As I'm off to Zauberflote this evening, I have several things to do. Firstly, I have to assemble my outfit, probably shell suit bottoms, a fake DKNY t-shirt from one of those stalls not quite in the market, a jacket bought from some bloke who goes round the pubs selling them, plastic stiletto shoes, and a Burberry cap.
I shall quickly read and paraphrase some programme notes, or someone else's review, to hide the fact that I know nothing about the music.
I shall engage in telephone calls with pre-teens to determine how to translate into sub-standard English that demonstrates that I'm hip and down with the kids, a bit like a middle-aged vicar or the sort of politician who claims to like the Antarctic Chimpanzees. I shall write a 'review' of the opera that renders machine translators useless, and is of no assistance to non-native readers of English.
I shall adopt a superior attitude to my readers and my fellow audience members. I shall declare whomever happens to be appearing in the opera as my favourite ever, until the next time. I might even comment on whether they sing loud. I might suddenly realise that one of the arias is familiar and yet different from how it sounds on one of my few CDs, compilation arias, naturally.
The whole experience will have no lasting impact on me.
If you're really lucky, I might include some erroneous facts, exclude some correct ones and deliver some breaking news that is about four years old.
