Where did August go? Someplace too busy to be writing about it.

"Uneventful" and "maniacally busy" are two states that, in combination, spell trouble for a blog. And thus has flowed August. Nothing exciting or distinctive enough to merit a full entry, combined with a life currently driven by "to do" lists, in which I generally rush through the day, accumulate more stress as I fall further behind and collapse into sleep on the couch by 9:30. So much for the glamorous life.

This state of affairs is, of course, partially due to the demands of my upcoming wedding; a one-time only (thank heavens) flurry of event organisation on par with anything I've ever managed at work. Work itself is a dire death march on an unexpected project; I remind myself that the pain pays for all the lovely experiences I write about in this blog, and refrain from sharing any of the boring details. Estate management back in St. Louis? Not going well, but not enough time to do much about it. Another niggling point of stress, constantly irritating like an itch just out of reach, festering there until I can clear time to do something about it. I begin to think I should take up some calming meditation, but I don't know where I'd fit it in.

Of course, plenty has happened in the past month that I could have cobbled into an entry had I had some time at leisure to write. There were those riots. The odd experience of sitting in leafy Hampshire, watching our capital city looted and burned by thugs. When I moved to this country 16 years ago, one of its advantages was a greater sense of security thanks to far lower rates of crime. Those days seem gone.

There was my hen party, an excellent time but fairly dignified, as these things go. This was completely due to the good taste of my bridesmaids, long-time travel companions Hillary and Lisa, who managed to weave in just enough ribaldry to honour tradition without making anyone look silly or feel embarrassed. I could have done an entry on what we learned at our chocolate making workshop, or one on the nature of sisterhood and friendship ... though if I were still a reporter I'd be chasing the story of why a university-educated software salesman chooses to work hen parties in nothing but an apron. Is he forced into it financially? Embarrassed to do it? Or enjoying it and getting easy money. It is a conversation I never had with James, our "Butler in the Buff", though those were the questions I wanted to ask.

The fine points of wedding planning bring new experiences and discoveries every day. Hair trials. Make up trials. The search for a reasonably-priced nail salon in Mayfair. The connundrum of how little you can spend on flowers while still producing something classy enough for your venues, and that doesn't make things look under-dressed. (Just short of £2000 would appear to be the painful answer.) Tracking down Cheltenham Chairs (turns out that's the formal name for those spindle-backed, traditional English banqueting chairs) in silver with blue cushions. Dealing with the disappointments of last-minute drop outs and the frustrations of invited guests who just can't seem to give a firm reply. And on. And on. I now have a much better understanding of how the industry can support so many magazines, "how to" guides and agony aunt columns.

While I have no extremely noteworthy new restaurants to report on, it's not because we've been cooking every night. Roussillon texted its regulars with a two-for-the-price-of-one offer on the summer seven-course tasting menu, an offer we couldn't refuse since we were just down the road at our church for more wedding planning and needed someplace to eat. No need for additional commentary on that fine establishment, other than to say they're still performing at described levels and retain their rank as my top restaurant in London. More often, when we've had a night in town, we've usually headed to the dining room at Piers' club. Excellent food, less expensive than the equivalent public restaurants, and offering a chance to slip into the empty ballroom afterwards to practice our first dance for the wedding. Being a private club, of course, my tipping you off to how good the food at the Lansdowne is will do you little good, unless you're a member, can use a reciprocal membership, or can hit up a current member for an invitation. If you have any of those options, I'd encourage you to use them.

The Lansdowne's figuring so prominently in my life recently, that when we took one day off from the relentless push of the "to do" lists over the bank holiday weekend, I suggested a visit to Bowood, the Lansdowne family's country estate. It's rare these days to be able to see the matched sets of aristocratic seat and London townhouse, with so many torn down and some of those that exist being tricky to get into. Doing so gives you a more complete understanding of political, artistic and social life in the Georgian era. Something I may return to on a quiet winter weekend when, perhaps, life will be uneventful, but not so busy.

