We watched a BBC program the other day. Called The Choir, it was about a conductor taking a group of people through to their first public performance - none of them had sung before.
It just so happened that the final performance for this group was at Watford Town Hall. It's now called the Watford Coliseum, for Heaven's sake - you can put a pig in a kennel but it doesn't make it a dog! I digress. The point of this was that it brought back a long forgotten memory of my first and only trip onto the conducting rostrum - at that very same venue, and before it had the new lofty title.
At about aged 8, I was given the massive responsibility of conducting my prep school's percussion band in some local competition. My mother watched as I mounted the stage, took my place at the brass railed rostrum, and gasped as I almost banged my head during my initial bow. She was terrified that I might move my feet during the performance and get even closer to the rail. Fortunately, I once again avoided it at my final bow. We did not win, and I never again took hold of the baton. The joy of "playing the big instrument," as I think professionals call conducting, was left outside my future resume.
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