A night at the opera

Thanks to the generosity of friends, Mrs Spencer and I went to the opera the other week, an exceptionally rare event. Having grown up with the rougher edges of pop and rock music, the trained voices of opera singers always strike me as being artificial and overblown. And there is something about the snooty splendour of Covent Garden that brings out a chippy adolescent resentment in me, though on most matters these days I am soundly right-wing and usually enjoy a spot of luxury.

The evening didn’t begin well. Our taxi got stuck in a traffic jam and we had barely travelled 100 yards before the meter hit ten quid and we bailed out. But walking across Waterloo Bridge was almost as bad because there had been a big fireworks display for the Lord Mayor’s Show and we were repeatedly held up by officious police officers as the crowds dispersed. When we finally got to Covent Garden I was almost crying with rage and frustration.