Return to the Piano

I have a piano. A rather beautiful, if not very good, piano. I love that piano, but I don't play it very often. For years, I have gone back to it intermittently and have been able to play my favourite old pieces with little trouble and less distinction. It worked, for me at least, and I tried to ensure that I did not disturb anybody else.

This became a far bigger problem when I moved into a flat four years ago. I was horribly conscious that the noise travelled throughout the building and that my not very musical offerings could well be annoying my neighbours. I found myself playing less and less. Recently, however, I returned to it on a rainy, thundery evening, when there was so much noise outside that I felt that it was unlikely I would annoy anybody.

Alas. What I had completely failed to factor in to the equation was the reality of ageing, stiffening fingers. Where before I was able to pick up where I left off, now my fingers refused to cooperate. My brain still knew what to do, but my fingers did not seem able to do the things I was expecting. I was devastated. My immediate response was that I would never play again. Now, some days later, I am taking a different view. I have decided that I shall return to practising, albeit during the day and not for too long.

So, if you live in my building, I apologise for the awful noise to which you might be subjected, but I do not want to abandon all hope yet. If it gets too much for you, come and tell me. I hope it is not too awful.