A Pans Labrynth

I heard a recording of a recital I participated in last year: I avoid listening to those things like the plague . . . but luckily the CD was chosen by the little buoy because little did I know that it was a listening experience where I sat up, got very confused, thought 'who the hell is that?', and then realised that it was myself. It was affirming and then, strangely enough, I had to get in my little car and drive into the country, through huge expanses of road works, down a little track into huddles of green valleys amongst incredibly straight-limbed forests to a burrowed in cabin that has the proportions of a dolls house. The house recently acquired a miniature grand piano which naturally required the entire house to roll over and make room and so, nudged in against its belly, the old piano trio got stuck into some Schubert. It was great. Even the patio filled with operatic canaries didn't deter, nor the outrageously loud and persistent chained up canine out the front. It is a great pity that our violinist has to return to Broome next week.