Sunday, May 17, 2009


You'd think I'd asked him to jump into a peat-bog, not do his practice! Did you hear the squeals, screams and yells? Piano came first. The piano is in the dining-room. My desk is there, too. I couldn't write a SENTENCE!

Tinkle, tinkle. (That was the highest notes on the piano. Painful on the ears.) 'How about starting your practice, son?'

Plink, plonk. (The left hand is a tone too low, AND he's decided to play with F sharps not B flats in the bass clef.)

Ah, progress. Three consecutive bars. No. False start, false hope. He can't get the hands together.

Saxophone next. That lives in the lounge. But the screams and yells would have made the neighbours think I was assaulting him. Truthfully, all I did was stand at the lounge door, 15 feet away from him, and ask him to practise. I pay the fees, he plays - seems a fair deal to me. (Boo-hoo! Big bad Mummy.)

I've given up work for tonight. No-one seems to realise that I'd actually have quite liked a couple of quiet hours revising my introduction ...

The image is from - I hope they will forgive me, because I did order a t-shirt from their website this afternoon!

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