This year, the end-of-term concert is Mozart’s Requiem Mass.

A week before, I call Simon Teagle, (3rd desk in the BBC Phil).

He has no idea who I am,

only a distant voice on a telephone, asking to borrow a basset-horn.

A day later, I take the train and the tube down to Camden.

He is quite happy to let me disappear into the December darkness,

his fourth-best instrument under my arm.

No deposit or receipt are involved,

but I spend the return journey trying to remember if

I thanked him properly for his casual act of kindness.

A week later, with the audience gathering in the nave,

I ask Rachel to help me with my bow tie. She sets her viola aside

and her nimble fingers play a silent arpeggio,

easily accomplishing what I could not.

As she leans forward to perfect the symmetry of her handiwork,

her perfumed warmth is a brief, intense intoxication.

I try to thank her for her kindness, but already she is looking past my shoulder,

hoping to catch the eye of the tenor trombone,

her prospect for the night

Previous version

The end-of-term concert is the Mozart Requiem in St George’s.

I call Simon Teagle, (3rd desk in the BBC Phil), who has no idea who I am,

only an ephemeral voice on a telephone, asking to borrow a basset-horn.

So, the week before, I take the train and the tube down to Camden.

He is quite happy to let me disappear into the December darkness,

his second-best instrument under my arm.

No deposit, not even a note of my address,

just a casual act of unexpected kindness.

A week later, with the audience gathering in the nave,

I ask Rachel to help me with my bow tie. She sets her violin aside

And her nimble fingers play a silent arpeggio,

easily accomplishing what I could not.

As she leans forward to perfect the symmetry of her handiwork,

I catch the ephemeral fantasy of her perfumed warmth.  

I try to thank her for her kindness, but already she is looking past my shoulder,

hoping to catch the eye of the tenor trombone,

her prospect for the night.