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~

Our Big Concert

Our Big Concert

Last Wednesday night was the most prestigious concert yet for our community orchestra…

 

We had all managed to find the venue, a 14^th/15^th Century church at the brow of a dark cobbled street. It was converted into an educational centre and concert venue in the 1970’s but still retains the architecture and feel of an ancient place of worship. 

 

The magnificent sandstone medieval arches sweeping upwards towards the richly carved vaulted ceiling made it a rather different environment to the little village hall that our orchestra is accustomed to performing in.

 

After a bewildering game of Tetris, involving music stands and chairs, the stage was finally set and we settled into our places for a last minute run through. The difference in acoustics was very noticeable with sound waves behaving in a most peculiar fashion.

 

The lighting was alien to us too; a soupy murky ambiance with brilliant spotlights on the stage casting deep shadows onto our sheet music. “Don’t look into the lights!” commanded Maestro; an instruction guaranteed to make at least half of us do so and spend the next three minutes looking like startled bush babies.

 

The audience started to arrive. Someone had mentioned that they had been to a concert at this venue the week before and the audience consisted of only around thirty people, but Wednesday night they kept arriving, more and more people until every seat was taken and more chairs were being requested. The front row seats to my right were reserved for the Mayor and Mayoress. I don’t think the Mayor showed up, unless he was dressed down in one of those brown cardigans with reinforced shoulders – the sort that are always advertised at the back of weekend newspapers.

 

The Mayoress was there though; a petite and friendly looking woman sporting an impressive chain of office and an equally impressive head of purple hair. Seated next to her was another woman with hair of a brilliant shade of aquamarine. Their hair remained these colours even after my eyesight had recovered from looking into the spotlight.

 

Maestro tapped his baton on his stand, paused on the upbeat, and then we were off, starting at a bristling pace with The March from Carmen by Bizet. The first half of the concert went well and the audience was very generous with its applause.

 

Then came the second half; the lighter side of our repertoire including music from films. A chance to enjoy playing with Hollywood style luscious long bows and wearing suitably dramatic facial expressions (often unintentionally).

 

We had rehearsed the powerful and fierce five-beats-in-a-bar section of “Lord of the Rings” hundreds of times before, but instead of the usual heavy base line introduction:

“BOM! bom bom BOM! bom, BOM! bom bom BOM! bom.”

It had changed to:

“BOM! bom BOM! bom bom, BOM! bom BOM! bom bom”

 

It may not seem like a great difference, but it was enough.

 

The music started to slide apart as we lost all sense of structure.

We had left the safety of The Shire and were lost in the terrifying depths of Middle-Earth.

I looked up at Maestro, he was now Gandalf with his wand, his hair was turning grey before my very eyes.

His mouth was fixed and he pointed towards his dark fiery eyes – an instruction to watch carefully, very very carefully.

He began conducting with a potent mystical intensity, drawing us all together into a unified whole again.

 

At the end of the piece the audience applauded wildly.

 

Subtle glances were exchanged between the players, glances that spoke of a shared experience of triumph over adversity.

 

At the end of the concert, we all stood to accept the applause. The audience members looked as though they had enjoyed themselves and the purple-haired Mayoress seemed to be impressed.

 

The stage was dismantled and we orchestra players wearily carried our instruments down the dark cobbled street and went our separate ways, reflecting on the very special evening that we had spent together.

 

An orchestra to be proud of.

 

“I have learned that success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which one has had to overcome while trying to succeed.” ~Booker T. Washington~

A Concert-ed Effort

A Concert-ed Effort

Well, tonight is the night of our orchestra’s most prestigious concert to date…

 

The Mayor will be in attendance. The Press will be there. Members of top professional orchestras will be there.

 

Maestro has applied increasing pressure to polish our performance to the highest level possible.

 

Orchestra members have been feeling the strain.

 

There have been more and more displays of tension as the big day has approached.

 

It may be imagined that the stress of the occasion would raise concerns such as:

“What bowings should be used for this passage?”

“What will the acoustics be like?”

“Has everyone got the correct dynamics marked down?”

“Where should we store our instrument cases?”

