Our 104 year-old downstairs neighbour has her daughter over from Milan and I’ve heard opera being played. It was loud, so perhaps it was played for the appreciation of both (the mother being virtually stone deaf) not just the daughter. I rather liked hearing the wail of the soprano’s voice coming through the floor of my studio, even though I was trying to write. How the neighbour on the other side, a night worker in A&E, felt about it, I am not sure. The singing made the old school appear European in the sunshine, cosmopolitan even, cultured. I liked it.
