Test of Character

Test of Character

Sometimes you get what you need rather than what you want…

After a few months of enduring the frustration of a painful elbow, my friend Bernard suggested that I visit his acupuncturist, Marianne. Bernard advised me that Marianne was Dutch with a strong and unusual character and that she was responsible for successfully treating his hip problems.

I was all prepared for my first consultation appointment. I had the address and postcode. I had discussed the location and how to get to it with my friend. I had ‘driven’ there on Google street view. I had zoomed in on the little cottage, verified the pixelated brass number 68 on the door and was confident that it was the sort of place that a Dutch lady would run her practise from.

I arrived in the dark with a mere five minutes to spare (I would have preferred eight minutes), and knocked confidently yet politely on the door. As I was waiting, I took in my surroundings, none of which, from my previous research, surprised me. Nothing that is apart from the letter ‘A’ after the number 68. 68A! A!!

I frantically looked around and there suddenly appeared another building. There, set back and at an oblique angle to the road, a large white building emanating soft light from its windows. A building with a large number 68 on it and a sign clearly spelling out the word ‘Clinic’. A building hidden from the prying lens of the great Google.

So there I was, a nervous fool standing outside number 68A in the dark having just boldly (yet politely) disturbed its occupants. I would have to wait and explain myself. I would have to justify my mistake – “I’m sure this happens to you all the time” I would say whilst pointing a shaking finger at my true and glaringly obvious destination. They might be reasonable about it, laugh it off and wish me well – but I doubted it. They would more likely be incensed; furious with me for being such an idiotic intrusion into their lives, and who could blame them?

After hopping about outside number 68A for longer than seemed necessary for such a small abode, I came to the conclusion that my knocking had been more polite than it was bold and that I had not been heard at all. With only three minutes left to my appointment, I sloped off to the clinic, looking over my shoulder at number 68A until I was safely inside number 68.

I was warmly greeted by Marianne who then questioned me about my condition. I told her about my elbow and thought I’d mention my long-standing neck pain as well. She continued to question me as she drew circles on a diagram of the human body and made copious notes. She asked if I’d had any previous experience of acupuncture and I told her that I had, a very unpleasant one involving becoming very pale, sweating profusely with the sensation of the room turning black accompanied by the sound of muffled voices.

She assured me that she would be gentle and invited me to lie on the therapy couch.

As I lay there stiffly she said “There! I’ve got you lying down and I’ve taken all your power away from you.”

I thought this was a most curious thing to say to someone who was already visibly in a state of high anxiety in a strange environment.

“Yes” I said “I’m in a vulnerable position aren’t I?” trying to demonstrate understanding and to show that I was comfortable with this unusual dialogue.

“You are.” She replied “But I’m going to raise the bed, like this… and then sit on this little chair next to you. See, I’m lower down than you now. I’ve given you some of your power back.”

I was just starting to have a horrible feeling that I’d given the completely wrong impression of myself when she deftly stabbed me in the forehead. I tried to look at her with alarm but could only see the top of her head and a wobbling needle protruding from my forehead. “That’s to calm you down.” she said and I instantly felt better about it all as she continued to insert needles, burn mugwort and chat about chickens and stained glass.

For my second appointment last week, she said that she wanted to work on my neck and so I would have to lie face down. “Would that be alright?” she said “You’ll be even more vulnerable.” I wondered why she persisted with this vulnerability theme and assured her that it was absolutely fine.

She covered the therapy bed with blue tissue towel and made a narrow slot in it over the hole in the head rest and said “Lie down and put your face through here.”

As I lay there, with one eye obscured by blue tissue, she said “Any practitioner of Chinese medicine could tell that you would have tendon, muscle and joint problems.”

“Really? Why is that?” I asked.

“Just by certain aspects of your character.” She replied.

I expected her to elaborate on this, but she quietly continued with the treatment.

I couldn’t wait any longer and asked “What do you mean by certain aspects of my character?”

“Oh, you’re a wood personality. You’re sinewy and slim. I’m more water, more flabby. Also, you wear green – but I’ll forgive you for that. You’re a liver, spleen girl. That’s why you have these problems.”

