The alternative title (or one of them) was uncomfortably numb. Isn’t that always the case? The tricky choice between Ecclesiastes and Pink Floyd.
I like to think I am leading the tortoise to become over-confident and fall into the same trap that befell the hare. Others might say that I have turned procrastination into a lifestyle. Nevertheless, I do (usually) get there eventually.
For example, in a post from the archive (Lucky Numbers for any completists) I mentioned having seen a young pianist called Julien Cohen and suggested I would pay to hear him play. Well, back in October I made good on this threat! He was once again playing in Cambridge and I snuck away from the world of work for a brief interlude to hear him perform at West Road. My faith in the chap was amply rewarded and while I was in Cambridge I also managed to take in a chunk of the Film Festival. Paying one’s blog-based pseudo-debts seems to lead to good things (although I’ll admit I’m extrapolating from an anecdotal sample of one, which is not good form).
Equally in this blog I have made pie-crust promises to make greater use of my car and cease its long-running neglect. On this front I did rather less well, so earlier in the year I passed the car on to a better home where it receives regular exercise. No longer does it languish a kilometre away with its battery slowly draining, but is now kept within easy spitting distance of its owner’s home (though I trust she is not spitting at it). I realise this does sound rather like the stories people tell children that a much loved pet has “gone to live on a farm”, but this really did happen – I am not just trying to spare your feelings.
However, the longest running unfinished business in my life (if we ignore the whole lack of a partner or offspring thing) was the guitar. I was bought an acoustic guitar by a grateful team back in 1995: I think they were pleased to have worked with me rather than that this would imminently no longer be the case (and I’d like to keep that illusion, if you don’t mind). The guitar is now old enough to be served liquor in any bar in the US of A and so it was becoming embarrassing that I still couldn’t play it. I decided to do something about it and leapt into action.
More time passed…
And then, after a period of mere months (shorter than calendar months), this very morn I had my first guitar lesson! OK, not technically my first, Mr Owen (my then English teacher) did provide some tuition back in the late 1970s, before he “went to Gravesend” (not a euphemism). However, I think we can safely assume that any knowledge imparted at that time has been well and truly lost beyond any hope of recall (though I am willing to munch my way through a madeleine, or several, if people think it would help).
I gave my guitar teacher a somewhat vague brief of some long term goals from my tuition: basically Jake Thackeray, Bach harpsichord transcriptions or Latin American classical guitar. Neverthless he was not put-off and so I spent the latter part of this morning learning the basic chords and finger picking for Lah-di-Dah. I am also having to come to grips with tablature which I’m pretty sure did not trouble my pre-teen head back in the seventies. Still, I think an auspicious start was made: I may even have the merest morsel of natural talent.
The primary takeaway from this morning’s lesson, though, was that the finger tips on my left hand now exist in a weird superposition (I’m assuming classical rather than quantum) of numbness and exquisite pain. They are going to have toughen up in the coming days if I am to fit in some practise before my next lesson and practoce is needed. The next lesson has been booked a mere handful of days hence: self-discipline is all well and good but it does work better with a looming external examination.
Surely, tt can only be a matter of time – and mastery of the Yorkshire accent – before I can start my new career as Southampton’s premier Jake Thackeray tribute act. I’m assuming “Fake Thackeray” has already been taken so I shall spend some of the time while I wait for feeling to return to my distal phalanges coming up with a name for the act.
On again! On again!