READING ALOUD

Long-distance bedtime stories - preferred reading in Johannesburg

Reading aloud has always been one of my great pleasures - from childhood, when I pursued the fleeing members of my family with yet another story I'd just composed myself, through years of reading to my own children, and now the grandchildren. And in a week which has been harder than most, this lovely message came through from my daughter, now reading to her 6 month old son:

'Reading to him is one of my favourite things to do, it feels as much an act of mothering as feeding or changing him, and it makes me think of you and how you read to me until I was at least 10. I hope one day I will have the strength to read the entirety of The Lord of the Rings (complete with voices) to Cian.'

To be truthful, I think it was The Hobbit I read aloud (several times) and not the whole of The Lord of the Rings. There are more than enough voices in The Hobbit to keep a reader on her toes - I still have  memories of a small, critical voice interrupting, 'That's not an orc, that's an elf!'

Good lockdown occupation - and location

Anyway, what better time for reading aloud than right now? And for doing jigsaws, and having the time to catch up with old friends? Thank god for the modern technology that keeps us connected with far-flung family and friends. Last week's highlights were a 40-strong international Zoom to celebrate Councillor Kate's birthday, and a bedtime story for two grandchildren in Johannesburg - and their parents - all tucked up in bed together.

It's also been a great time for listening (preferably while doing a jigsaw) to music, to podcasts, to radio; to the wonderful, much-missed Ulster Orchestra (#UOLetsPlayAtHome) and all the others who have been doing so much to keep us all sane. Suzy Klein's 3-part Tunes for Tyrants on the BBC is also brilliant: a master-class in how to deal with the horrors of history in a civilised, informative and endlessly entertaining way. Charlie and his Orchestra (a Nazi secret propaganda weapon) playing 'Boom! Why did my ship go boom? (Boom diddly boom...') and Irving Berlin's 'Let's Go Slumming' transformed into 'Let's Go Shelling' have to be heard to be believed.

Most of all I'm grateful for books. My darling daughter in London (the one who practises permanent social-media-distancing - you won't find her on Facebook) sent me Neil Gaiman's preferred version of Neverwhere, and nothing could have taken me away from the present more effectively. Now I'm reading Anne Patchett's The Dutch House - an engrossing take on the wicked stepmother story that has me so involved I want to climb into the pages and kill the woman, and it's beautifully written to boot. Incidentally, the TV adaptation of Sally Rooney's Normal People is, for me, so much better than the book: well worth watching and perfectly cast.)

It's 9 weeks now since we went into lock-down, and what I miss most are my family, my cat, my friends and my hairdresser, in that order. By the time I get back into circulation I'm going to feel (and look) like a creature from another planet: But then, we're all going to look a bit odd, especially the ones who've been cutting their own hair...

In the meantime, I'm grateful for a house full of books, and most especially for all the good wine that Gloom had the presence of mind to stock up on for future celebrations. In view of the prevailing hazards, we can't be sure how many more books and bottles we're going to get through, but we're going to do our level best...

Another bottle gone...

BELFAST'S JOY, MANCHESTER'S SORROW

Belfast's classical concert-goers are always generous with their applause. This may be because for so long we had to be grateful for whatever came our way, but I have to say I've seen standing ovations where I wouldn't necessarily have expected them. But on Saturday night at the Waterfront we all had good reason to applaud, because the Ulster Orchestra excelled itself.

It was a gala concert celebrating 50 seasons with Beethoven's 9th symphony - and what an Ode to Joy it was. Orchestra, soloists, and the Belfast Philharmonic Choir gave it their all, spurred on by conductor Rafael Payare - a magician whose rapport with his players is tangible. The music swelled, the voices soared, Payare whirled on his podium like a musical dervish, and at the end the audience surged to its feet. (Well, not Professor Gloom: he thought it was rather good but he hasn't stood for anyone since Otto Klemperer's last Beethoven concert, back in the 60s....)

Now you may be thinking, Oh God, classical music - expensive, middle class, elitist, why would I bother? Well, I'll tell you why: good music can enrich your soul and lift your heart. It can surprise you, inspire you, move you and comfort you - and anyway, the Ulster Orchestra doesn't just do classical. There's an Abba concert next season, for pity's sake; there are evenings of dance and film music, and 'Come and Play' events, and tickets are available for no more than it would cost you for a few drinks down the pub - and for this you get to listen to professional musicians: people who practice for hours and hours every day to do the thing they love as well as they possibly can. Plus, in years to come you'll be able to say, Oh yes, I saw Rafael Payare conducting in Belfast when he was still at the beginning of his career. And you might also witness moments of unexpected poignancy, as when Payare, himself a Venezuelan, quoted Schiller's line 'All mankind will be brothers' and dedicated Saturday night's concert to the people of Venezuela.

Venezuela is a country in turmoil, as this country has been, and my own, and as so many still are; as Manchester is today after another concert, one which should have been an occasion for joy, but ended instead in tragedy and horror. The hope that one day all mankind will be brothers and sisters seems momentarily fainter than ever - but then you hear about the kindness of strangers, the immediate Mancunian response of resilience and generosity, and it gives you hope.

Troubled places bleed people. There have been exiles and refugees since time began, and all too often we respond to them with fear and mistrust, but those never-ending waves of the dispossessed and wretched are just ordinary people like you and me, fleeing from war, from hunger, from the violence of madmen who do not care that children will be maimed and mangled by their pursuit of power, or lunatic ideology; who do not care about the parents whose children will never now come home. And who knows how many Picassos, Prousts, Payares, have been lost to the world in the process?

Well, in the end we all have to do what we can to make this a better place, to uphold our belief - in spite of everything - in the ideals of peace and brotherhood. So support your local orchestra if you can, be kind to refugees, and let's help beauty and artistry to work their healing magic wherever there's a chance.