"Where's Chloe . . . ?"

It was my fault, I willingly admit to the fact. But, when ordering a rather elegant, beechwood, clothes-horse, I little foresaw the consequences.

The clothes-horse duly arrived, carefully packed in a very large cardboard box.

Chloe took one look at the empty box . . . and it was love at first sight. With an enthusiastic leap, she dived straight in. She has continued to dive joyfully in and out ever since.

Not that this would pose a problem were it

not linked to her love of the game of hide-and-seek.

Prior to the arrival of the inviting box, we had played regular games of hide-and-seek in which Chloe would hide beneath the sofa covering or under the bureau. I would then make a great show of looking for her, and she would finally emerge, the winner of the contest, very proud of her ability to outwit me.

However, with the arrival of the box the game's format changed . . . from my point of view, it was not a change for the better!

Let me explain. First of all, Chloe dashes into her chosen hiding-place. Here she crouches, quivering with expectation, waiting for me to find her. I then search the living-room, constantly repeating the mantra, "Where is Chloe . . . I wonder where Chloe is . . .?" at the same time carefully avoiding treading on a protruding tail!

Chloe's excitement and expectancy build up to such a pitch that finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she comes shooting out. Like a bolt of lightning, she rushes into the bedroom and dives head-first into the large cardboard box.

My role, that of the short-sighted seeker, remains the same.

Still reciting the "Where is Chloe . . .?" mantra, I slowly advance on the large cardboard box.

As my head finally peers over the top, Chloe, doing an inspired impersonation of a jack-in-the-box, leaps up and biffs me on the nose!

Guess where she goes next?

That's right, back into hiding . . . and the whole ritual starts up all over again!

Should you have a spare moment, might it appeal to you to be an occasional understudy for the demanding role of 'short-sighted seeker'?

As one who plays this role at least three times each day, I can assure you that it takes a long time for an eager and enthusiastic young cat to reach the stage of happy exhaustion depicted in this picture!

Building a Symphony

Did I tell you how I once sang a solo at The Albert Hall?

All right, I'll come clean and add that it wasn't an intentional solo. I was part of a group of enthusiastic amateur singers who had come together to sing Faure's 'Requiem'.

Over-awed by the splendour of the building, the privilege of participating, and the general excitement, I got carried away and came in a bar early in the 'Sanctus'.

Fortunately, my solo performance was short . . . very few people heard me.

This incident came to mind last Saturday when I was invited to a concert at The Albert Hall. It wasn't until we arrived that I learned where we'd be sitting. Not in the main body of the auditorium, but in the seats alongside the back row of the orchestra. There we were, behind the strings, facing the wooodwind, and cheek by jowl with the percussion.

In this position you were not so much a member of the audience as a silent component of the orchestra itself.

My view of the conductor was the one shared by those he was conducting. I was able to observe the intense concentration on the faces of the players - their periods of relative rest, the times of extreme activity, the page turning and the pauses - and to study their instruments in close detail.

Did you know that a drummer has at his disposal at least three different sets of drumsticks?

More than anything, it was fascinating to witness each individual contribution to the build-up of sound. Each note - however small, however seemingly insignificant - a perfectly positioned stitch in the formation of the musical tapestry.

We were halfway through the featured symphony of the evening when, to the left of me, a man rose to his feet. He had an air of purposeful concentration. On a stand in front of him was a small, metal triangle suspended on a frame. The man took a matching hammer in his hand and, with his eye on the conductor, stood . . . waiting. A few bars later his moment arrived. With quick precision, he brought the hammer down on the triangle.

Unlike my impromptu solo in the 'Sanctus', it arrived at precisely the right moment, the clear note blending smoothly with those rising from the other instruments in the orchestra. The man returned to his seat.

Had anyone noticed triangle's moment of glory? I doubt it. But, as an integral part of that moment in the music, it had made its mark. The concert lasted two hours, the triangle player lifted his hammer five times.

There's a story (you probably know it) of Sir Christopher Wren visiting the construction site for St. Paul's Cathedral. Three stone masons were working on the site and Sir Christopher stopped to speak to each one. He asked them, in turn, what they were doing.

The first mason explained that he was carving a piece of stone. The second replied that he was making the base for a pillar. But the third one looked up with an expression of pride, "I'm building a cathedral," he said.

For the percussionist at The Albert Hall I'm sure that the stone mason's conviction would ring true.

He wasn't playing a triangle . . . he was building a symphony.