Sunday night, in our hall common room: The Italians have decided to make pizza from scratch, for everyone. They’re messing around with huge quantities of dough on one of the tables. Michael’s at the piano, playing Gershwin. Everyone sings the bits they know with gusto and extreme raucousness.
Later on, as people start dispersing, James returns from busking in Covent Garden. He stashes his violin behind the bar, gets himself a pint, and puts Shostakovich string quartets on the stereo. I am still in the room, having an intense conversation with Susie about Heinz Big Soups and their campaign of misinformation (“It never tastes as good as you think when you buy it”). We drift over, me particularly keen due to Saturday’s epiphany (see below). James is going through a stack of CDs. After a while I bring my property law seminar work down from my room. The next few hours are a trip. Verdi’s Requiem. Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony. Sibelius’s Finlandia. James makes everyone stop what they’re doing and close their eyes during Barber’s Adagio for Strings. It fills the room.
It fills the room.