NOT Violetta.

As I practise away, envelloped in the mostly anguished ladies of Italian 19th century opera lyrica, I take a break for an espresso and watch the birds from my kitchen, opera glasses in one hand and short, sharp coffee in the other.

Rattling my brains back to the real world, I have to ring some of my dear gardener chums on their mobiles to talk about tap roots, mycorrhizal funghi and from my point of view, food and water.

"She's as busy as me, and just as hungry" I cry, as no-one seems to understand how much energy a heavyweight soprano or continually flowering Florabunda rose gets through, in terms of water and nutrition!

I truly love my dear gardener friends and try to cherish them, because I know that they are well away from my profession and I can really trust them. We speak at 7.45 am as I do to my Opera house director friends on the continent (8.45am)...their only quiet moment, but to have the mobile numbers of all of these great gardeners is I feel, a wonderful privilege.

We discuss aspects, sites, tending, planting and with endless patience, they teach me.

I love it if the roses can go in on my birthday and this year my wonderful borough had two little parties, morning and afternoon in November both with birthday cakes, and we all dug and planted away so that she can help The Little Angel Marionette Theatre.

 Their party is next week and we must all be ship-shape!

Oh dear...back to the delicious Adriana Lecouvreur, Cilea's great masterpiece with the most gloriously ravishing orchestral interlude of all...no one in this country knows it. 

She dies...as usual! this time poisoned by..........violets.