Basses know they’re scarce and hard to fire, keb, so they tend to lack humility. Tenors are even scarcer but oddly not quite as arrogant, possibly because they are more exposed in even the densest work and they fear being obviously bad. (Fear of being bad in public is a good thing in a musician, by the way.)

The sun is shining in Stratford and my furnace is dripping its condensate into a wide, flattish mixing bowl — the largest vessel I own that the furnace technician could wedge under the outlet. I’m not going anywhere until a new pump is installed as the bowl can hold only about eight hours’ output. Of course, the HVAC firm did not have a pump in stock; that would have been WAY too convenient.

Yes, I called in a furnace technician on Saturday — damn the expense! He had real trouble removing the dead condensate pump because some idiot had super-glued it to the outlet. Likewise, the mare’s nest of wiring connecting it to the furnace panel drew an extended critique on DIY efforts. Promising to bump me to the top of Monday’s priority list, the tech left me with the impression that he had seen worse messes, but not many.

The Easter choral marathon is over for another year, and I’m so tired that I’m a bit wobbly. The congregation loved it all, so we did a good job, but it sure takes a toll. My voice is in good shape and I don’t sound old (for a singer), but the rest of the body is feeling past its use-by date.

So I’ll be studiously idle for the rest of the day. No cleaning, despite the dust cougars under the dining table, no packing of books or moving of furniture. Perhaps a stroll down to the river to see the swans, but that’s it.