My post-lockdown resolution: drink more Alsace

Freedom approaches. Should we be humming ‘Va, Pensiero’ or ‘O Welche Lust’ — perhaps both. Thinking of Fidelio reminds me of a delicious comment made about Ted Heath by the late Sam Brittan in the FT, decades ago. On this occasion, Le Grand Epicier was being interviewed about music. He declared that Fidelio was one of his favourite operas and that every time he saw it, he was inspired anew by the ideals of freedom which it so powerfully expressed. Sam was unpersuaded. ‘Poor Mr Heath. He may be moved by Fidelio. Yet he does not realise that if the British public knew that noble work, they would immediately identify him not as Florestan, but as Pizarro.’

I suppose that we should not really compare ourselves with Babylonian captives or Pizarro’s prisoners. We do not have to weep by the waters of Babylon, nor do our lives depend on Leonore’s heroic cross-dressing. Even so, we can surely insist that liberation gastronomy is much preferable to liberation theology. Thoughts also turn to Eliot. ‘Midwinter spring is its own season.’ Damn right there, with the stress on midwinter. Gardening friends are delighted. Those of us compelled to shiver while dining al fresco, with the stress on fresco, are less persuaded. Although I have lost some weight during the austerities of lockdown, I am still too well insulated by medical standards. Even when blankets are provided, that has its uses in the improvised pavement restaurants. Back to a paraphrase of Eliot: ‘A cold dining we had of it./ Just the worst time of year for eating outside.’ But relief ought to be on its way. May is a warm and joyous word. With the possible exception of Rotherhithe, no longer a pretty place if indeed it ever was, Mayfair has the prettiest name of any London district.