So, farewell then piano.
I’m not sure how I allowed myself to be persuaded to get one in the first place. I still recall being banished by my mother to the freezing cold front room to practice my scales. I still remember the agony of the theory exams when you had to sing (I could never hold a tune). And yet, twenty years or so later, there I was inflicting the same kind of torture on my son.
It didn’t help that his paternal grandparents were concert pianists, who had a grand piano in their front room, unlike the secondhand (possibly third or fourth, who knows?) upright we forked out for.
And it didn’t help that the parent who was the most keen on the piano playing tradition being upheld was rarely there when his son had to be taken to lessons or bribed to practice.
At least our dining room wasn’t freezing. Unlike my parents, we had central heating.
I can’t remember what grade the boy reached before he rebelled. High enough to be able to sight read Christmas carols – which is more or less all the piano has been used for over the past decade. In fact, the only people to show any enthusiasm in recent years for tickling the ivories at other times have been the grandchildren.
Probably as well, then, that the husband decided to advertise it on Gumtree for £100 (Originally supplied by Harrod’s, buyer to arrange collection).
We may not have bred another concert pianist but, oddly, I was rather sad to see it go.
