There's a tree in my shin

Introduction:
I played a couple of concerts at the weekend with Herts Chamber Orchestra, where I play second oboe to my friend Janie. She's been in the orchestra since not long after it was founded (1966). As have many of the other players. My attendance reduces the average age by a reasonable chunk, and usually we have some conducting prodigy fresh out of Cambridge who brings the average down another decade or so.

This week was no exception. We had a nice Rattle-haired fellow called Nick Collon, who came with the kind of credentials that probably make his mother a little bit teary-eyed every time she thinks about him.

Digression #1: I wonder if he has some utterly talentless sibling? Wouldn't it be depressing? At least in a normal family you can have The Arty One and The Brainy One - but he's got all that sewn up. What does that leave? The Troubled One? Anyway, on with the story...

As is the fashion for these young conducting prodigies, he was cultivating that dishevelled thing of artistic hair and excessively layered clothing. But after several of these in a row, I begin to realise that that is what normal young people do nowadays, Ethel.

Digression #2: I obviously spend far too much time surrounded by unnaturally tidy people - the analyst on my current assignment, for example, is about 25 too, but is pinstriped and shiny-shoed in the manner of all the smart identikit professionals in the firm. I hadn't really noticed that most young people outside the world of professional services are, well, fashionable.

Of course, I am now to ruin this fine assertion by saying that the oboe soloist, who was doing the Richard Strauss oboe concerto (and if you don't know this piece, then I am inordinately jealous that you are yet to have the pleasure of discovering it. Do so now, without delay.), was impossibly young, neat and geeky-looking. I suppose a more generous spirit than mine would say that hearing him play was inspiring. But (natural grouch that I am) I found it everso slightly depressing to hear the oboe played so well and effortlessly. Although (as I debated with my mother in the interval), the poor chap does look (and indeed play) like he needs to get laid. As someone once said about somebody else. A pianist, I think.

Digression #3: My parents bumped into Alan Bennett in Petworth last weekend. As you do. They then had to ring their friends in North Carolina, who are (I kid you not) putting on a production of some of his Talking Heads this week, to tell them of this lovely coincidence (and to pass on Big Al's best wishes for the performance). All this probably only serves to confirm the American view of England as a village where we're all on nodding terms with the Queen and you can't served at the tea shop because Alan, Dame Judi and good old Bill Shakespeare are hogging the waitress. Apparently, when my parents were living out there, someone did indeed ask them if they had known Princess Diana. Well, a little - but not really to talk to, my dears!

I'm not even sure if this can count as a return to the story, because the concert story has sort of come to an end. I think the original direction was to do with my aches and pains. Playing concerts can have that effect, particularly when (like me) you don't do enough (i.e. ANY) practice. But the REAL reason for the aches and pains must be the orienteering on Saturday.

It was only a 4km course. Easy peasy, I thought. Be done in less than an hour, I thought. Home in time for a quick shower and dash off to the rehearsal, I thought. Sadly, I was wrong.

"Golly!" I said to the organiser as I downloaded my times at the end, "That was fun, but it was really hard work!"

"Oh yes," he said, breezily, "I tried to make it as physically demanding as possible. And the terrain round here's pretty challenging anyway, isn't it?"

It took me 95 minutes to complete. And just to be clear - I probably travelled a fair amount more than 4km in that time. And as I now discover from reading the notes on the website:

"The courses are planned to use the better bits of the area but by necessity the middle and long contain some rough underfoot conditions in places. On [the 3km and 4km courses] be prepared for at least one stiff climb"

And by "stiff climb", he means hacking up a long steep hillside completely covered in felled trees. At one point, I caught a broken branch on my shin and got the most spectacular splinter. It's about the size of a table leg (small exaggeration). It stayed with me for two whole days, despite the poking, probing and (Rach's word) proggling of various gleeful volunteers. In the end, it all got a bit juicy and pus-filled and I squeezed it out like a recalcitrant blemish. I'm wondering if I could possibly frame it.

Digression #4: What exactly is it that people love so much about extracting splinters? I have to admit, it's one of my favourite activities. Although this one was less fun, being inordinately deep and painful, and resistful of my proggling activity over many fruitless hours.

And the late news: My friend Victoria Sponge now has a regular slot at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. I am very proud of her. Hopefully I'll get to go and see her some time soon, even though her set doesn't start until 12.30 at night and I've normally turned into a pumpkin at that point. But perhaps I can make a pumpkin-related exception for one night...

And the late, late news: I came 7th out of 17 in the orienteering. Most respectable (if you choose to ignore that the winner did it in 54 minutes).