Reclaiming the Garden
12 February

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I dislike speaking ill of anyone.

But I am so glad that Bev has gone.

I hadn't realised how much I had been avoiding going out into my own back garden. Last year I said that it was to do with the rain. The year before it was the cruise. But really I was avoiding the possibility of being tainted by the foul voice and behaviour of Bev.

I'm sure that she was/is a most unhappy person. But, by God, she sure as hell made sure that the rest of us suffered with her.

But she's gone and I can step outside without feeling that my peace is going to be shattered at any moment. I can work uninterrupted. I'm not on edge. I'm not waiting for the next onslaught.

Hellebores have come and gone. The witchhazel was early. Bulbs are pushing through. There's an array of crocuses in the front garden. There's some new dwarf irises in the back. Every day there's something new and I'm eager to get out into the back garden after I return from work to see what is going on.

Over the weekend, I've trimmed various bushes, cleared out the pond of debris, cut our some of the dead foliage from around the garden. I've cleared out the garden sheds and made them more accessible. I've taken the harvest of last year's twisted willow and trimmed and cut it so that it will give logs for next year's fires and garden stakes to protect this year's shoots from feline toileting.

I've moved a few things around and planted out a few heathers. I've got my hands dirty again and enjoyed myself.

On Saturday, I went over to Manchester with Roland. We had a splendid Chinese meal in advance of the Chinese New Year - we are now in the Year of the Rat. Then we went off to the Bridgewater Hall for a concert performance of Richard Strauss's Salome given by the BBC Philharmonic under Gianandrea Noseda.

I was grateful to Roland for the experience but I liked neither the hall nor the performance.

I suppose it's only by going elsewhere that I realise how lucky we are with the Philharmonic Hall. The Bridgewater is all sharp lines, little groups of seats. It feels like an ocean liner with deckchairs along the promenade decks. And the sound is sharp and bright.

Concert performances are difficult. The normal theatre balance of voices over orchestra is inverted. And here nothing was done to prevent that. Frankly, it was like listening to an orchestral tone poem. With the honourable exception of Peter Bronder's Herod, I don't feel that I heard one tenth of what anyone else was singing. Nicola Beller Carbone's Salome was pretty much completely inaudible.

Around us, the audience went wild at the end. I don't know why they were so enthusiastic. I thought that it was poor.