NSD

There’s a phrase left over from my previous marriage which we still use sometimes hereabouts: NSD. It stands for Non-Specific Doom, and it’s a bugger. I woke up at 5.40 am today with a vague sense of NSD and never really settled back to sleep.

Now, I’m not one of those people who starts the week with a moan about Mondays and goes about telling everyone that I wish it was Friday again. That way lies madness. In fact, I often feel that Fridays are far worse: those are the days when you assess what you have achieved in the previous 5 days and realise it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.

But today started too early, was full of activity and frustrations but very little actual achievement. Even the evening was a bit of a disappointment: starting a new set of music with the Chorus should be exciting, especially after the triumphs of the past couple of weeks. Instead my voice was tired and my sight-reading-fu was non-existent. To be fair, the music in question was James MacMillan in full James Macmillan mode, and Bernstein in Hebrew which has a first page alone in 6/4 – 3/4 – 3/8 – 5/4 – 2/4 – 5/8 – 6/4 – 2/4 and 5/4. That’s just not playing the game! It will all be lovely come concert time of course, but I did find myself questioning whether I in fact have the first clue about singing. (I do)

Perhaps NSD is self-fulfilling, though there were definitely outside factors adding to the joy. Either way, it has not been the best day, and I am glad there are only 44 minutes of it left.

Still, mustn’t grumble.

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