 

But no, rather the concerns raised have been:

“I haven’t got a white top!”

“Can I wear comedy cufflinks?”

“What? Black and white only! I always wear my lucky red bow tie for concerts!”

“What about waistcoats? Can we wear waistcoats?”

 

As Benny Goodman said, “To this day, I don't like people walking on stage not looking good. You have to look good. If you feel special about yourself then you're going to play special.”

The Awakening

The Awakening

Things that go bump in the night…

 

Last Friday night I was awoken from my slumber by the sound of tapping on glass.

 

I could see a light moving backwards and forwards across the bedroom curtain.

 

I checked the time: 2.30 in the morning.

 

I peered through the curtain and realised that there was someone at the rear of my neighbours’ house, someone with a torch.

 

My heart was racing. I got dressed and went to a room where I could, if I stood on a chair, see what was going on at the back of my neighbours’ house.

 

With trembling legs, I breathlessly raised myself up onto the chair.

 

I saw a figure, his face dimly illuminated by his mobile phone.

 

In the still of the night I could hear the sound of the phone ringing inside my neighbours’ house.

 

I returned to the bedroom to analyse the situation.

 

I wondered whether an intruder would behave like this. (He was still outside the house so he wasn’t really an intruder; more of an extruder.)

 

It seemed reasonable to conclude that he was trying to attract the attention of my neighbours and that he was known to them as he knew their telephone number.

 

It seemed most likely therefore that he was my neighbours’ grown-up son who occasionally stays overnight.

 

I began to feel a little calmer.

 

But why aren’t my neighbours responding to this impressively rousing behaviour?

 

Why are they ignoring the ringing phone, the flashing light and the tapping?

 

Maybe they’re away for the night.

 

Then there was more tapping. Tap tap TAP TAP TAP.

 

It was now 3.00am. He wasn’t going away.

 

I would have to speak to him.

 

I opened the bedroom window.

 

“Alex?” I said.

 

There was no response; an eerie quietness.

 

“Alex, is that you?” I continued in a louder voice.

 

There was a pause and then a feeble “yes.”

 

“Are you alright?” I enquired.

 

“They won’t let me in!” He wailed.

 

“Maybe they’re away Alex” I proffered.

 

“They are in. I can hear them snoring.”

 

“Oh right” I replied.

 

“I’ve tried phoning them and tapping on the window.”

 

“Yes, I heard you.”

 

“Oh” he said “I apologise. I wanted to wake them up, not you. I’m sorry.”

 

“That’s ok” I said.

 

“I just don’t know how to wake them up.” He said in a pitiful voice.

 

Then came a booming voice from next door “I’m awake now!” and the patio door slid open.

 

“Oh here he is,” said Alex “I really apologise for waking you up. Sorry.”

 

“Oh that’s good. Don’t worry, goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight - sorry.” His voice trailed away.

 

On Saturday afternoon I was in the garden and my neighbour sheepishly appeared over the garden fence. “This is from Alex.” He said, handing me a rather nice bottle of wine. “He feels really bad about disturbing you last night.”

 

“Ah. Really it’s fine. Thank you but there was really no need for him to do this.” I said, clutching the bottle tightly.

 

It’s important to accept a sincere apology with good grace, especially if it’s a good vintage.

A Little Light Conversation

A Little Light Conversation

Even when you speak the same language, it can be difficult to be understood and an interpreter is required…

 

Me: “I think something needs to be done about the lighting down the side of the building. Now it’s dark when we leave at night, it’s really hard to see when you’re going to your car.”

 

My boss: “What do you mean?”

 

Me: “I mean someone could trip in the dark round the side.”

 

My boss: “Dark round the side?”

 

Me: “Yes it’s very dark when we leave at night now.”

 

My boss: “Of course it’s dark. It’s called night time.”

 

Me: “Yes, I know that. But it’s dangerous down that side.”

 

My boss: “Well don’t go down the side then.”

 

Me: “That’s where the staff has to park isn’t it? We have to go there.”

 

My boss: “The staff has always parked down the side for the past ten years.”

 

Me: “Yes and the lighting is not sufficient to see where you’re going.”

