Dame Kiri ’s Tupperware

I’m not going to sing. I’ve told everyone: I’m not going to sing. I’m delighted, grateful, and I suppose my young singers would say, ‘‘lit’’, at the prospect of a theatre being named after me but if they expect me to perform at the gala, they’ll be sorely disappointed. Conditions in New Zealand do not suit my voice.

In the 1960s it was very difficult to be a soprano here. Indoors, everyone was smoking. Outdoors, the pollen was thicker than soup. My eyes would stream, and my soft palate would clog up with bolus. It’s impossible to sing Puccini with a hairball in your gullet, and I tried.

So, I fled to London, Basel and Vienna to pursue my hopes and dreams and as everyone knows, I went on to have a glittering career. This proved my point that in order to shine, I needed more than New Zealand could supply. Audiences, for one thing. Good gracious, only eight people came when I debuted Wagner’s Ring cycle at the Mystery Creek Fieldays, and half of them left early for afternoon milking.

My patrons and friends in Europe were fascinated by my humble origins. They’d remark: ‘‘Opera is to a New Zealander what the Yeti is to a mountain peasant. Rarely seen, and deeply disturbing.’’

Still, despite my years of success, I’m not what my young singers would call minted. For this I blame popera in the Noughties. I could be relaxing in a beachfront glass box on Waiheke right now were it not for Paul Potts and Susan Boyle.

There’s no political will to fund the arts, you see. Helen Clark loved opera, and I begged the UN to invest. She said the money was going to the World Food Programme, and I needed to keep my wig on.

So one must economise. People are surprised how frugal I am. My Favourite Thing is my Tupperware collection.

I find the tubs endlessly practical. I also like the brand with clackers on all four sides of the lid. I’ve taken them to

all the great halls of Europe. Recently I did Carmen at the Royal Albert Hall. I popped my Throaties in the small one, my imitation pearls in the middle-sized one and a whitebait patty in the big one.

They come in handy when I dine at Windsor Castle with YOU KNOW WHO, the Princess Royal, and His Royal Highness Prince Charles. Princess Anne and I became friends over the years as we share a dressmaker, Madge.

One day Anne remarked on my hydrangea skirt and I said: ‘‘Do you know what this is? It’s a bed sheet from Zara. It only cost £19.’’ I explained my belief that you don’t have to wear something expensive to look attractive, although it helps to have good bones.

‘‘Quite right,’’ Anne said. ‘‘I’ve been wearing this candlewick bedspread since 1973.’’

‘‘Didn’t you wear similar to my first wedding?’’ asked Charles, and Anne replied: ‘‘I certainly did. Madge ran me up a frock out of two pillowcases and a mattress protector.’’

‘‘My hat that day doubled as a tea cosy,’’ I remarked. ‘‘By the way, the soprano at Harry’s wedding to the American was rather brittle.’’

‘‘She was miming to a backing track,’’ said Charles.

‘‘I knew it!’’ I said. ‘‘Even so, it could have been worse. She could have been Elton John.’’

‘‘Then that ghastly choir,’’ said Anne. ‘‘Gospel is to opera what grouse is to pheasant.’’

‘‘Tough eating,’’ agreed Charles.

Then Anne told me I should wear the hydrangea skirt on television for the

BBC Cardiff Young Singer of the World competition. ‘‘Nobody will notice. It’s Wales.’’ Then she said: ‘‘No offence, Charles.’’ And he said: ‘‘None taken.’’

‘‘Wales is a cultural desert,’’ she said. ‘‘The women are coarse. The men are uncouth. They think Rossini is a pizza topping.’’ She looked at me, adding: ‘‘Much in common with New Zealand, perhaps.’’ I felt I oughtn’t agree in front of the Queen, so I simply replied: ‘‘It’s true; we each have very steep streets.’’

Just then Her Majesty put down her fork, which is a signal for everyone to do the same. The family withdrew, and I was appalled at how many scones were left over. So, I opened my purse and swept everything into a ClickClack. My young singers lived on pigs-inblankets for a week, which saved them eating out of London’s skips as they pursued their hopes and dreams.

Anyway, as everyone knows, my skirt made international headlines. I told my youngsters: ‘‘There’s a lesson in this. Don’t waste money on expensive designers.’’ And they took my advice. One achieved Distinction in his 10th grade Trinity College examination while wearing only till receipts, duct tape and a bin liner.

My legacy, I think, is probably thrift. That’s why I’ve told them not to heat the theatre during performances, or to sell snacks at half-time. The audience must bring their own tubs.