Ahead lies a week and a half more of uneventful and maniacal, and then all hell breaks loose. Family starts arriving from Thursday 8 September. The 10th through the 14th are a mix of sightseeing, celebration and final wedding preparation. The big day arrives on the 15th, then we're off to Mauritius and South Africa. Major events aplenty deserving coverage. But will I have time to write?

Watch this space...

Siegfried's high on adventure, but unconvincing in romance

After a month of almost consistent rain and chill, the sun emerged in all its glory on Saturday. A day after the afternoon I'd planned sitting next to a pool. Instead, it was the same time I was due to spend four hours in a dark theatre taking in the third opera in the Ring Cycle. Which really leaves me wondering, is God a Wagner fan (sending good weather to bless the occasion) or a Wagner foe (offering sunshine as a clear signal I would have spent my time better outdoors)?

We shall never know for sure. We certainly have evidence, however, that the London critics are fans, at least as far as Longborough's production of Siegfried goes. And though I doubt I'll ever be in the first rank of Wagner fans, I'll concede it was enjoyable enough to be worth the sacrifice of a few peak tanning hours.

Siegfried is probably the most accessible of the four parts of Wagner's ring cycle, even though it's the one least likely to feature any music the average person has heard before. It's a an adventure with a dashing hero who forges a magic sword, slays a dragon and rescues an enchanted, sleeping maiden. Good triumphs over evil and there's a happy ending. Of course, it takes three acts and about four hours of performance time to get there, so the faint-hearted should probably just give Sleeping Beauty another spin in the DVD player.

Part of the length is due to the fact that this opera, though part of a larger cycle, could easily have been broken into three independent dramas. Act 1 is a coming of age story, as Siegfried confronts his evil guardian, discovers who he really is and establishes the foundation of his power. Act 2 could stand alone as a rip-roaring dragon quest. And Act 3 is both our princess quest, and a fascinating exploration of the fears of an independent woman ... the valkyrie Brunhilde ... who is terrified she's going to lose herself when she gives in to love. (I doubt Wagner intended the feminist interpretation, but these days it makes the last act unusually modern and relevant.)

The Longborough company delivered to the standards we've now come to expect, with innovative but low budget staging, fantastic singers and acting that connects directly to the audience. The last is particularly important in this former chicken shed turned opera house, where the most distant seat can still see facial expressions without artificial assistance. Particularly noteworthy was American tenor Daniel Brenna (pictured above), who played Siegfried as brash yet loveable, innocent yet dangerous ... the dumb jock whose skill gives him more power than his intelligence knows how to handle. It worked brilliantly for me in the first two acts, though was a problem in the last. How, I wondered, could the magnificent Brunhilde fall head over heels for this self-centred lug?

And here, Wagner's music doesn't help. He does drama and passion well, but when it comes to romance he leaves me cold. Siegfried and Brunhilde's discussion (I can't call anything that long a duet) as they are falling in love is bombastic and powerful, but in no way was I convinced these two people actually cared for each other. It's the same reaction I had at last year's performance of Die Walkure when Siegmund and Sieglinde (Siegfried's parents) were supposedly bonding for life. With apologies to my Wagner-loving fiance, I still argue that Wagner can't touch the Italians for putting true love on stage.

In many ways, now that I've seen half the wring cycle live and been exposed to the rest of it on TV, I think Wagner was born to early and working in the wrong medium. I can quite clearly imagine the man producing, writing and directing a 12-part operatic mini series on HBO, with the full-fantasy look of Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings or the recent Game of Thrones.

You may think that's too niche to see the light of day, but the modern trend in Wagner is wildly avant-garde. We recently watched a production on Sky Arts that saw the vakyries sheathed in rubber, flying in and out on cherry pickers in front of a giant video screen flashing space images behind them. It made Longborough's sparse, industrial set look practically traditional. The Wagner community is up for risk, so why not?