 

My boss: “There’s lighting on the floodlights at the front.”

 

Me: “Yes, at the front but not down the side. Someone could hurt themselves.”

 

My boss: “Well they’ll just have to be careful then. At night it’s dark and you obviously have to be careful. Everyone knows that. Why are you going on about it?”

 

Me: “This is like mental torture. Someone could get hurt and it would be your fault for not providing sufficient lighting.”

 

My boss: “Rubbish! How can it be my fault that it goes dark at night?”

 

<In walks the manager with Health and Safety responsibilities.>

 

Me: “I was just trying to explain to the boss that it’s really dark round the side at night and there needs to be better lighting.”

 

Manager with H&S responsibilities: “Yes, I agree. I told you last year that it needed sorting out.”

 

My boss: “What?”

 

Manager with H&S responsibilities: “Yeah, I told you that I tripped going to the car and that you needed to sort some lighting out down that side.”

 

My boss: “Well let’s sort it out then. I’ll phone the electrician now. We can’t have people tripping over in the dark. It’s dangerous.”

 

“If you want that good feeling that comes from doing things for other folks then you have to pay for it in abuse and misunderstanding.” ~ Zora Neale Hurston ~

Reasons to be Unreasonable

Reasons to be Unreasonable

Sometimes we all experience uncomfortable and unreasonable feelings…

 

An agency worker has been employed at work for the past couple of weeks. Unfortunately he has adopted the exact spot on the pavement outside the building where I like to be. The spot on the pavement where I have always gone to stand (or on a nice day, to sit) on my own at break times.

 

This experience has made me realise that, although I thought I was a spontaneous easy-going person, I am in fact rather territorial and a creature of habit.

 

I have tried getting to my spot before he did but then he came and stood right next to me; too close for comfort. He also tried to engage me in a conversation about work which rather flew in the face of my concept of break time.

 

I have also tried to find other suitable spots to stand but they just don’t feel right.

 

I have therefore been reduced to random wanderings like a lost soul. Feeling bereft and cuckolded. I occasionally discretely wander to areas where I can see him enjoying my spot on the pavement. I can feel my eyes narrowing as I see him blithely eating a sandwich or making a phone call.

 

Of course I realised that these resentful feelings are irrational, that he is completely innocent and entitled to stand where he chooses. His choice of standing position was certainly not a good enough reason for me to loathe this man, and yet I did.

 

No one enjoys such feelings of ambivalence and so it is only natural to attempt to discover suitable cast iron justifications for seemingly unreasonable hostility.

 

Then I found it - perfect justification.

 

He had finished his break and went back to work a few minutes early. I meandered over to my dear old place and saw to my horror; right there on my treasured spot of the pavement – spit.

 

That dirty beast had been spitting – a lot - great glistening globules of foamy filth.

 

Not only that, he had been littering: casting his unwanted sandwich wrappers into the surrounding shrubbery.

 

I was at once revolted and elated. Although I had still lost my favourite spot, I now had license to thoroughly dislike this man and yet maintain a clear conscience.

 

As they say, “Every cloud has a silver lining”.

The Zen Garden

The Zen Garden

Over the years I have adopted various methods to relieve the stress of the workplace…

 

One of these methods was the construction of a little zen garden in an out-of –the-way corner at the back of the building. My zen garden consisted of a rounded piece of concrete topped with two carefully selected stones of descending size.

 

They weren’t much to look, at but I used to ponder on the stones. I had my own thoughts about them. How they resembled life. How they were nothing like life. I gained peace and comfort from their constancy.

 

Then one day – they were gone.

 

I was surprisingly distraught about this, so much so that I asked my colleagues if they knew anything about the destruction of the zen garden. They denied all knowledge and seemed bemused to learn that there had been a zen garden at all.

 

Then the truth came out.

 

Bill from the agency, otherwise known as ‘Agency Bill’ said “Ah, was it that little pile of stones?”

 

“Yes, yes it was” I replied eagerly “What do you know about it?”

