So I met this woman on the tea time train, Reading to Newbury. Her hair was wild, her eyes were warm and her smile inviting. We chatted. We clicked. She discovered I was a masseuse. I discovered she was a jazz singer. A jazz singer who taught. Two weeks later I was murdering Billie Holiday in her living room and massaging her feet. So began my short lived singing career. I sang a little here and there solo, shows and groups. Constantly surprised that I could do much better than my hair brush rendition of the B52's, or the church and school chairing of my generally well spent youth.
It's been a while since I have picked up any Jazz singers, but I have picked up a 6ft2 of a husband and created two radiant beings currently disguised as teenagers. Yes teenager, teenager do like to eat, especially boys, especially ice cream and that is how I first found out about GJC...on a flyer that i picked up as I made my way through a caramel sundae in Dylan's Ice Cream Parlour.
So on a Sunday Evening I can now be found swooping and swaying in the back row of the Tenor Ladies. There is a lot of dancing going on in that section, and laughter and mis
chief and kindness. We cannot seem to behave, or remember the notes, or come in when we should, or generally believe that the note is a note and not some random thing Phoebe just made up. (That might just be me though.) But Phoebe - dear patient, lion-hearted Phoebe - has a look that could boil stone and that seems enough to restore order.
And although we do sometimes get it wrong, we also get it right. Very right. And when that happens...my hearts swells!