Posted on by JonnyB

We plan a romantic evening.

Having a Baby lying around (who I do not mention in my Private Secret Diary ever) means that we are unable to enjoy the more adult pleasures in which we previously indulged, e.g. going to the Village Pub together etc. etc. It is frustrating.

I determine to address this.

All is prepared. I have sourced a cheap babysitter, and have put my trousers on. The LTLP is due back from work at seven pee em precisely. I put several milks in the fridge. I clean my teeth. I instruct the Cheap Babysitter in everything that can possibly be instructed.

I am really looking forward to this.

I ensure I have my door keys, my mobile telephone, some money and my credit cards. I check to see that my shirt goes with my trousers and change accordingly. I put some more money in my pocket, just in case. I re-instruct the Cheap Babysitter on everything that I have previously instructed. I double-check that my shirt goes and that there are enough milks in the fridge.

Everything is in order. Nothing – nothing – can possibly go wrong.

With ten minutes to spare, I finish preparing my PowerPoint presentation: ‘100 Clunking Setups for Bloggers’

Later, as I am leaving the Accident and Emergency department, I reflect upon the day. In fact I reflect upon life in general. The reflection fills me with horror – I push it away and try to block it out of my mind. We drive home in silence.

Posted on by JonnyB

My piano has returned!!!

It has been ten months.

The Piano Specialist Man supervises some men with tattoos, who heave the newly-restored instrument up the drive. Being solid wood with an iron frame it is heavier than James Joyce, and they struggle with their wheely thing on the gravel which I have spitefully laid to thwart them.

I have an urge to walk beside them, picking out comic silent film music on the keyboard to accompany. But I do not know any, and they would probably hit me and the Piano Specialist Man would push a metronome up my arse.

We reach the open French windows and I indicate the special piano-sized alcove in the room beyond. There is some debate as to whether it is actually piano-sized, or whether it is just smaller than actually piano-sized, but all is well. All the while, the Piano Specialist Man has been talking to me about the minutae of felt replacement hammer procedures and string reduction tensions. Occasionally he strokes the wood, lovingly.

The Piano Specialist Man is an enthusiast. He is a pleasure to talk to, as are all enthusiasts, with one caveat. That is, that I have mentioned repeatedly that I don’t really play the piano that well, that I’m certainly not classically trained, that I don’t really have a clue about the inside of pianos other than you press the white notes and the music sounds, that I hadn’t noticed for thirty-five years that the soft pedal was broken as I’ve never used the soft pedal, that Croatian or Egyptian hammer felts are all the same to me and that really, whilst I love it as a historic instrument, I only ever use it for going ‘plinky plonk’ on.

Of course he has never taken any of this in, so I have politely nodded and demurred and stuff when he has asked me my opinion about various subtle adjustments he has made.

“I will just check that nothing has shifted during transit,” he announces, sitting down and playing a concerto or whatever. It is very impressive and sounds terrific, and is probably by Tchaikovsky or Brahms.

“Perfect!” he whimpers. “Will you…?” he offers, vacating the stool and looking expectantly.

I have the sudden irrational urge to sit down, take a deep breath and hammer out ‘Chopsticks’ with the full force of my middle fingers, before leaping up and exclaiming “that’s bloody lovely, that is!!!”. That, or the theme from Minder.

Politeness prevails. I do not want him to do the metronome thing, or get his goons to slam my fingers in the lid. I explain in a lying fashion that my neighbour Short Tony is working next door and I do not like to disturb him. After more discourse on the sonic qualities of single strings, and the handing-over of an X-rated cheque, I am on my own with my piano.

I have written before of the instrument’s history, of the many songs that were composed or arranged on it during the first half of the last century: some immediately forgotten, some popular at the time but now lost or hopelessly out of fashion, some still in the public consciousness today, such as “Sally”, made famous by Gracie Fields. And now, sat at this beautiful inherited link to my family’s disappearing past, thousands of pounds poorer due to the ridiculous, romantic whim of restoration, I know in my heart what the very first piece of music to pick out on it should be.

I play the theme from Minder.

Posted on by JonnyB

The Baby is teething.

Regular readers will know that I do not usually write about the Baby, except in passing or if she does a really interesting and unusual poo etc.

This is mainly because there is only one thing more boring than writing about the day-to-day minutae of looking after a cute but intellectually unadventurous Baby, and that is reading about it. Twee anecdotes about sterilising bottles are supremely Not My Bag, plus I have lots of readers in the social services and I do not want to drop myself in it.

Sooner or later, however, you find yourself in a situation akin to spotting Ann Widdecombe glaring at you from behind a pillar as you stand up to make the keynote address to the annual conference of the National Sexist Society. At some point it is inevitable that you will mention the elephant in the room.

I am not a particularly stoic person, and being woken up for attention on an hourly basis through the night is starting to get me down a little. It is a bit like when the LTLP and I first met, without all the pretending to like each other’s records, but I was young then and could manage that sort of routine. Now I am old, and I am knackered.

I dropped her off at Nursery this morning, then went on to Tesco for comfort food. The peace and quiet of the aisles cushioned my soul; I found myself walking round slower and slower, savouring the solitude of breakfast cereals, jams and spreads, home baking. The fit girl on the checkout who wants to sleep with me helped pack my bags and I blinked as I emerged into the morning air.

I drove home in a daze, to make the Replacement Replacement Carpenter’s breakfast.