Chapter Thirteen: The Singing Competition

After what seemed like hours, days, or even possibly weeks, the bus finally reached its destination. It shuddered to a halt, the heavy hiss of the doors seeming to pneumatically expel the last remaining passengers, the lights disappearing consecutively, the last vestiges of civilisation and public amenity gone – and we quietly clambered off the roof to look around.

At first, Alfonso - the small grey beetle (or weevil to be precise) who has made his home on my desk- thought we were in the wrong place. But that was hardly surprising, as he still uses a map of Acacia Avenue from the back of a 1987 'Whizzer & Chips' to find his way around.

The industrial estate we found ourselves in was deserted, lit dimly by the squalid orange of the street lights, whose quiet humming provided the only noise. We felt as if in a nightmare forest, the various industrial units looming over us, blocking the way ahead with their geometric shadows.

And then Alfonso said -" Sssh, listen!"

I said "But I wasn't saying anything". However he gave me one of his looks, so I shushed all the same.

He was right. There was another noise above the humming - a faint, but definite beat of a distant drum. We plunged into the shadows, following the throbbing rhythm blindly, until we suddenly rounded a corner, and were stopped in our tracks.

In front of us lay a small wooded grove. Bright white fairy lights were twined around the trees, and paper lanterns were slung between them. And, at their bases, in little knots, stood groups of singing competitors. There were soldiers in brass buttoned coats and white trousers beating the drum we had heard and singing old military marching songs, and ladies in rose crinoline practising their arias. There were opera singers from Italy in velvet evening clothes, twirling their handle bar moustaches, and bellowing into the night. There were barbers' choirs, and country singers in checked shirts sitting round a camp fire on their harmonicas, and precocious young children aping standards from the shows to their adoring parents. There were the lost tribes of Patagonia and their never before heard tribal chants, a heavy metal band composed entirely of horse mounted Cossacks, and of course, the famous singing pigs from Dresden with their charity single. Music, chatter, laughter and the thin blue smoke from the country folk's fire filled the air.

"Now", I said to Alfonso, "that's what I call a singing competition!"

"Hmm", he replied, folding his arms with distaste. "Can I see a single halfway decent Sheena Easton impersonator? Can I buggery."

And so, dear reader, I squashed him between the heavy leaves of "The Collected Songs of Moira Stuart", which I never leave the house without. But he'll be back tomorrow- as we have to audition...