He thinks: “This is going to be one of the worst hours of my life”

MR MILLARD

Blonde, curly-haired Heather Mair Thomas wears glasses with arty-red frames and says that she loves rescuing voices and waging campaigns against horrible singing teachers. I’m clearly her ideal pupil. “Singing is a lovely release, but so many people are humiliated when they are young,” she enthuses, as we walk into her living room in Crouch End, in North London.

Three cheers to that. “In one lesson we’re going to learn how the voice works and then sing a simple Italian aria,” she continues. Hang on. Simple and aria. Not words that, in my view, normally fit into the same sentence. What aria would that be, then?

“Oh, the sort of thing that Pavarotti sings.” Here, in Muswell Hill? Me? The chorister who became the croakster who only sings well, (or indeed, at all), when backed by a professional choir at St Bride’s Church in East London.

Heather will not be deterred. “I’m like a personal trainer,” she says. “Think of this as you would a tennis lesson. And then when you are reaching for a note, think of it like a ball that is bouncing.”

She’s clearly worked out that I’d much prefer to be outside wielding my latest Wilson Hammer racket than inside her Victorian terraced house, making one. It’s all those painful memories from my childhood (short singing CV: chucked out of the prep school choir for singing out of tune a few weeks after being forced to join against my will).

We start the first exercise sitting on chairs imitating sounds of the sea (“your lungs are a very powerful force that we use to create the sound”). Rosie announces that she is beginning to hyperventilate. “Why would that be then?” I demand. “At least I’m sitting up properly,” she chirrups, donning the mantle of class swot.

Back to the sea. “Push air out like you are pushing a wave. When we are singing we need to process the breath,” encourages Heather. “Sit with your shoulders, head and neck relaxed. Practise abdominal breathing. Always exhale gently, then allow the stomach to relax.” That’s easy enough, then.

“And now hum the first vocal warm-up. Gently. Philip.” I stare gloomily at an array of crotchets. Rosie is unerringly into her stride. I follow for nine notes.

“Rosie, really nice,” Heather responds. “Philip, I think we’ll have you standing up.” That’s funny because that was how I was found out in the school choir. Fortunately, Heather is made of nicer stuff. If only she’d been with me 30-odd years ago. “You need to relax every muscle in the face. Look like you are gormless. Now let’s try for a Perfect 5th. From ‘Ooh to Aaah’. And don’t think of the notes as they are on the page. Think of them like balls on a snooker table.” The one sport I’m crap at.

“Think of your mouth being like the acoustic of a cathedral.” Which one?

“Act like Dawn French, with horns on!” Now she really has got me.

“Make yourself feel like a twit.” Bang on.

Our aria is by Giuseppe Giordani and is called Caro Mio Ben (“Thou all My Bliss”). “We’ll just be singing the notes, will we?” I venture.

“Let’s try the words, too,” says Heather gently.

“Let’s do it in Italian!” cries Rosie, clearly thinking that she is back doing Rodgers & Hart at school. “Let’s put the show on right here!” Ugh!

I pity the poor neighbours as I butcher this 200-year-old piece in a foreign language of which I ordinarily speak about three words, none of which relates to phrases such as “ Credimi Almen” or “ Cessa Crudel tanto rigor”.

Heather has the voice of an angel and helps me out when things are really desperate. Just as we are staggering through the fifth attempt, the next pupil arrives and pulls up a seat. Rosie is delighted. We now have an audience.

Heather says: “Let’s sing it this time like the man at the pizza parlour.” Oh, right. So it’s the phoney “Just One Cornetto” Italian accent, then. In front of a pupil. As I trundle through my “repertoire” I catch Rosie serenading me. The pupil seems to be studiously examining the carpet. At the end Heather is suitably encouraging. She even tells me that I am a tenor, and recommends that I join a male voice choir. Humm!

VERDICT Despite Heather’s soothing words, I don’t think I will be auditioning for ITV’s The X Factor just yet.

She thinks: “At last! Something I can do really well. And wouldn’t it be lovely to learn how to sing an Italian aria with Mr Millard?”

MRS MILLARD

Oh, how lovely. A singing lesson. I haven’t had one of these since I was a drama student, but how I remember all these lovely exercises . . . A a a a ooooohhhhh, oh yes, open your mouth, back straight, breathe from the bottom of your lungs, shoulders down.

Oh, it takes me right back to when I played – starred even – as Queen Guinevere in the school production of Rodgers & Hart’s Camelot. “Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?” Indeed. Where are they, and why haven’t I sung for so long? But what is this ghastly noise right beside me? Oh, yes. It’s Mr Millard. My husband is paranoid about being able to sing. At all. Well, open your mouth properly, man. Stand up straight! Don’t bring your chin up with every high note. Unless you actually want to sound strangled.

Oh, joy. We are going to do an aria in Italian. “Express yourself,” says our lovely teacher Heather. Righty-oh. Hands, lips, what a pleasure. Singing a real bel canto. Well, quite bel. I turn and sing to Mr Millard in what I hope is diva-style. No, he still sounds like a cat shrieking. On my own, I might have sounded quite tuneful.

VERDICT Heather reminded me that I could still do it. I would love to join an amateur choir or even, dare I say it, an amateur opera company.

Heather Mair Thomas charges from £60 an hour. To book a lesson, call 020-8292 1064 or visit www.sessionsinger.co.uk. To find a teacher in your area, log on to www.singing-teachers.co.uk

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