The very worst among them, the child molesters and the murderous dictators, would have to perform them.
Save for the exquisite oeuvre of a certain Mr. Lomond, I have yet to find a genre of music I enjoy;
it’s basically audible physics, waves and energized particles, and, like most sane people, I have no interest in physics.
It therefore struck me as bizarre that I was humming a tune from Oliver!
I mentally added the exclamation mark, which, for the first time ever, was appropriate.
Who will buy this wonderful evening? Who indeed?
One of the foster carers kept a video library of musicals that we worked our way through en famille at weekends,
and so, although I fervently wish that I wasn’t, I’m very familiar with the work of Lionel Bart, Rodgers and Hammerstein et al.
Knowing I was here on the street where he lived was giving me a funny feeling, fluttery and edgy, verging on euphoric.
I could almost understand why that frock-coated buffoon from My Fair Lady had felt the need to bellow about it outside Audrey Hepburn’s window.
Finding out where the musician lived had been easy. He had posted a picture of a lovely sunset on Twitter: @johnnieLrocks
The view from my window: how lucky am I? #summerinthecity #blessed
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