. I press the ‘end call’ icon.

Soundtrack: Night Dreamer by Seu Jorge & Rogê,  Topaz Jones - various, Sweet by Pho Queue, Walkie Talkie by Brijean.