I refuse to use the word can’t, and so, in the spirit of futile optimism, I am teaching myself the piano.
This has come about since I had an out-of-body experience whilst watching the marvellous biopic, Bohemian Rhapsody, and I was transported back to 1985. I was a wide-eyed eight year-old, staring, open-mouthed at the old square Rumbelows television, waiting for Madonna to appear on stage at Live Aid.
I was so disappointed! The woman on my screen was a brunette, not the blonde lady I had seen in Smash Hits magazine. Who was this pretender? My overriding memory of that pivotal world event was bitter disappointment.
Sadly, I don’t remember the Queen performance, arguably the best of the whole escapade. That would not have disappointed me! But I remember that day in 1985, so vividly.
This makes me both happy and sad. All that I had to look forward to! The trials to endure! The learning I would do! The people I would imminently lose…
That film for me was a time machine.
And so, in this very brief blog post (I’m very busy you know!), I would like to announce, to anyone who may care, that I am writing a new novel, and in some strange and roundabout way (and one that isn’t even quite clear to me yet) my protagonist shall be travelling back in time. There may also be a touch of bringing the dead back to life too – a common theme in my writing. Optimism, you see!
Meanwhile, I am trying my hardest to learn how to play “Love of My Life” by Queen on the old Joanna. It’s getting there slowly, but hindered greatly by the fact that I still can’t read music, despite the nun chanting lessons I’ve been having recently. I have been forced to dig deep into memories of my first year music lessons (when Year Seven wasn’t Year Seven), and mumble “Every Good Boy Deserves Food” every other second as I try to work out which Sharpie-graffiti’d key I must hit on my very old, very out-of-tune piano in order progress.
I am not progressing.
Little Seymour Number One also wants to learn the piano. But she is waiting until June, when her GCSE’s are over. She is also waiting for the room where the piano is (“Baghdad”) to be dust-free and far more pleasant, because she simply cannot concentrate on learning in such a mess.
Meanwhile, late at night, I sit amongst the dust motes as they dance in the light of the torch from my mobile phone (there is no electricity in Baghdad), sticking my tongue out as I try to decipher what the heck that note with the two little horizontal lines below the other lines is supposed to be and which hand I am supposed to use.
Oh! If only I had learned all this back in 1985.
Now where’s that time machine..?
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