 

“Erm, I threw them over the fence. I was on the phone to the agency and I was a bit frustrated with them. I don’t know, I just saw the stones and chucked them over. I didn’t know it was a zen garden. I’m sorry.” He replied.

 

I didn’t bother asking why he chose those stones from the thousands of others. I reassured him that it wasn’t important and returned crestfallen to my desk.

 

The next morning, there was a little flowering plant, exactly where the zen garden used to be. Agency Bill asked me if it was ok that he’d planted it there. I said it was and thanked him.

 

It’s not the same as the stones, but I do like the little flowering plant - I’m trying not to get too attached though.

 

“Most of our troubles are due to our passionate desire for and attachment to things that we misapprehend as enduring entities.” ~Dalai Lama~

Phonetic Fanatic

Phonetic Fanatic

We are strongly encouraged to use the phonetic alphabet at work to ensure fast and clear telephone communication; but this only works if both parties are familiar with it…

 

Me: “Yes, I’ll give you the product code. Are you ready?”

 

Caller: “Yes.”

 

Me: “OK,”

 

Caller: “O... K...”

 

Me: “No, sorry, I was just saying ok. That’s not the code.”

 

Caller: “That’s not the code? What is the code?”

 

Me: “M for Mike.”

 

Caller: “Yes?”

 

Me: “Is your name Mike?”

 

Caller: “Yes.”

 

Me: “Oh. Well the code is M for Mike or Mother...”

 

Caller: “Mother?”

 

Me: “Yes the first letter of the code is M.”

 

Caller: “Oh, right. Yes. M. M. Yes. M for mother.”

 

Me: “The next letter is N for November”

 

Caller: “Yes, I’ve got M.”

 

Me: “No, N. N for”

 

Caller: “Oh. N. N… 4…”

 

Me: “Not N4 just N.”

 

Caller: “Just N?”

 

Me: “Yes, M.N. The next letter is… Q for Quebec.”

 

Caller: “How do you spell Quebec?”

 

Me: “Pardon?”

 

Caller: “How do you spell Quebec?”

 

Me: “Listen, let’s start again shall we? Can I just give you the product code?”

 

Caller: “Yes.”

 

Me: “Are you ready?”

 

Caller: “Yes.”

 

Me: “M… N… Q... 5… 7... 6... 0... W...”

 

Caller: “M. N. Q. 5. 7. 6. 0. W.”

 

Me: “Yes, that’s it.”

 

Caller: “Thank you very much for your help.”

 

Me: “That’s ok. Goodbye.”

 

Caller: “Goodbye.”

 

So much for speed and efficiency.

The Land Of Dreams

 

The Land Of Dreams

As a child I read Enid Blyton’s “The Magic Faraway Tree”. I remember thoroughly enjoying it but feeling afraid when the land at the top of the tree changed. In ‘The Land of Dreams’ everything that happened was very dream-like and unreal and there was confusion as the characters tried to work out where they were and how they could get back down the tree…

 

The supermarket occasionally moves sections around so that we are forced to actively look at all their different products rather than heading like an automaton to what we actually went in there for. It was for this reason that I found myself unnecessarily in the cat food section.

 

An elderly lady turned to me and said “Look, mouse!” This instantly unsettled me; serving as a reminder of an unfortunate experience with a mouse (which I shall come to shortly).

 

Pardon?” I asked.

 

“Mouse. Mouse flavoured cat food.” She said pointing at a gourmet variety tin.

 

I looked at the tin in question and said “No, it’s not mouse, it’s mousse.”

 

“Moose flavoured cat food, oh!” she exclaimed.

 

“No, it’s salmon mousse. Salmon that’s light and frothy.” I said, wondering how I came to be an authority on cat food.

 

“Oh, I see” she replied “My kitty doesn’t like salmon, she does like mice though, she’s always bringing them into the house.”

 

This last remark brought the mouse experience back to me with full force:

 

I had been at a friend’s house when her cat brought a mouse in which then escaped. After much futile chasing with towels and cardboard boxes it was me who cornered the mouse. I reached out to pick it up and it bit me. It sunk it’s little yellow teeth into my finger and didn’t let go, it’s feisty little body was swinging from my finger. We managed to release it’s grip and let the ungrateful rodent back into the garden.

