The British have mastered the art of indirect communication.
Whether it be in the kitchen or at church, a Briton is most likely to be found hiding their true feelings. I've learned to temper my own reactions. For instance, one of the flatmates here has left a bowl of dahl in the fridge for nigh on a week now, and let me tell you, you don't want to get upwind of that thing.
The same goes for rush hour on the underground. Don't play 'We Built This City' at me, London, when your trains are constantly stuck at signals, and as for your passengers? Talk about the great unwashed.
Then at midnight last night, a crowd celebrated an act of treason hundreds of years ago, by igniting a bunch of fireworks and proceeding to blow up a small part of England, right outside the flat.
Did I say anything about it? Leave a passive aggressive note on one of the roman candles? Or, in my classic style, run out onto the middle of the road with a rolling pin and curlers, shaking my fist at the New York sanitation department and their never-ending roar of trucks up and down the streets?
I did none of those things. I am in Britain now, and as such, I too am learning the lost art of avoidance.
I played it cool.
Making a social spectacle, or a social assassin, to coin Larry David, of yourself is extremely easy to do in England. There are myriad taboos and unspoken laws around every bend, just waiting to be broken.
I think I hazarded through the break barriers at several intersections just today.
I was offered my first paying gig in London. All was well - except it was a last-minute church gig, and I had to learn the new music very quickly.
I was already working at Goldsmiths University. All credit to God, I'd found a university chock-full of pianos. I managed to hunker down with the scores and the friendly security guard let me stay as long as I wanted.
How I plugged away at the music, bitterly regretting my lack of foresight in not learning solfege. That's something I need to remedy - I always had great ears in our aural training classes at university, but visual comprehension of the notes on the actual stave in terms of sight reading always escaped me - strangely, I am a relatively good sight reader on the piano. I think it is all in how early you start these things.
All was going fine - and then, after working a full day and a half, I realised something:
The instructions had not been altogether clear - there were several missa brevis, and I was working on the wrong mass.
I sent a terse email off to the music director, making sure this time I had the right K number.
I then got straight to work again, bit by bit. It turned out that this wasn't the biggest challenge, but in fact a setting of quoniam by an unknown (to me) composer, to be sung acapella, really was not massaging its way into the folds of my brain.
After working from 9am to 9pm, I had it - or at least I thought I did.
Several encounters with friendly streetfolk later, including one father and his bright-as-a-button daughter, who noticed my scores and said she was learning the piano (dad beaming with pride, I told her to study hard and make sure she did her piano exams) I found myself at St Silas and singing with more gusto for 50 pounds than I ever had in my life.
Taking a step back for a moment, my predicament in learning music last minute, and studying the wrong score initially. put me in mind of the pressure tests in shows like the Great British Bake Off. These high-pressure situations set you up to fail. I know what it's like because I was always rubbish at exams.
I caught the tail end of the semi-final. The task was to make a souffle - sounds simple, yet as every cook knows, the souffle is one of the hardest baked things to pull off of all baked things.
Two of the contestants were methodical, and laser-focused. The third had wild hair sticking out all over her head, and looked visibly harassed. All she could think of was the finish line. Yet, in her haste, she poured cold water instead of hot into the bain marie. This would be her undoing.
As her souffles emerged from their tins dripping wet, her face said it all. Yet, despite the pressure, she pulled her hair out of her face, and put her dish up on that table to be judged by all and sundry.
When I got up into the balcony of the church, little did I realise as the smoke swirled all around me and got into all my clothes, my exits blocked by Eton College choral scholars, that I would have to sing the whole liturgy, from start to finish. This wasn't planned. Manfully, I pressed on. I prayed. The quoniam had come out like a damp souffle in rehearsals - yet, I'd refused to give into fear, and somehow - through my appeals to God? - came together in performance.
I'm learning the art of communication, but I'm mastering the art of freedom. Learning from the master of freedom - Jesus. Freedom to trust I can do this. Freedom from others' expectations. I am enough, as I am.
The other singers around me couldn't have noticed, they'd being singing these pieces forever, and were already planning their bonfires and Sunday roasts.
I looked out across the faces in the pews. I didn't see any recognition, any sign that the music, or the homily, had registered. As far as they knew, I'd never raised a sweat.
The chaps next to me, one who'd been expertly reading very old notation, threw a smile of encouragement. 'That took years off my life,' I whispered.
It was worth doing this just so my aunt, who is in town, could get to hear me sing. I ended the Sunday with a great sense of accomplishment and gratitude to God for seeing me through, but I missed the Christian digital media conference yesterday, and my regular church service. I have to say, I would have much rather been at church today, than at church:
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