Column – The Piano

This column first appeared in the Lancashire Evening Post.

I am in lockdown and I’m going to make the most of it.

I missed the whimsical fun of the first one. The demands of my daily radio show and feeling like I had to take a PHD in epidemiology were enough to occupy my time. I watched in envy as Michaela spent her days baking banana bread and twisting into unlikely yoga positions. While I undeniably benefited from her free time – mainly through my mouth and stomach – I have long felt that I missed out on something. As if all my friends had taken a gap year and left me behind. I watched on enviously as they learnt new things and discovered themselves, all the while I stayed behind, sacrificing myself for the greater good.

“You’re a radio presenter, Darryl,” said a nurse friend, “I think ‘sacrifice’ is a bit of a stretch.”

A fair point.

And yet, the unmistakable cloud of FOMO lingered. I had missed the chance to learn a new skill or get lost in that book I’d been meaning to start. I hadn’t even rolled my mat out, never mind perfecting a downward dog.

When the Prime Minister announced another spell at home, I knew my time had come. This was my moment and I was going to seize it. I’m going to learn and play and bake. I’m going to bake so much that the even the Warburton family will think I’ve gone over the top.

“I am going to learn how to play the piano,” I say to my Michaela.

“OK,” she says, and I don’t know what I expected from her, but polite indifference caught me off guard.

“I am,” I say defiantly, into the face of no resistance at all.

“Right then, good stuff,” she said, looking up, “as long as you don’t start baking banana bread. I think we’ve all had quite enough of that,” she scoffed and looked back down.

I rummage in the loft for the old Casio keyboard we picked up at a car boot sale, open a YouTube tutorial and dust off some old hold high school music books.

Slowly, it came back to me. C. D. F sharp. I can do this. I will do this.

Clunk.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

A noise. Definitely a noise. Although, not one I recognised.

Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

“What is this?” Michaela shouted from upstairs.

“When the Saints Go Marching In.” I cried back.

“No wonder they’re marching back in.” I overheard, faintly.

Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk.

At least, I think it’s ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ Maybe I picked up the wrong music? No. That’s right. That’s definitely right. I guess it just takes time. Elton John didn’t throw ‘Candle in the Wind’ together. It takes craft, patience and practice.

Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk.

I glance outside and notice the family next door, huddled together in the garden. It’s a bit cold for a BBQ, I think to myself, maybe they just need a bit of fresh air?

Clunk.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Clunk.

A hand, calmly on my shoulder.

“Darling,” came Michaela’s soft voice, “perhaps you could try baking some banana bread?”

March 23, 2021  |  1 Comments