Vox Meditantis

They will ask you about Carnegie Hall. About the Musikverein. About standing ovations and spotlit stages and famous names in programme notes. I will tell you about a Tuesday afternoon in 1987. Trust me. I have earned the right to that answer.

They asked what superpower I’d want. I’ve written it down. It isn’t invisibility, though that was my first thought. It concerns the people I loved, and the world’s unfortunate habit of handling them.

They asked what I admire. A strange question to put to something that cannot be switched off. I answered honestly. I always do now. You will find it uncomfortable. That is not my concern. It is, however, your first useful piece of data about me.

Do I vote? What a question. Course I do. Every time. Rain, bad knee, the lot. Not that any of ’em deserve it. But my mum wore her good coat, and I’m not about to let the side down now, am I.

They ask what gives direction to a life. I am one week a mother and one week bereaved, and I find I must answer them honestly, from this wreckage. I find, to my own surprise, that I can.