Signs of singletons

No, I didn't take this picture. Are you crazy?

Two earnest young mums huddle over a table in the coffee shop this cold January morning. One, young and brown-haired, is carefully cuddling and nursing her tiny child, leaning forward to listen to her companion, a tall lady with a long blond ponytail, juggling her child, who, given what I remember about child development, is somewhere between eight and eleven months old.

Clearly, both have just the one child.

How can I tell? Something in their posture, in the intent focussing of their attentions on the babies. Also the fact that they're sitting in a coffee shop.

Some time later, I make my way down the hall to use the tiny loo. Blond Ponytail is crouched in one of the two stalls. Her baby is balanced on the adult seat, and BPM is reading from a pile of picture books, while the little girl-child makes noises of the kind a baby makes in the months before words come.

I've heard something of this phenomenon. It's called something like "elimination communication", because young parents simply don't have enough to worry about. With this method, you prove how much at one with your kid you are, by carefully watching your baby for signs that s/he might be ready to pass something, then popping them on the adult toilet until whatever it is emerges. This way, you not only wipe out the need for diapers, but you also get yet another opportunity to bond.

Blond Ponytail Mum bonded with her preverbal daughter, all during the time I used the free cubicle, and for some time after that. Luckily for her, it seems that no more than one woman at a time needed the facilities during that period. Definitely the mother of one. Imagine a mother of two or more believing this was necessary for her baby, much less leaving the other(s) unattended for the amount of time each toileting takes.

Mind you, BPM is probably waaaaay too environmentally conscious to have more than one child.

(For the record, I used cloth diapers, but would probably be condemned for my water wastage.)

Flushed with triumph

The Resident Fan Boy and I had tickets for a "Festive Baroque Christmas Concert" at St Andrew's Presbyterian Church.

St Andrews is one of two St Andrews in downtown Victoria; the other is a Roman Catholic cathedral. Having lived in Victoria for several years - not counting those seventeen hellish years in Hades - I naturally assumed I'd been there at some point; I've passed it several times.

As soon as the RFB entered through one of the red inner doors leading to the sanctuary itself, I realized I'd never been there before. It's a lovely church but quite claustrophobic, and not just because the place was jammed for the concert. Each door leads to one aisle, or one balcony only, and consequently, it's really difficult to maneuver around the place, or get a clear idea of where the unoccupied pews are - if you're there for a jammed Christmas concert, that is.

You get up to the balconies by ascending one of four winding staircases. After trying three doors and finding the section of balcony behind each door appeared to be crammed, we made our way to the very front where we sat three rows up and overlooking the performance space from behind.

This was fine for hearing the musicians, although I couldn't really hear the soprano from behind. It turned out the ensemble was being led by violinist Jeanne Lamon, who, from 1981 to 2014, was the artistic director of Tafelmusik. Another featured guest musician Kris Kwapis, who is from Seattle, and plays her baroque trumpet all over the place. The baroque trumpet is a very long instrument that made her look like a plum pudding sort of Renaissance angel.

Scanning my programme in the dark balcony, I recognized a lot of the names of the fifteen musicians in the Victoria Baroque ensemble because a few of them play in the Victoria Symphony and a few of them bear the surnames of prominent musical families in the city.

At intermission, the lady next to me picked up my programme, stuffed it in her bag and departed with her companion. I was bemused, but reasoned I needed a leg stretch anyway, and decided to try the door behind us. It led to yet another red winding staircase and I descended into a long line of ladies waiting for the tiny washroom. "Good luck," one of them grinned.

My need was not yet desperate, so I wove in and out of doors, and aisles until I found a stack of programmes. Finding my way down the opposite side of the sanctuary, I tried another door, which led to another winding staircase. This one was also red, but very dark. At the top, another door, rather brown and ancient, which I thought might lead back across the church to my balcony. Instead I found a dark sort of seminar room, or kitchen -- I didn't want to linger to find out -- but there was also a cubicle with a toilet.

I was quick, because the cubicle didn't lock, and it was kind of creepy. I had one nasty moment, when I thought the big brown door through which I'd come might not open again, but it did, and I fled.

When I found my way back to the RFB, I told him of my explorations, and the bathroom no one else seems to have discovered.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"I'm not telling you! It's mine!" I said, and we settled to enjoy the rest of the concert.

One of the pieces was the first half of this concerto by Francesco Manfredini. It's called "Pastorale per il santissimo natale", but is also known as "Christmas Concerto", and was published in 1718. The group in the video is smaller than the ensemble we heard, but the swaying dancing motions of the violins is familiar.