 

The next day my finger was rather swollen and sore and, with some reservation about appearing overly dramatic, phoned the doctor. Far from being dismissive, she said that I should go to the hospital Accident and Emergency unit.

 

I approached the front desk at the hospital and rather sheepishly announced that a mouse had bitten my finger.

 

“What kind of mouse was it?” asked the receptionist.

 

“Erm, I don’t know.” I admitted “It was sort of fawn coloured with a white tummy.”

 

“Did your finger bleed?” she asked.

 

“No, fortunately it didn’t.” I replied.

 

“Oh. That’s not fortunate. It would have been better if it had. Take a seat and someone will be right with you.”

 

I took a seat and a nurse came and sat next to me with a form on a clipboard.

 

“So, you’ve been bitten by a mouse and it didn’t draw blood is that right?” she asked.

 

I nodded nervously.

 

“We’ll need to give you an injection of hmnnhunheesssin which contains human products. We need you to sign this form to indicate your acceptance of this.” She explained.

 

I had never heard of anything like this before. It sounded revolting. They were obviously taking this matter very seriously. I signed the form and she led me to a booth, drew the curtains across and said “Right, this needs to be injected into your thigh. Could you lower your trousers for me?”

 

I did as she asked and stood there with my trousers down feeling vulnerable, cold and more than a little bit scared while she prepared the injection.

 

I heard a loud voice from the other side of the curtains saying “It fell out last night and I couldn’t get an appointment until next week!”

 

Then suddenly a nurse thrust her head between the curtains of my booth and shouted “Look! I’m Nanny McPheeeeeee!!!” and displayed a wide gap at the front of her teeth.

 

I remember very little after that.

 

Just like in Enid Blyton’s the “Magic Faraway Tree”; sometimes you start in one place and unexpectedly end up somewhere completely different.

Going on a Guilt Trip

Going on a Guilt Trip

There are some activities that are perfectly legal, activities that we are perfectly entitled to engage in but which somehow make us feel somewhat uneasy, guilty in fact…

 

Blackberry picking is one of these activities. If I happen to catch a blackberry picker in the act, especially if the blackberry picking was obviously premeditated (as evidenced by them having a little plastic box), I notice that their sense of shame is almost palpable. Of course they try to brazen it out, they might even cast a little nasty look my way, but I can tell they feel guilty.

 

One of the worst ones for me is the hand car wash.

 

I used to go to the automatic car wash secreted behind the local garage. The gigantic colourful brushes and the jerky guillotine-like dryer made it an utterly terrifying experience; fortunately the noise of that hellish contraption drowned my screams, at least I hope so. I never felt guilty though, never.

 

The hand car wash is another matter altogether.

 

I notice the woman in the car in front of me fiddling with her hair and rubbing the back of her neck – the sort of self-comforting body language that forensic psychologists look out for.

 

An overall-clad young man in wellington boots approaches.

 

I can already sense that he despises my laziness.

 

I wind the window down. “Hi, can I have ‘The Shiner’ please” I ask (I’d rather risk a black eye than a bloke called ‘Fast Eddie’ hopping in the car with me.)

 

He passes me a laminated card and instructs me to put it on the dashboard.

 

He walks smartly to the jet wash area and beckons me over.

 

I drive up to him, as close to his knees as I dare, and turn the engine off.

 

He starts jet washing the front of the car.

 

I try to look relaxed yet distracted, pretending to text someone.

 

“Excuse me.” he says “Could you wind the window up please.”

 

I turn the engine on and the car leaps forward before stalling. I wind the window up, and turn the engine off again, mouthing “Sorry” through the windscreen.

 

He smiles pityingly and continues jet washing before making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm directing me towards the dreaded soapy spongy area.

 

I cautiously manoeuvre into position and two soggy young men smile at me. I attempt a friendly smile in return but suspect that I look as though I’ve just stepped on a slug in my bare feet.

 

Then they start soaping the car. Their chapped and swollen fingers wielding frayed cold sponges. I feel sorry for them and guilty for my part in perpetuating this miserable trade.

