My husband and I have always secretly longed for one of our children to show an interest in music. Not just listening to the latest Girls Aloud album but tinkering away on the piano to a bit of Mozart.
My musical ability as a child was pretty limited. Much to the frustration and now amusement of my father, I showed much interest in musical instruments but had an inability to stick to one for more than a term. I briefly tried my hand at the guitar but gave up after only managing to play the Thorn Birds theme tune. My piano teacher’s love of garlic was unbearable which forced a sudden end to my dreams of becoming a pianist. I tinkered around on the recorder intermittently and finally settled with joining the choir, the novelty wearing off with the endless practising under the watchful eyes of a very strict singing teacher. I could also never quite decide whether I should be sitting with the Sopranos or the Altos. My husband’s musical career was even more limited than mine. He tells me he was far too busy on the sports field.
When my daughter came home from school with a form about recorder lessons we excitedly persuaded her to give it a go. Perhaps this was to be the beginning of a long, professional musical career and a few steps closer to the Royal College of Music. For the last few weeks she has enjoyed lessons at school twice a week and has been encouraged by her enthusiastic teacher to practise every evening. The slight drawback is that she is six-years-old attempting to sight read, with small fingers that struggle to cover the holes resulting in an awful lot of squeaking. She regularly dissolves into tears as her small finger pads make every effort to grip the recorder, searching for the right note. Her determination is admirable and she continues to whistle away late into the evening and early morning. My husband and I wake to squeaky renditions of Au Clair de la Lune and we duly give a sleepy round of applause when she correctly holds her ‘semibreve’.
However, the sound of the recorder is beginning to take its toll. We have just endured a whole weekend of Blow Thy Horn Hunter repeated incessantly throughout the day. The border terrorist has spent much of her time at the bottom of the garden and the boys both slap their hands across their ears whenever the recorder approaches. As a result, the recorder very nearly went missing and narrowly escaped spending the rest of its days buried in the field. I wonder whether with all musical instruments there is a pain barrier that we all have to cross before we get to appreciate the joy of music. Or perhaps we should give recorder a break next term? After all, the thought of carols whistling out during December might just be too much to bear.
