She won't sing at the concert in 11 days time when the Aotea Centre's theatre is renamed in her honour, nor will she ever again sing in future at any other theatre, nor anywhere else in public, nor in private. She will not even sing, she says, in the shower. She no longer wants to hear the voice that once turned an entire generation of opera lovers to quivering, mawkish, excessively-adjectival mush. She can't bear it. The thing most responsible for bringing her fame and wealth and adoration is gone forever.

She says she doesn't miss it and it doesn't

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