 

It comes as a relief when the windscreen is washed and I can sit remorsefully inside foamy isolation.

 

Then a little square of clarity is made and one of the spongy men peers in at me reproachfully before directing me onwards.

 

More jet washing then drying.

 

Four bedraggled men, now five… squeak squeak squeak. I try to ignore them and take an inordinate interest in the advertising boards for garden fencing and mower repairs.

 

Then the door unexpectedly opens and I shriek.

 

“I’m just drying your sills” says the bedraggled youth reassuringly.

 

“Yes, ok” I say (I’ll just sit here like an overstuffed princess while you bend down before me and dry my sills.)

 

Finally it’s time to pay and leave.

 

“I’ll just get your change” he says. “No I don’t want the change, thank you”

 

“I’ll just get you an air freshener then” he says “No I don’t want an air freshener, thank you.”

 

Why doesn’t he just go and leave me alone? I can’t bear this any longer.

 

“Yes?” I ask.

 

“Could you just pass me the card from the dashboard please?”

 

I pass him the little laminated card with overly profuse apologies.

 

I think I might go and seek out some blackberry pickers... just to make myself feel better.

Lesson One

Lesson One

The first lesson with a new teacher can be a daunting experience…

 

I had a violin lesson last night, the first one with this particular teacher.

 

Playing for an unfamiliar authority figure is a stressful and uncomfortable experience because they are judging you.

 

The trouble is, no one likes being judged, especially by someone who is better than you, but then it’s not the best idea to choose a teacher on the basis that they are worse than you.

 

Of course they have to judge you, or to put it in a less dramatic way; they have to assess your current abilities so that they can then teach you.

 

Another problem is the fact that you want to impress the teacher and, by the very fact that you have arranged a lesson, you don’t actually believe you are impressive.

 

So, how do you deal with such a stressful situation and manage to get through a whole hour without resorting to fainting?

 

Strategies have to be employed, strategies devised by your subconscious mind. When the subconscious mind moves you to deploy these strategies, our conscious mind can only marvel at their deviousness as we find ourselves putting them into action:

 

First Impressions:

Although you are a rubbish musician, at least you can be impressive as an intelligent and sociable person:

New Teacher: “Oh, hello! You knocked very quietly, it’s a good job I heard you. Come in!”

Me: “Thank you… what a lovely front door. It’s blue.”

Make your way steadily in the direction being indicated, confidently naming the colours of walls, carpets and soft furnishings along the way.

 

Getting Ready:

A good deal of time can be used up here.

Resting the instrument case on a sloped surface enables objects to be put on top, slide off, put back on top and slide off again several times.

I think that any longer than the three minutes I did this for may have seemed excessive.

This is also a good opportunity to reinforce positive first impressions:

New Teacher: “What a lovely violin case.”

Me: “Thank you, it’s a bit too slippy though… what’s the combination? Erm…. Oh yes… 123 456.”

 

Lower The Teacher’s Musical Expectations of You:

This enables you to at least have a chance of making a good impression musically.

Adopt a quizzical expression and repeat, with a downward inflection, any musical terms that the teacher might say:

“Fourth position. Third position. Arpeggio.Tuning. Trilling. Scales. Shoulders. Pencil.”

Actually I did finally admit to an understanding of “pencil”, retrieved mine from my bag and informed her that it was the same colour as her front door.

 

The Moment Has Arrived:

The music has been selected and is on the stand, violin and bow poised, the teacher is standing to one side, relaxed and attentive, ready to judge. Concentration at its peak, deep breath in…

Me: “Before I start. Is that an apple tree in your garden?”

New Teacher: “Which one?”

Me: “The one at the bottom on the left.”

New Teacher: “The one with the apples on?”

Me: “Yes.”

New Teacher: “Yes. Yes it is. I’ll pick some for you to take home with you if you’d like.”

Me: “Oh yes please, do you want to pick them now?”

New Teacher: “I’ll pick them after our lesson. Now, when you’re ready…”

 

Then I play. The time flies by. The new teacher gives warm encouragement and gentle helpful advice. The lesson is over. It was great. She asks if I want to book another lesson.

