Yes, it snowed again last night. Fortunately not much, but enough to show the sprouting daffodils who’s still in charge. Having lived some forty years in the Ottawa Valley, I’ve seen snow on apple blossom more times than enough.

The concert choir survived last night’s performance without inappropriate drama, thank God. We all sang our heads off and nailed most, if not all, the entries in the frankly challenging Requiem by Maurice Duruflé; then whipped off the rousing final number, a late-Latin hymn with all the organ stops out. The audience looked a bit stunned when it was over, and then clapped and clapped and clapped.

I went home to a stiff whisky and an hour of cats-on-lap time before bed.

The house is not at its best, in the shank of that “enduring construction” phase of ubiquitous plaster dust, pictures off the wall, and random extension cords snaking around corners. The library-cum-music room is in disorder, with three half-empty bookcases and boxes of books stacked on the floor awaiting the trip down the highway to the Goodwill bookstore in London. But I’m not doing anything about it until I finish the grant application. The deadline on that is noon Tuesday.

I have almost all the supporting documents I need — pdf versions of posters, programs and cvs — but I’m waiting on the operating budget and an audio clip from our last Messiah performance. Must pester the Maestro …