I went to a masterclass the woman said loudly. Do you know that the singers - beautiful voices - didn’t have a clue what they were singing about? The stranger across the table from me frowned in irritation the pages for the synopsis for Act Two of Rameau's Castor et Pollux open in his hand. The woman repeated what she had already said a little differently this tme but with the same emphasis. Her friends muted friends listened on, holding their drinks and unsure how to change the topic. I stirred sugar into my Concertgebouw cappuccino, a cup small enough to finish in time for the second bell. It’s hard to understand the words the woman said loudly. Just think if a French singer is singing in English or a Dutch singer is singing in German Across the table from me the stranger sighed his mind half grapsing a story about twins and different fates and a libretto in antiquated French. I played the flute and piano the woman said loudly. When I was three I sang a song oh, I liked that song I sang it along to the record player. I still have that record. I finished my coffee and sat waiting for the next assault on my sensibilities But my mind wandered off remembering the man in head to toe black leather trousers, jacket and cap pushing his bike up the bike ramp his silver chain glinting in the sun as I made my way down the steps I noted the fresh green leek sticking out of his bike basket.