Three Tenors and a Semi Soprano

It was all I had. I didn't know where she lived, the colour of her
hair, the shape of her lips, whether she shopped in Tesco or
Sainsbury's. I just knew she came here. Once a month. On a Monday. It's
instinctive, being early. I just can't be late. The room was eerily
lit. Freshly painted in those not so subtle shades of green that are
supposed to relax you, but, when united with the vivid turquoise of a
heavy duty, brillo-pad carpet; that finished several inches up the
wall; just managed to make me feel vaguely, sick. I avoided the clique
of chairs and leant back against the cold radiator, disappointed not to
find warmth to cheer me up. The door scuffed open. Is this her? A
cheerful, sunburnt face asked if this was the singing group. "As far as
I know." I smiled, relieved by her newness. We did the strangers
tippy-toe chatting thing. "D'you live locally?" "Mmm. Did you find
parking okay?". "Mmm. Been singing long?" "Mmm!" I opened my guilty
mouth to confess all and brand myself a fraud, when the door opened
again. My distant past blew in like desert grass. The Head Girl. Bitch.
Voice like an angel, always winning prizes. Always managed to make blue
gingham shirts and scratchy navy serge pleats look like something from
a catwalk. Bitch. I smiled vaguely, as Happy Sunburnt Face said hello.
Two decades had been generous to Head Girl. Round her stomach and bum!
I fiddled with my Wonder bra, glad of its wondrous support and sucked
in my only slightly saggy tum. "Tina, look at you! Been a while!" It
felt vaguely uncomfortable - Head Girl respectfully remembering my
name. I cringed. Was she the one? More women wandered in. Why do some
people deliberately put themselves in pigeonholes? The gutter press
would have a field day. Virtuous Vicar's Wife; Solitary School's
Secretary; Bored Housewife - but not enough to stray, just sing. And as
for wearing pink trousers that are baggy everywhere apart from her
arse, with a Black Sabbath tour tee-shirt dated 1998. That hair! It
really cannot be her! The circle completed when the leader, our
teacher, waddled in like the first woman to be pregnant longer than an
elephant. Poor thing. She kicked of her foetus friendly shoes and
alarmingly began to shake her arms and head. I looked for a means of
escape, expecting a shower of amniotic fluid at any second. Most
definitely it wasn't her. As Teacher warmed us up using various ear
splitting vowels and large body movements, I looked around the group.
How could it possibly be any of them? Why would my stupid husband,
sneak off and make unrivalled sexy, sweaty, sultry, sleazy love to fat
Head Girl Bitch - she still laughs like a cat with fur balls - or
Lesbian Rock Chicken? Why would he disappear on a Monday night and come
back reeking of sweat and that awful Sunflowers, perfume of the toilet?
God, even bleach smells and probably tastes better. Let's face it,
which one of these women would?? I sniffed. There is was. Sunflowers.
But who? We progressed to African folk jazz serenade chanting hums
stuff in the key of E minus. I tried to keep up, but something hinted
keeping my pointy shoes on and clutching my matching designer bag
whilst desperately wishing I smoked, didn't help with the tongue clicks
and guttural "Hmms." Discreetly I snuffled the women nearby. "Got a
cold dear?" Asked Mamma Teacher. I smiled sadly, gagging on my tongue
as it stuck to the back of my throat. "Here, have a tissue." Mamma
passed me the Kleenex and there is was. The smell. It was like inhaling
poison. The witch, the evil, bouncing bomb, was her, she?. how?. but
?.. The door flung open announcing testosterone. "Ladies! Sorry we're
late, lads in the bar, know what I mean. HA HA!" In walked three fairly
familiar burly tenors from our rugby club and a man who, when I get him
home might well end up a semi soprano.