I thought about the meaning of all this as the blue tissue sucked against my right nostril. It still made no sense. Trying not to sound irritated, I decided to seek further clarification by asking “Um, so what sort of character is a liver spleen type of girl?”

“Well,” she said “Imagine a colonel in the army with a stick tucked under his arm saying ‘one-two-one-two-one-two’. You like everything to be just so and you like to plan things. You like everyone to fall into step with you. But! You are also very timid. So, if they don’t follow you or if things don’t go to plan you get frustrated and tense instead of speaking out. Your muscles and tendons are put under strain.”

Well, I did ask I suppose.

We finished the treatment and booked another appointment for the New Year. I glumly put on my green coat and headed for the door. Marianne called me back and hugged me, wishing me a happy Christmas.

I scuttled past number 68A and drove home, deep in thought. Not happy, not sad, not confident, not fearful – just neutral, balanced, calm.

 

“The depth and strength of a human character are defined by its moral reserves. People reveal themselves completely only when they are thrown out of the customary conditions of their life, for only then do they have to fall back on their reserves.” ~Leon Trotsky~

A Cold Reception

A Cold Reception

I am happy to report that things are moving along with the treatment of my long-term shoulder problem…

 

A few weeks ago I went to the hospital to see a consultant from the orthopaedic team.

 

I was called into a small curtained booth and a woman rushed in and clipped an x-ray picture of (hopefully) my shoulder onto the light box.

 

While I was waiting I took the opportunity to study it. Apart from marvelling at how thin my arm bones were, I couldn’t help but notice the offending calcification in the shoulder. A glowing white sizeable chunk of chalk in the shape of a tulip.

 

Then the consultant, dressed in a white laboratory coat, breezed in through the curtains and glanced at the x-ray. “Aha! Yes!” he said almost gleefully. “Right, yes, that must be very painful. We’ll give you a steroid injection and see you again in six weeks.”

 

“What now?” I asked with no small degree of alarm in my voice. Surely they would have to have a think about it for a few months.

 

“Yes, now. Take your top off and face that way.” he replied, deftly unwrapping a rather large syringe.

 

A few seconds later and it was all over with.

 

Over the following days, after some initial soreness, it slowly dawned on me that my shoulder didn’t hurt any more. It felt comfortable, wonderfully comfortable. 

 

On top of that, yesterday I had my first physiotherapy session...

 

I walked into the clinic and approached the hatch marked “Reception”.

 

In the room behind the hatch sat a woman who was using scissors to carefully cut up what looked to be a notice of some kind.

 

I waited quietly while she slowly cut along one length.

 

I read a notice next to the hatch “If you are here for a blood test just take a seat.”

 

The woman was still engrossed.

 

I read another notice “If you are here for the Mother and Baby club just take a seat.”

 

I gently crumpled my appointment letter in a non-confrontational bid to attract the woman’s attention.

 

She continued cutting but I noticed her clench her teeth.

 

I coughed quietly.

 

She whipped her head towards me and snapped “Are you here for a blood test?”

 

“Hi, No, I’m…”

 

“Mother and Baby club?” she interrupted.

 

“No, I’m here for a physiotherapy appointment with…”

 

“Just take a seat” she sighed and indicated towards the seats with her scissors.

 

I sat down as directed.

 

A man appeared from a side room and called me in. He was wearing a pilled sweatshirt with a polo shirt beneath. This seems to be a popular uniform these days from zoo keepers to the girl at the local DIY shop.

 

The physiotherapist asked me a series of questions and entered my responses onto his laptop before the phone rang. “Sorry, do you mind if I get this?” he asked.

 

I looked around the room while I waited.

 

I was most encouraged to see a walking stick hanging from the curtain rail, obviously no longer needed I thought.

 

I read a few of the many notices tacked around the room. “Do not lock this door. It is a fire door.” “Wash your hands.” “Sharps only in this bin. No general rubbish.”

