The little shit.
I saw you picking your nose and wiping it on my beautiful piano when you thought I wasn’t looking. No respect. None.
I blame the parents of course. Time was, learning an instrument was a privilege, a joy for those who heard the call and dreamt in crotchets and quavers. A new language to explore, an art to perfect. No more. Today’s kids get strapped into the back of a 4x4 monstrosity, force-fed baked crips or worse carrot batons and humous. I can see it in their eyes, they don’t want to be here, I don’t want them to be here, ...well apart from the resultant cash which comes in handy.
If I could do a deal where I plug them into some console and leave them sitting in the corner with a bag of sweets and headphones that would be just fine. I could take some time for me, have a nice Horlicks or a herbal tea. Read a book. Have a bath. And then in an hour, “Oh he’s doing so well. I think grade 3 before long”, “Yes natural ear, ..intuitive”, “all very excited for next term”, a little wink and off the little shit tumbles ready to explode with an unexplained sugar rush. You can image the mum, “Sebastian you just don’t like hard work, that’s why you make these stories up about the nice lady, feeding you sweets and letting you play games.”
But unfortunately, the more humane sweets and console are not permissible. So I have to resort to a slammed finger or two on a first offence. “I don’t know what happened, he was messing around with the lid and it just fell”, right the way up to a piano wire garrot for more serious transgressions. Knowing you have an arsenal at your disposal helps you breathe more easily, take the nose-picking ..and smile.
Hopefully, the soundproofing will deaden the screams.
