THE INTREPIDS' WEEKEND

Snowdon, at 1,085m is the
tallest mountain
in this photograph.

The Intrepids have gone off to North Wales for the weekend. No doubt they'll be rambling about Snowdonia, commenting on the weather and praying that I remember to do the bins on Sunday night.

We have an assortment of bins, boxes and bags of course, each with their own designated haul. It's like a kind of multi-coloured Deal-Or-No-Deal that's been organised for local foxes. The downside of course, is that I have to try to remember which one goes out for the dustbin-men. I think it's the green recycling bag (plastic bottles) and the brown box (card and paper).

When I was a kid we had two bins: one black plastic one for 'rubbish' and an old fashioned metal trash can with the ancient and wise words 'HOT ASHES" inscribed upon its lid. You don't see that any more.

On the plus side, while they're off adventuring in the Wild West (Wales) it means I get a very peaceful weekend at home on my own, writing and thinking about what music to arrange next for choir.

After my quirky arrangement of You've Got a Friend, I wondered how You Raise Me Up would go down (in a manner of speaking). I was pleasantly surprised last night when they all just got on with it. It went down a storm. We had some beautiful cadences - imperfects and perfects resolving like a dream. I was quite impressed that they managed to hold it together.  For a group of people who can't read music and who've never had any formal singing training, they are amazing and I'm really proud of them.

Next up for Calcot Community Choir is Any Dream Will Do or Angels (by Robbie 'Look at Me' Williams). Now before you groan, I should point out that we let the choir choose their own music and Angels is a very popular song... apparently. It'll be tough to sing though.

Another benefit of being home-alone (as I skirt neatly and quietly around the crushing loneliness) is that this weekend, I don't have to explain what I'm doing. It's not usually a huge problem. Over the years I've developed a kind of cryptic bartering system which means I don't have to have a massively intrusive conversation about it. There's nothing worse than that game of twenty questions parents play with their teenagers, where each answer to where, with whom, for how long, what about dinner.... slowly degenerates into a series of neanderthal grunts. I know I'm old enough to be two teenagers, but somehow, that doesn't seem to matter to my parents. Anyway, here's what you do:

Give a little bit of unrequested but vaguely non-specific information in a polite and firm manner some time before it's relevant. The Intrepids are satisfied as long as they know that I'm eating well. No further questions required, your honour.

They're back on Monday night, which means Sunday night will consist of tidying up and returning the conservatory to its normal state instead of the little glass recording studio it's likely to resemble: laptop, keyboard, headphones, cables, pedals, manuscript paper, photos of Robbie Williams sporting a pen-and-ink handlebar moustache, that type of thing will have to go away.

Oh and putting the bins out.

I must not forget the bins.