Getting drunk on Onegin

Tchaikovsky's opera Eugene Onegin is a gift for those who like showing off.

Care to guess how you pronounce the title? I'll put you out of your misery - it's Oy-gainie O-nyay-gin. That last g is hard, as in garage, not as in martini (dry).

Until last year I'd never seen (heard?) the opera and was unfamiliar with its origins - a long poem by a poet with the least poetic of surnames: Pushkin. Now I've seen it thrice and I'm an expert.

A quite modern plot. A clever-clogs whose arrogance causes him to kill his best friend and whose love for a woman leads to agonies which will last for eternity. Nobody gets cut up and put in a bag.

Avoid the Solti/Covent Garden DVD. It is A FILM. Which means the soloists (some no doubt portly) only lend their voices; their visible bodies are replaced by dashing and handsome young people who dub the sound-track. Very strange. Off-putting in fact.

We also saw versions by Glyndebourne and, very recently, the Met. The former was also strange. A moving aria about an older man's love for his young wife appeared after the final action instead of before. Imagine Mercutio getting stabbed after R&J lie lifeless. As Americans say (it's a form of words I envy): go figure.

Hot tip: Soprano should always be Russian.

WIP Second Hand. (41,568 words)
(Francine's mother said) “Mrs Trotter said he was always nervy – whatever that means. Finally he had a nervous breakdown. Couldn’t stand the pressures of working in the hospital. They’d seen it coming for ages. Six months’ sick leave and he’s recovered. Sort of, says Mrs Trotter. What’s he going to do for a living? Acted as a locum at a medical centre and found even that too much of a strain. Finally found the perfect job.”
....
“A company that makes prosthetics for amputees...”