More than one way to get high

Press, 22 June 1985, Page 14

More than one way to get high

I always get a wooden leg at The Opera.

a cold stare if I so much as jostle. The alternative would be to spring out of my seat and jump up and down in the aisle. But the stars would feel upstaged and the usherette would come to take me away.

mushed up together in a plot they wouldn’t even try on “The Dukes of Hazzard,” the result is embarrassing.

It doesn’t matter what sort of opera it is. Sometimes, it’s my left leg that gets paralysed with cramp. On other occasions, it’s the right one that suddenly decides it belongs to Long John Silver. If I’m lucky enough to be sitting at the end of the row, it’s never the leg that’s closest to the aisle. It’s always the one next to the strange lady in the fur coat smelling of mothballs.

Take “The Barber of Seville” we saw the other evening. This count with built-up shoes falls - in love with a girl on a veranda. He serenades her and tells her he’s an impoverished student (he wants her to like him for his body.) She’s interested, but she is guarded by a possessive old warden who wants to marry her himself. The count (alias the student) gets this hairdresser to help him dress up as a drunken soldier and they find their way into the house.

I' know why it happens. It’s because opera is silly. Every time I go, I convince two-thirds of my body that it isn’t ridiculous to watch an ageing soprano hurl herself from the top of a cardboard castle. Only my leg • remains critical and objective. A lot of people I like and respect say opera is great. So I keep going in the hope' that one day my leg will see the light. Music is nice. So is acting and singing. But when it’s

The only thing that will stop a wooden leg is violent kicking. No" doubt my husband and some of my friends would endure a few thumps during the first act. But the stranger shoots me

There’s a bit of a row, and the cops come. But the soldier (alias the count,

alias the student) pays them off and the curtain falls. “Is that the end?” I say to my husband.

“No. Would you like an ice cream?” I would. But there are so many people in the foyer acting as if opera is a classy, non-ice-cream event, I say no. We had an old, 78 record of “The Barber of Seville” at home when I was a kid. On the cover was a picture of a moonfaced man with a handlebar moustache and a lot of shaving foam. “Figaro, Figaro, Figaro...” went the voice through all the crackles. I assumed (a) Someone had put “The Marriage of Figaro” in the wrong record cover and (b) The record was stuck. Neither was true.

priest and goes back to the house. The old man is supposed to be intelligent, but he doesn’t recognise the priest as the soldier (alias etc.).

I start to get exasperated. The count and the girl decide to elope. The old man tries to stop them, but they get married in bed in the nick of time.

The audience clap and cheer and pummel their feet on the ground. The ladies in their fur coats can hardly contain themselves. “It’s just like the competitions!” someone says.

During the second half, the count dresses up as a

about 14 — not opera types at all.

lam annoyed with myself * for catching the first one’s » eye. I expect her to abuse * me, or look hostile, at least < But she smiles dreamily. ’ It’s unnerving. i I put my head down and 3 walk past till we reach the * fourth girl. Her head is bent • intensely over a plastic bag « with yellow gooey stuff in- ’ side. ’

The bag contracts sharply J as she takes a deep breath. ; Perhaps she started doing it , for kicks. Or maybe her life • is so desolate she needs the ' glue. ;

The atmosphere is eu- . , . phoric as we weave through “Hey kid” I want to say. ‘ the crowd to the street. “Come home with me. Your , r. .., , . . . . . tiny hand is frozen.” " Outside, four girls m bush J jackets are sitting on a low But someone might sue concrete wall. They look for copyright.