Diary – 25 October 2003

An evening of virulent anti-American propaganda at Covent Garden, or rather a terrific Madame Butterfly, brilliantly lit as well as sung. The evening was marred only by the distraction of a madwoman waving her arms at the edge of the stage. This was bootlicking by the Opera House to the Department for Culture. In order to get money from New Labour, every arts institution must prove itself ‘accessible’, apparently to all 60 million people in this island. ‘Sign-language-interpreted performances are part of the ROH’s commitment to enabling as many sections of the community as possible to appreciate and enjoy its productions,’ said the Butterfly programme. I am full of admiration for deaf people who relish the visual aspects of an operatic performance enough to pay three-figure sums for tickets. Surely the ROH has also got surtitles? Not good enough. The programme says that for some deaf people, sign language ‘is their first language, and English their second or third’. Yet out of 1,200-odd people in the house that night, how many were both deaf and unable to read English? Two? Three?

A first: planting daffodil bulbs with a pickaxe — the only way to pierce the iron-hard ground.

Returning from a Scottish shooting expedition, a carrier bag containing four grouse was removed from me by security staff at Aberdeen airport. They said that the birds would pose a health hazard in the cabin, and must travel in the hold. Airport security staff, the sort of people who once became traffic wardens or food-safety inspectors, approach their work with sadistic glee. I was put through the search routine, down to the soles of my shoes, for a second time after surrendering the corpses. Matters grew worse at Heathrow.