The Member Who Brings a Water Bottle the Size of a Small Submarine
The singer leaves the room with an expression that suggests this is simply the price one pays for operating at such elite levels of hydration.
Every choir has one member whose approach to hydration borders on performance art.
Most singers arrive at rehearsal carrying a perfectly sensible bottle of water. It sits quietly beside their chair, occasionally called into action between pieces or after a particularly demanding passage. The owner barely mentions it. It fulfils its purpose and everybody moves on with their lives.
Not so with the Water Bottle Person.
This individual arrives carrying what appears to be a strategic reserve for a medium-sized town. The bottle itself is impossible to ignore. It is large enough to have its own postcode and robust enough to survive re-entry from orbit. It features industrial-grade insulation, an enormous handle and a drinking spout that looks capable of supplying emergency services during periods of drought. It is placed on the floor with a noticeable thud, ensuring that everybody within a twenty-foot radius is fully aware of its presence.
The owner is invariably proud of it.
Within the first ten minutes of rehearsal, somebody will learn exactly how much liquid it holds. Nobody asks this question, but the information is provided anyway.
"Three litres."
The announcement is delivered with the confidence of somebody who has just revealed the cure for the common cold.
The relationship between the singer and the bottle soon becomes apparent. Every break in proceedings, however brief, presents an opportunity for further hydration. A difficult entry is corrected and they take a drink. The choir moves from one piece to another and they take a drink. Somebody asks a question about pronunciation and they take a drink. If the conductor pauses for more than seven seconds, there is a strong possibility that the bottle is already in motion.
The inevitable consequence of consuming enough water to sustain a camel caravan is, of course, entirely predictable.
The first toilet break arrives surprisingly early.
The singer leaves the room with an expression that suggests this is simply the price one pays for operating at such elite levels of hydration. They return a few minutes later, resume singing and immediately take another drink. The rest of the choir begins quietly calculating how this strategy is expected to work over the remainder of the evening.
Before long, the second trip occurs.
Then the third.
By the final rehearsal break, choir members are no longer entirely certain whether the singer belongs to the choir or is simply commuting between the rehearsal room and the nearest bathroom.
What makes the entire phenomenon even more fascinating is that these enormous bottles are remarkably short-lived. At some point during the season, the bottle disappears. It may have been left behind after a concert. It may have vanished in a rehearsal venue. It may simply have become too cumbersome to transport safely. Whatever the cause, one week it is there and the next week it is gone.
This should be the moment when common sense prevails.
A reasonable person might conclude that carrying around what is essentially a portable reservoir was perhaps unnecessary. They might purchase something smaller, lighter and more practical.
Instead, the replacement arrives.
And it is bigger.
The new model possesses additional handles, greater capacity and insulation technology that apparently allows water to remain cold until sometime after the next AGM. It is introduced with obvious pride and accompanied by a detailed explanation of its advanced features, none of which anybody requested.
The choir listens politely because this is now part of the ritual.
We all know what comes next. The constant sipping. The regular departures. The increasingly ambitious bottle upgrades. The inevitable disappearance. Then another replacement, larger than the last, as though the singer is engaged in a personal challenge to determine the maximum amount of water that can be transported into a rehearsal room without planning permission.
Deep down, however, there is something oddly admirable about the whole thing. While the rest of us drift through rehearsals with our modest refreshments, this individual remains absolutely committed to their hydration strategy, regardless of the practical consequences.
One suspects that, given enough time, they will eventually arrive towing a water bowser behind their car. They will position it beside the altos, fill a reusable cup the size of a bucket and announce proudly that it keeps water cold for five days.
And then, halfway through the second piece of the evening, they will quietly excuse themselves for another trip to the bathroom.