 

After the physiotherapist had finished his phone conversation he asked me to move my arms in various directions. “Hmm, that shoulder blade is winging out. The other one is nice and flat. OK we need to give you some exercises to gently build up the muscle in that area.” He said and got up onto the therapy bed on his hands and knees.

 

He showed me a few different manoeuvres. Leaning forward then back then side-to-side. Then lying on his front and lifting his arms back. I watched with interest.

 

“Right, I’ll make another appointment for a few weeks’ time.” He said as he struggled off the couch and lurched towards the desk.

 

“Oh. OK then.” I said, clearly a note of disappointment in my voice.

 

“Would you like me to draw the exercises for you?”

 

I thought that I would remember them but said that I would indeed like a drawing and watched while he drew stick figures and arrows.

 

I thanked him, and made another appointment before leaving.

 

The receptionist was pinning up another notice next to her hatch. I didn’t bother to read it.

The Reluctant Expert

The Reluctant Expert

Although you may feel as though you’re not very good at something, others may feel differently…

 

I was recently approached by a fellow violinist:

 

Violinist: “You are a bit of an expert on the violin aren’t you?”

 

Me: “Me? No. No, definitely not.”

 

Violinist: “Oh, I think you are.”

 

Me: “No, really I’m not.”

 

Violinist: “Do you mind if I ask for your expert opinion on how to play this piece?”

 

Me: “I’ll try to help if I can.”

 

Violinist: “Great, thank you so much. Right, this bit here. I find it hard to get the right note using my forth finger and you’re not supposed to use an open string are you?”

 

Me: “I think the open string would be best.”

 

Violinist: “No! you’re not supposed to.”

 

Me: “Well sometimes it’s best not to. It depends on the music. This bit here is forte and it’s a lively piece so you’d get a nice bright tone with the open string. The forth finger would sound more muted.”

 

Violinist: “You see, I didn’t know that. You are definitely an expert. Right this bit here. You don’t mind if I pick your brains do you?”

 

Me: “No, go on.”

 

Violinist: “Right. This bit here. I need to use my third finger on the E string and then my third finger on the A string straight after. It’s just too fast and I can’t do it that quickly. It’s impossible to lift my finger up and down at that speed. How would you do it?”

 

Me: “Well, I would probably roll it across to the other string.”

 

Violinist: “Roll it across? Show me.”

 

I showed him what I meant and he tried to do the same.

 

Violinist: “No! You see. That’s no good. I can’t do it!”

 

Me: “I think it’s because you might be gripping the neck too tightly.”

 

Violinist: “No. It’s because I’m not an expert like you.”

 

Me: “Really, I’m not.”

 

Violinist: “Yes you ARE!”

 

Me: “You could put your third finger between the strings.”

 

Violinist: “No, it will get stuck. Look.”

 

Me: “Hmm, you don’t have to wedge it between the strings like that. Just place it gently across the top of both strings.”

 

Violinist: “Gently?”

 

Me: “Yes, gently but firmly.”

 

Violinist: “Like this? Wow!! It works!! That is brilliant! OK right. Now this bit. Now I KNOW you’ll know the answer to this. Are you sure you don’t mind me pestering you?”

 

Me: “No. Not at all. Go on.”

 

Violinist: “Right, where is it? Ah yes. Here. Would you play that in third position?”

 

Me: “Erm. No. Probably not. You can play all that in first position.”

 

Violinist: “Really? You would play that all in first position? No. I don’t think that’s right. Surely the objective is to minimise the amount of string crossings.”

 

Me: “Well, maybe. Can you play it in third and then get back quickly enough?”

 

Violinist: “No. Well I CAN do it at home but it’s harder here at full speed and it’s out of tune when I shift back.”

 

Me: “And you can do it quickly enough all in first position?”

 

Violinist: “Yes, but I have to minimise string crossings don’t I?”

 

Me: “That would be ideal I suppose, but really, when you’re playing with everyone else, it’s all about survival isn’t it?”

 

Violinist: “Survival?”

 

Me: “Yes, survival. Getting through it in the best way you can under the conditions you’re under, even if it’s not the perfect and most elegant way.”

