I thought subjecting two children, aged 10 and 11, to a whole evening of Handel might be a strain, that they would be bored and fidgety (perhaps I might be bored and fidgety – I don’t go to concerts that often). But I needn’t have worried. For a start there was plenty going on. Lots of incidental stuff – the lovely Wigmore Hall (air-conditioned), the audience of zanily dressed north London intelligentsia, the exhortations to suppress the urge to cough as much as possible, and the bags of Swiss-formula herbal sweets on sale in the interval. The hard seats.