A year without Agatha?

'Boy oh boy', in the words of our dear Lithuanian adoptive grandfather. Where has the time gone? I can hardly believe it has been more than a year since I adopted my Agatha Bellsy persona. It seems impossible, incredible, and indescribably inconceivable to have existed for so long without her...

But of course, that's what wrong. How did I not see it before?

Okay, I know. There is always something up. I'm constantly jumping on here having a whinge or a deep dive into the depths of my despairing mind, but fortunately, I am almost one hundred percent confident that I'm not boring anyone... apart from myself. Why? Well, if you are the lucky individual that stumbles upon my ramblings and comprises my entire audience, then I do apologise.

Oh, before I go on. I believe I am finally off to see Death on the Nile tonight! Hooray! I've only been waiting close to two years, so you can imagine my excitement. Although, I am already prepared to be disappointed by David Suchet's absence. I'm sure you'd agree. In the words of Prince; 'Nothing compares. Nothing compares... to you.'

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. You see, I've been feeling strange lately. I've never been very good at processing my emotions, and with current world events, and some family troubles, I've been having more difficulty than usual.

You see, as I write this, Russia is invading Ukraine. It's a terrible situation leaving people homeless, fleeing or often reluctantly fighting their neighbours. Things like books and music, posting on Instagram and Tiktoking—which feels exactly as it sounds—seem frivolous and actually a bit heartless.

I mean look at Agatha Christie. She nursed the injured during the war, her husband to be, Archie, served in the Flying Corps, and on the eve of his departure 'he was calm and cheerful' despite being certain he would not survive. Agatha says; 'I remember going to bed that night and crying and crying until I thought I would never stop.' They did marry at Christmastime, and honeymooned for just one evening at Torquay before being separated by another six months of war. You can see how tremendously difficult it must have been.

However, during this time, Agatha became a dispensary assistant. I've recently also progressed from pharmacy assisting to dispensing and I sympathise with her 'nervous horror of making mistakes'. Of course, nowadays poisons come pre-capsuled and tableted, but I still find it anxiety inducing. Something else resonated in reading her account. You see, she worked for a Mr P. the pharmacist, who 'struck me, in spite of his cherubic appearance, as possible rather a dangerous man... and it was while I was working in the dispensary that I first conceived of writing a detective story.'

So, it was whilst working in the midst of war, surrounded by poisons while her husband was away fighting, that Agatha conceived Poirot; 'sitting on a tram, I saw just what I wanted: a man with a black beard, sitting next to an elderly lady who was chattering like a magpie.' It's a fascinating account of how her first manuscript The Mysterious Affair at Styles came about. I really recommend reading it.

And imagine a world without Poirot? Okay, let's not.

The account also reminded me of the Lark Ascending by Raugh Vaughn Williams. Although that seems an incongruous tangent, he began writing whilst walking along the cliffs of Margate on holiday in 1914. Margate is not all that far from Torquay, where Agatha worked for Mr P. on Sunday afternoon conjuring murder mysteries. Although Vaughn Williams began writing in 1914, he went off to fight in World War One and came home to orchestrate the earlier version written for violin and piano in 1921.

Now, just today, I happened across an old video of me practicing that piece for a performance. One of the first world problems we face these days is insignificant storage space, so I almost deleted it. After all, I was bundled up in layers of clothing, the video was shaking, I kept fidgeting with my bow and then there is the imperfect playing. Who would want to keep that?

Fortunately, I came to my senses. Although these flashes of insight occur seldomly, perhaps this is the advantage of having tangled thoughts popping in from all directions. What I discovered was;

1. The bundles of clothing—including some very unfashionable but warm fleece lined leggings—were essential to prepare for a concert that evening. And despite the cold, a warm audience of friends, family and local supporters would gather to hear me play.

2. The shaking video—was due to the hands of my mother, whom out of love and support, struggled to stabilise the phone for the whole eight minute performance.

3. The fidgeting—was a result of emotion. You see, the music had stirred the birds resting in the rafters, who were peacefully flying about the church.

4. My imperfect playing—despite its out of tune notes, the inaccurate double stops and moments of inadequate control, would enable me to bring joy and comfort to many family and friends. I had previously and since played the Lark Ascending for weddings, funerals and made my family and husband proud.

Why I am thinking all of these things? Actually, even as I started to write them down I was telling myself it was a waste of time. After all, I should be working on Violetta 2, or promoting Violetta 1, or practicing, or even hanging out the washing before it rains. (Fortunately, I've just checked the weather and it looks like it has passed. Phew!)

But what occurred to me about my weird feeling, was that I've been struggling to feel that any of these things are important. However, whilst I can't go and serve in a hospital or help fight the war—and I'm so fortunate I don't have to—what I can do is create. Although such things seem insignificant and unimportant, perhaps in the midst of all this destruction, it can provide a bit of comfort, hope or even humour.

Then of course, as difficult and imperfect as all of it may be; it means more when you share it.