 

Violinist: “Like life?”

 

Me: “Yes, like life. Exactly.”

 

Violinist: “Thank you, you’ve been really helpful. It’s great to talk to an expert on these things.”

 

Me: “But… That’s ok. You’re welcome.”

 

“Try to help others. Consult their weaknesses, relieve their maladies; strive to raise them up, and by so doing you will most effectually raise yourself up also.” ~Joseph Barber Lightfoot~

Tempo Fugit

Tempo Fugit

A very important role of the conductor is setting the tempo, the timing of the piece that the orchestra must adhere to…

 

We are told that the timing is often more important than the notes (luckily).

 

Even if you are stumbling and scrambling to play the notes, you must not slow down, ever, it is not permitted.

 

If you falter, your eyes must leap forward and you must somehow find a way to dive back into the music at full speed.

 

Everyone plays at exactly the same speed and that is what keeps the orchestra together as a cohesive unit.

 

That is what ensures that the notes weave expertly between each other.

 

That is what makes it sound like music rather than a chaotic jumble of sounds – everyone strictly obeying the conductor’s tempo.

 

Sometimes though, something strange and mysterious happens...

 

The tempo slows down, the whole orchestra slows down and the conductor slows down. Then it speeds up to the original tempo again.

 

More often than not, nothing is said about this peculiar phenomenon. Sometimes however, something is said; inevitably by someone who has the unenviable task of counting thirty nine bars of rests until they are called upon to play again.

 

Bored musician: “Erm… I think it slowed down from bar 168 to bar 174.”

 

Maestro: “Yes, you’re absolutely right, it did.”

 

Bored musician: “But there is nothing to say that it should. There is no rallentando marked there.”

 

Maestro: “You’re right, there isn’t a rallentando there.”

 

Bored musician: “But you were conducting more slowly.”

 

Maestro: “Yes, I was, because the whole orchestra slowed down.”

 

Bored musician: “But you should keep the tempo.”

 

Maestro: “Yes, I suppose I should, but there is no point if the whole orchestra slows down.”

 

Bored musician: “Well why does the whole orchestra slow down? They should be following you.”

 

Maestro: “I’ll tell you why. It’s because they are actually listening to each other and responding to what they hear. That’s what makes the difference between a good orchestra and a great orchestra.”

 

Bored musician: “But...”

 

Maestro: “BEGINNING!”

 

“Change begins with understanding and understanding begins by identifying oneself with another person: in a word, empathy. The arts enable us to put ourselves in the minds, eyes, ears and hearts of other human beings.” ~ Richard Eyre~

A Pain In The Neck

A Pain In The Neck

I wrote some time ago about having neck, shoulder and elbow problems...

 

I went to the doctor about it almost three months ago at the beginning of November.

 

Things are moving along.

 

Since the doctor’s appointment I have had an x-ray, spoken to the doctor on the phone and had a meeting with a very nice ‘triage’ woman early in December.

 

“Right, let’s have a look at your x-ray.” She said and clicked around on her computer. “Oh, it’s not here. Where did you have it taken?” she asked.

 

Apparently, although only a few miles away, the hospital was in a different district and she didn’t have access to their files.

 

We were both disappointed as it would have been quite useful to her for planning the necessary treatment.

 

Fortunately she was able to use creative imagination and a plastic skeleton to demonstrate the possible problem and propose the way forward; physiotherapy and a consultation with the orthopaedic team.

 

She told me that one would phone me and one would write to me. I can’t remember which was which.

 

So, while I am eagerly awaiting further contact, life goes on with manageable discomfort.

 

Yesterday I went to the hairdressers and was directed as usual to the dreaded backwash:

“Could you put YOUR head back for me please?”

I carefully put my head back.

She washed my hair vigorously and by the time she asked if I was “having conditioner today” my neck had had enough and I declined.

“Could you put YOUR head forward for me?”

With no small effort I put my head forward. She rubbed the back of my hair and I heard that ‘still soapy’ sound.

“Could you put YOUR head back again for me?”

