I had an email a few months ago, from a peripatetic (great word!) trumpet teacher at Little Seymour Number Two’s school. The email came through late at night, and was full of praise for my child’s ability to make tunes by blowing through a brass object after a trial session that day. I got the impression he considered her something of a prodigy. Which is nice!
Cynical as ever though, I replied directly to the peripatetic chap. I may or may not have had a glass of wine, and was feeling feisty. I thanked him for his kind words, and then typed that he probably said this to all his potential clients. It makes good business sense, after all.
There followed, despite the late hour, a swift response. “Nooooo!” he wrote. “I really wanted to get the message across (about the little trumpet prodigy!) without seeming disingenuous, and I have failed!”
I felt very bad at this point. Not only did he seem like a nice chap, but he was also using fabulous words at awkward times – something I aspire to do. I replied to him in what I hope was a friendly manner, and lo and behold, Number Two starts to learn the trumpet this very week!
However, rather like when Grandfather Flump has a carrot stuck in his flumpet in the episode of The Flumps entitled “The Cloud”, we have a spanner in the works…
I could hire a trumpet. That may well have to be done. But.. there is already a trumpet in the family. And not one to waste resources if it can be helped, I wondered if it might be possible to make use of this family heirloom, and procure it for Number Two to use. This makes sense on both a sentimental and a financial level, does it not?
Said trumpet was Big Seymour’s. Many, many moons ago, he himself learned how to play, and apparently, he, too, had a flair for blowing the wind up things. And as Grandma is ever so good at holding on to stuff, I suspected the trumpet was still in existence…
And it was! It is! Yesterday, The Family Trumpet was carefully and lovingly produced from out of a plastic bag in storage, in all its antique brass glory! It has a beautiful yellow lustre, three pearly knobs and some sort of important inscription. It is also in about eight different bits.
In spite of this, Big Seymour managed to shove it back together to play The Last Post and Wooden Heart semi-successfully (yes, I was impressed!), but I fear the poor trumpet may need more securing before Little Seymour Number Two begins her lessons on Wednesday, for it promptly then fell apart. Grandad suggested a blow torch. I suggested Gaffa Tape. It’s currently got electrical tape and Sellotape adorning it – I think Gaffa might just be what is missing.
I guess I am putting off hiring a trumpet, or, dare I say it, buying one. This will probably be a mere whim; boredom will prevail, practise won’t be done and before long, the trumpet lessons will prove to be an expensive mistake…
So, sending Number Two to school with a taped-up trumpet in a plastic bag will at least test her resolve. How much does she really want this? Is it worth it? Can she become a musical prodigy regardless? It reminds me of my days learning the cello, and having to lug the damn thing on and off the bus – no mean feat, I tell you!
Only time will tell if the trumpet will become a part of life here at The Funny Little Bungalow – whether it’s the broken specimen or a less dilapidated one. But it would be nice to think that one of The Four Little Seymours might be musical… just one! I’m not hugely optimistic though. My mother wanted me to be like Jacqueline DuPre, hence the cello. But I hated the damn thing – it really annoyed me, especially on the bus, and I couldn’t read music even after five years of trying.
There is one very positive thing going for us though – should trumpet practise become too much for us all to bear, there’s The Dear Old Shed! Perhaps this is its future! As a music room!
I feel a drum kit coming on!
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