Julian Lloyd Webber: When a muso gets a tingle

The other day I felt a severe twinge in my left hand - the one that does all the intricate fingerwork.

Being a bit of a big girl's blouse - or whatever it was the British tabloids called Becks when he emerged plastered after his dressing-room showdown with Fergie - I decided to visit a hand specialist.

I was told to have a cortisone injection in my hand immediately. Perturbed, I visited a second specialist. I was told that on no account should I ever have a cortisone injection in my hand.

Confused, I saw a third specialist, who prescribed both industrial-strength anti-inflammatory drugs and ultrasonic treatment. This combination worked and I am relieved to report my career-threatening tiny twinge has disappeared.

So has my wife. A musician pacing around like a caged beast, unable to play, cannot be the easiest person to live with.

Not only was I devastated to think of all the future projects that might never happen, but I was astounded by the sudden realisation my hands were not immune to the constant punishment I inflict upon them.

There was also the little matter of survival. Like nearly every solo instrumentalist I know, I have absolutely no insurance. How foolhardy, you may say - like my accountant, who pooh-poohed my idea that if anything really went wrong, I could sell my valuable Stradivarius.

Yet, for a musician, selling your instrument is hardly an attractive option. Not only is it a final admission that your playing days are over, but it would feel like selling your best friend and companion to the highest bidder.

Surely, though, I must have insured my hands? Great idea. I investigated it once. But the requirement that you had to break most - if not all - of your fingers in several places seemed a trifle excessive.

A more cunning ruse, I thought, would be to take out insurance against "non-appearance". After all, sudden deafness, blindness or even severe haemorrhoids are hardly conducive to playing the cello.

But the terms were as ludicrous as they were expensive. I had to be unable to perform for at least six weeks (no "girl's blouse" flu claims). And if I undertook any alternative employment, the insurance payments would cease immediately: no more columns for this newspaper.

The most worrying aspect of musicians' injuries is that we are terrified to admit that everything might not be hunky-dory: news travels faster in the music profession than the proverbial ferret up a trouser leg.

If you do admit to having so much as a toothache, at least 20 people will be queuing to take your place. Admitting to something worse like "guitarist's nipple" would be professional suicide. And as for "cellist's scrotum", I am tempted to say don't even go there.

* Following last month's revelations of the on-stage antics of tenor Franco Bonisolli, I am pleased to see the aptly named soprano Kathleen Battle is carrying on his tradition with a vengeance.

Franco, you will recall, incensed the audience during a performance of Mascagni's Cavalieri Rusticana when he yelled abuse at the conductor after the unfortunate maestro had adopted "too slow a tempo" for his key aria. They whistled and booed in disapproval, whereupon Bonisolli gave them the finger before stomping off.

All subsequent Bonisolli performances were booked out months in advance and Ms Battle has wisely taken a leaf out of Franco's bulging engagement book.

According to the Florida Sun Times' review of her recent Fort Lauderdale recital, "Ms Battle's legendary scorched-earth displays of temperament" were unleashed on her long-suffering accompanist who was "visited with her unique brand of shock and awe. Hitting the piano lid in frustration she exited the stage at intermission, vehemently remonstrating with the rattled pianist who one half-expected to see return for the second half with his head bandaged".

It can be no coincidence that Florida's Philharmonic Orchestra expired recently because of local indifference. An old trouper like Ms Battle knows her audience well and her bravura display was fully in tune (forgive the pun) with the combative style of music-making the Florida public no doubt requires.