I obliged and she did the necessary further rinsing.

“Could you put YOUR head forward for me?”

I creakily put it forward and she placed a towel on the edge of the sink.

“Could you put YOUR head back for me?”

I gritted my teeth; put my head back again and she rubbed it manically with a towel.

“Can you put YOUR head forward again for me.”

I was getting rather agitated by this torture but managed to heave my head forward to the upright position.

She placed another towel on the edge of the sink. I knew what was happening now. This was the finale where she loosely wraps the towel around my head before leading me to sit looking at myself in the mirror. Looking at myself and acknowledging that my head wrapped in a damp towel with a corner hanging over one eye is not my best look. Not my best look but a little better than the woman next to me with silver flaps stuck to her head and sheepishly reading a magazine.

“Could you put YOUR head back again for me?”

“Actually, no, I can’t.” I replied “I’ve got a bad neck. I can’t be putting it backwards and forwards like this all the time.” My words came out surprisingly more harshly than I had expected.

She struggled awkwardly across the backwash to ineffectually wrap the towel around my head.

“Would you come over to THIS chair for me? Would you like a coffee?”

“No thank you.” I replied as I sat down and, with my unobscured eye, regarded my grumpy little face in the mirror and wondered when I would hear from the orthopaedic team.

“The two enemies of human happiness are pain and boredom.” ~Arthur Schopenhauer~

Beethoven's Sympathy No. 3

Beethoven's Sympathy No. 3

It’s pretty much impossible to listen to Beethoven whilst at work…

 

My boss: “Can you turn that down please?”

 

Me: “OK, sorry”

 

My boss: “You didn’t have to turn it off.”

 

Me: “I didn’t; it’s a quiet section.”

 

My boss: “Well you can turn it up a bit.”

 

Me: “It’s ok like this.”

 

My boss: “Wow! Turn it down; you’ve turned it up too high.”

 

Me: “I didn’t change it; it’s a loud section.”

 

My boss: “Well it wasn’t that loud before, turn it down.”

 

Me: “OK.”

 

My boss: “Now I can’t hear it at all.”

 

Me: “It’s quiet now - piano.”

 

My boss: “Piano? I can’t hear one. What’s with the posh voice all of a sudden?”

 

Me: “Piano means quiet.”

 

My boss: “Right. Why does it keep going loud then quiet? Is it a bad recording?”

 

Me: “Dynamics. It’s supposed to make it more textured and interesting.”

 

My boss: “Textured and interesting? It just makes me jump.”

 

Me: “That’s another reason too. To keep the audience awake.”

 

My boss: “Well I don’t want to be kept awake. I’m at work.”

 

Me: “OK I’ll turn it off. Sorry.”

 

Roll over Beethoven.

Community Spirit

Community Spirit

Christmas time…

 

Christmas is almost upon us; a time to cherish those close to us, a time to reflect and count our blessings.

 

It is also a time when our community spirit is raised as we realise how lucky we are compared to others who may find Christmas a particularly difficult time.

 

Some musicians go into the community and play to those whose circumstances have led them to spend their lives in an institutional home.

 

It is very important to fully appreciate that it is their home and that you are a visitor. It is a completely different relationship to that between a performer and a paying audience.

 

Sometimes the hosts may wish to offer their guests polite hospitality:-

 

A violinist friend of mine recently found himself in such a situation.

 

Deep in concentration and halfway through a technically demanding piece, he was asked if he would prefer tea or coffee. He wished that he had been asked a closed question to which he could respond with a nod or shake of the head.

 

His rude unresponsiveness was met with “Well would you prefer a mince pie or a sandwich?”

 

Through the panic of a divided mind, he managed to keep up with his flautist duet partner with only a few dropped notes. However, he again failed to politely respond to his host who then haughtily advised him that she would bring him a tray so that he could choose.

 

Sometimes, although you are a visitor, you may not be a particularly welcome one:-

 

A couple of years ago we played for a group of about fifteen people. We played our most exciting and festive pieces with flair and gusto. The residents seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the performance and were swaying from side to side.