 

That wasn’t so bad after all.

 

I drive home happy and excited… and with a big bag of apples – red ones.

The Tea Party

The Tea Party

When performing for the public, it is important to stay focussed...

Last Saturday was our first public engagement as a Tea Party String ensemble. We consist of three violinists, a violist and two cellists. One of the cellists proposed the formation of the group for Saturday’s event, a birthday party for his friend. The birthday girl apparently wanted a sophisticated celebration to mark the occasion of her thirtieth – a tea party - hence the enlistment of our string ensemble with a classical repertoire with a smattering of elegant salon music.

I have found, when giving a public performance that I enter into a trance-like state. I am focussed on the music and playing and, although marginally aware of my surroundings and the audience; I am not completely engaged and thus avoid being distracted. This trance-like state gathers momentum about 24 hours before the event.

We arrived at the venue and were greeted by a six foot tall white rabbit. He directed us towards our playing area, looked at his pocket watch and informed us that we were late.

The playing area set aside for us appeared to be a converted log store with brick walls on three sides and a tin roof. There was an antique rug covering the stone floor, a non-functioning wood burning stove and a stuffed wildebeest head hanging on the wall.

There was natural light emanating from the front of the log store augmented by static disco lighting and a mirror ball overhead. In front of the log store stage was a long dining table groaning with cake stands and tea pots. Cardboard hearts, white on one side and shiny red on the other, hung in the surrounding foliage and flickered mesmerisingly in the afternoon sunlight. All of these sensations served to deepen my hypnotic state.

We played our first set and the tea party guests maintained a dignified silence. Then there were shouts of “Speech, speech!” The birthday girl, sporting a rather impressive top hat, rose from her place at the head of the long dining table.

“Thank you” she said. “and thank them” indicating towards us with a cake slice.

There was no response.

“THANK THEM!!” she bellowed. The tea party guests begrudgingly turned towards us and applauded. I could see them applauding but could not hear them as most of them had furry paws which lacked resonance.

A man wearing steampunk goggles shouted “You’ve forgotten someone!” “I’ve forgotten someone???!!” exclaimed the birthday girl. “YES!” He shouted “The big fat git!” A sturdy looking chap then appeared.

Ah, I thought, I recognise him... Tweedle Dee or maybe Tweedle Dum... at which point our lead violinist whispered “Taydeeyum”. The violist muttered “Tedium”. No, I thought, either Tweedle Dee or Tweeddle Dum but certainly not Taydeeyum or Tedium.

My fellow ensemble members then started to play... Te Deum... composed by Marc-Antoine Charpentier. I missed the first few bars but managed to catch up and regain my focus.

We played on to the unresponsive cats, rabbits and dormice who were intently concentrating on their sandwiches and cakes. I was only vaguely aware of the occasional appreciative exclamation; notably from an unidentifiable furry creature screeching something which sounded like “It must be my eyebrows!”

Then I could hear a rhythmic beating noise. I thought perhaps the pressure was finally getting to me. Then it felt as though a chanting effect was resonating inside my head...chanting which sounded like “trifle trifle trifle trifle.”

Our leader counted us in for the next piece... 1, 2, 3.. at which point my esteemed colleague to my left exclaimed “TRIFLE!!!!!.... I LOVE TRIFLE!!!!”.  I had successfully managed to ignore the occasional glimpse of his comedy cufflinks but now my concentration was shattered. I looked up to see the Queen of Hearts presenting an enormous bowl of trifle to the tea party guests who were excitedly banging their spoons on the dining table.

I can remember little else. It became cold as the sun went down... so very cold. I vaguely recall the violist saying that next time he would wear a vest - tucked into his pants.

We played an encore… a small boy (or perhaps it was a caterpillar) cheered with delight.

The next thing I knew I was at home... there was a little bottle of wine… I looked at the label, “Drink Me” it said. So I did.

I reflected upon the very curious and thoroughly wonderful afternoon that had passed and felt a renewed appreciation of the perfectly amazing people in this wonderland that we call life.

So that is the story of our Tea Party Adventure… “Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” ~Lewis Carroll~