 

After we had finished, I asked one of the hosts if he had enjoyed our concert.

 

“Not really” he replied “It was too loud and you were in the way of the telly. Our favourite programme was on.”

 

I apologised and explained that we hadn’t realised.

 

“That’s ok” he said “It’s repeated tomorrow. Do you want a mince pie?”

 

“Yes please, I’d love one.” I replied.

 

He brought me a mince pie and we sat down together and talked for a while before he politely excused himself to mingle.

 

“The fact is, society is made more hospitable by every individual who acts as if ‘do unto others’ really was a rule.” ~Gary Hamel~

Us and Them

Us and Them

Our orchestra has got its Christmas concert on Friday…

 

With a large orchestra, especially if playing on a stage, the boundary between the orchestra members and the audience is quite evident. The conductor also acts as a handy barrier with his flailing arms and pointy stick.

 

A smaller ensemble playing at a social occasion can be another matter entirely.

 

Earlier this year I played in a string quartet for a friend’s wedding party. The cellist and I hadn’t played at such an occasion before and enlisted the support of a well-seasoned first violinist and violist.

 

We had practised our wedding repertoire for months and, although nervous, felt quietly confident that we could give a pleasant performance and not ruin someone’s big day.

 

It was all going very well. The guests seemed to be enjoying the ambiance and politely ignoring us, as they should. All ignoring us apart from a small boy who developed a fascination with the cellist.

 

He inched closer and closer and started to talk to her. His mother seemed to be delighted by his admirable interest and seemed unaware that her son’s face was at the precise height of the cellist’s bow.

 

The normally robust bass rhythm was reduced to a whisper as the cellist was forced to play with the merest tip of the bow and stopped entirely when the child squeezed between her and the music stand to kindly offer her a drink from his bottle.

 

This sort of audience participation is quite common apparently.

 

A cellist friend told me that a dinner party guest sidled up to her and said “You see that violinist? She’s playing Eine Kleine Nachtmusik!”

 

“Oh that’s good, so am I!” said my friend before promptly losing her place.

 

Maybe cellists look too cool for their own good and could do with adopting the standard violinist expression of sheer panic.

Expert Opinion

Expert Opinion

After studying music for a number of years, it’s nice to pretend that a high level of expertise has been achieved…

 

When we were driving to orchestra rehearsal we were listening, as usual, to Classic FM.

 

When a wonderful cello piece was being aired, my cellist partner and I playfully started to make our assessments:

 

Cellist: “Oh, this is Dvořák’s cello concerto in… erm…. B… b minor.”

 

Me: “B minor? Oh yes, I just heard a sharpened 7^th there. Who do you think is playing?”

 

Cellist: “It could be Jackie.”

 

Me: “No I don’t think it’s Jackie.”

 

Cellist: “Why not?

 

Me: “Well it doesn’t sound like her cello. No, that’s definitely not the Davidov.”

 

Cellist: “Hmm, I think you might be right. Who do you think it is?”

 

Me: “Did you hear that? Whoever it is loves every note. I think it might be Steven Isserlis; he always loves every note. Oh. I think I just heard his hair then.”

 

Cellist: “You did not hear his hair! You just made that up.”

 

Me: “Well it might have been his jumper; a black turtle-neck if I’m not mistaken.”

 

Cellist: “Hmm. The sound of hair is very different to the sound of a turtle-neck jumper. Anyway, I’m not sure if Steven Isserlis has made a recording of this. It could be Rostropovich. It’s very passionate.”

 

Me: “Rostropovich? I’m not sure about that. The recording is very clear and clean.”

 

Cellist: “Well it sounds like Rostropovich’s fingerings.”

 

Me: “Yes it does doesn’t it? Whoever it is has probably used his fingerings, well most of them. The vibrato is different though. I’m sticking with Steven Isserlis.”

 

Cellist: “You don’t think that’s Rostropovich’s vibrato?”

 

Me: “No, whoever this is has more delicate fingers; longer and slimmer but strong.”

 

Cellist: “Yes, you could be right. It’s wonderful.”

 

Me: “Pity we’ve been talking through it. I’ve never heard it played like this before.”

 

Cellist: “We must order this; it’s brilliant, absolutely superb.”

 

Classic FM Radio presenter: “That was Dvořák’s cello concerto in b minor from a new recording by Steven Isserlis.”

 

Cellist: “Wow! We’re getting better at this. Can you order it when we get home?”

 

Me: “Yes, definitely.”

 

Cellist: “Now who’s this?”

 

Me: “André Rieu.”

 

Cellist: “Too easy.”

 

The Dvořák Cello Concertos CD has been ordered and is on it’s way - we shall listen to it intently and in silence when it arrives.

Heartstring Quartet

Heartstring Quartet

A marriage made in heaven…

 

I always imagined that a string quartet would be like a faithful marriage. I believed that it would be a perfect harmonious relationship that, over time, would lead to an almost psychic connection between the four players. Every nuance and glance would be understood completely and reflected in a seamless exquisite musical performance.

 

I had read about quartets that had been together for many decades.

 

When we formed our string quartet over three years ago it was a very exciting time. We gave our quartet a name, a name made up of fragments of our own names; a bit like ABBA but without the satin trousers and dangerous footwear.

 

We bought special files to hold our music and proudly inscribed them with our name in our best calligraphy.

 

I took my second violin parts of Mozart’s evocatively named “K156” and “K168” to my teacher and practiced them diligently. I listened to recordings. I wanted to be the best I could be. Each player is important in a quartet; every instrument has its own voice which is essential to the whole.

 

My teacher told me that she had heard someone say that a string quartet was like a bottle of wine. The cello is the bottle holding everything together. The first violin is the fancy label, the part that gets noticed first. The viola and second violin together are the middle voices, the substance, the wine itself.

 

We all thoroughly enjoyed playing together, met almost every Sunday morning and made a steady improvement.

 

Then one day the lead violinist said “I love our quartet! It’s wonderful that we practice together so regularly… much more regularly than our other quartet.”

 

The viola player nodded in agreement “Yes, our other quartet doesn’t meet very regularly. Sometimes we forget what we have been working on.”

 

“Our other quartet.” I felt devastated by those words. Too wounded to even speak.

 

I went home, took out my violin, and played Gabriel Fauré’s suitably tragic “Élégie”, sniffing miserably between each note. I missed out the middle section, partly because it seemed too optimistic and partly because it was too difficult to play.

 

Another time it was suggested that Brenda the clarinettist join us. “There are some lovely pieces for clarinet quartet, and Brenda doesn’t get the chance to play with other people very often.”

 

I couldn’t believe that such an obscene suggestion was being proposed.

 

Thankfully the violist dismissed the suggestion, saying that she preferred to play in a string quartet and that she wasn’t interested in playing with a clarinet.

 

If I could have uttered any words, I would probably have been rather less coherent and detached. There would undoubtedly have been some sobbing and, had I possessed one, pitiful waving of my lace handkerchief.

 

Since this time, I have (more or less) come to terms with the situation and now accept that it is normal and perhaps even healthy for musicians to play in different, often overlapping groups.

 

I have even had a few dalliances playing in other groups myself.

 

The latest quartet has me playing first violin, which, like eating brussel sprouts, is difficult to do but is also good for me. I also get to set the tempo; inevitably moderato. Definitely no allegro or, as I call it, rushing.

 

Whichever group I have played in though, there has always been one constant companion; my darling faithful cellist – together forever.

 

As Audrey Hepburn said “If I get married, I want to be very married.”

The Mediocre Samaritan

The Mediocre Samaritan

No good deed goes unpunished…

 

I wrote about an agency worker in “Reasons to be Unreasonable” and “The U Turn”. Yesterday he said that he was feeling rotten and didn’t know if he had the energy to carry on through the day.

 

He looked pale and droopy and had a nasty hacking cough.

 

At the afternoon tea break, the warehouse manager said that he had sent him home.

 

I thought about the agency worker feeling so ill and making the hour-long cycle ride home in the cold wind and rain. What if he collapsed? What if he had an accident?

 

I decided to talk to my boss about it.

 

Me: “You know that the agency worker was feeling really unwell?”

My boss: “Yes I know. That’s why he was sent home, because he is ill.”

Me: “Did you know it takes him about an hour to cycle home?”

My boss: “Yes, I suppose it would take about an hour especially on the bike he’s got. Have you seen the state of it?”

 

I decided that a more direct approach was needed.

 

Me: “Why don’t you be a Good Samaritan and put his bike in the back of the van and drive him home?”

My boss: “Well he’s gone now.”

Me: “Well he won’t have got far on a bike; you could catch up with him.”

My boss: “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.”

My boss drove off in the van.

 

He returned to the office a few minutes later.

 

My boss: “Stubborn man!”

Me: “Didn’t he want a lift?”

My boss: “No. He swore at me!”

Me: “What? He swore at you? But you were trying to help him.”

My boss: “I know. He told me to sod off. Well worse than that actually.”

Me: “What happened exactly?”

My boss: “Well I caught up with him along the lane. I beeped the horn and he just ignored me. So I drove right up behind him and beeped the horn a few times. He turned his head round and… and swore at me.”

Me: “What happened next?”

My boss: “I came back to the office.”

Me: “Oh well. At least you tried.”

 

“If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.” ~Dalai Lama~

Aristotle’s Theory of Perception

Aristotle's Theory of Perception

As a birthday treat, we and our friends went out for a meal at a Greek restaurant…

 

We ordered our drinks and perused the menu.

 

Greek music was playing softly in the background.

 

Even the charming typing error on the menu added to the ambiance; ‘roasted chicken tights’.

 

On that dark and damp November evening, we began to feel as though we were indeed far from care on a sun-kissed Aegean Island.

 

The waitress, with a wonderfully sultry accent, asked if we were ready to order.

 

We ordered dishes that reminded us of the blissful holidays spent in Greece.

 

We chatted about Greece, reminiscing about happy times.

 

It turns out that we had all learned to speak a little Greek, just enough to get by.

 

Handy phrases such as “Could I have some more bread please?”, “Not now Sophia!” and “I have a flat tyre.”

 

The waitress arrived with our meals. “Efharisto” I said in my best accent and with a smile.

 

She looked a little surprised, perhaps impressed (it was hard to tell), before she responded with a warm “Parakalo”.

 

I was reminded by my partner that I should have said “Efharisto poli” as that would have been more polite.

 

The meal was delicious and we were all thoroughly infused with the evocative Greek ambiance.

 

When the coffees arrived we all thanked the waitress enthusiastically with “Efharisto poli” and asked for the bill.

 

I thought she looked a little sad. Perhaps she was feeling homesick and we were just making matters worse by speaking to her in her mother tongue.

 

Nevertheless, she put on a brave face and replied once again with a friendly “Parakalo.”

 

As she was processing our payment she asked if we had enjoyed the meal. We all exclaimed that we had, very much.

 

“Where are you from?” I asked.

 

“Armenia” she replied “Your taxis are waiting outside for you.”

 

My embarrassment was soon overtaken by amazement to see that our taxi was being driven by a man that looked remarkably like Father Christmas.

 

As he drove us home I admired his perfectly formed snow-white bushy beard. Of course I knew that he wasn’t actually Father Christmas but a childlike excitement washed over me nonetheless.

 

When we arrived home and paid him, he said “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but could you tell me what you put in your hair to make it like that? You see, I’m Father Christmas and I’ve run out of wax for my moustache and I thought I would try something different. It needs to be like this…”

 

He turned around and twisted the ends of his perfect moustache into upturned points.

 

“It’s gel, just wait a minute and we’ll get you some.” I said breathlessly.

 

Father Christmas gratefully accepted the tube of gel and winked at us before disappearing into the night.

 

I was sure I could hear sleigh bells.

 

“Begin challenging your own assumptions. Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in awhile, or the light won’t come in.” ~Alan Alda ~