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Authors: Anna Lyndsey
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through hispiece for the fiftieth time. But there is another noise as well, a sort of mixed humming and buzzing, which at first I cannot identify at all.
Then I catch sight of a small silver radio perched on top of the piano, its slim shiny aerial extended to maximum length. All at once, what I am hearing makes total sense.
Pete is practising, but he is also listening to a football match on Radio 5 Live.
“PETE!” I say loudly. “What on earth are you doing?”
He stops playing and looks round. “Er … I was sort of multi-tasking,” he replies, sheepishly.
“Pete,” I say, exasperated. “Honestly, it’s not worth it. You’ll get much more benefit from ten minutes’ practice if you’re really concentrating, than from half an hour going round in circles because you’re listening to the football at the same time. Believe me, it’s not efficient.”
“Oh all right, point taken,” he says, switching off the radio.
“Look, you’ve probably done enough for tonight anyway. Why don’t you just stop and listen to the match?”
So he does.
As it turns out, when it comes to Pete’s progress on the piano, football is not entirely unhelpful. I find the following written in his piano notebook, as a practice exercise in the notation of rhythm:
February 2006—Later
Pete and I set about organising a wedding. The plan is to find a hotel in the vicinity where the civil ceremony can take place, go to Pete’s church for a blessing (he is a Christian, I am not) and then come back to the hotel for the reception.
We check out various venues, and the one that looks most promising is a hotel called The Manor, a long, rambling, two-storey building, set in pleasant grounds. Tall plane trees line the drive, their sturdy bases sunk in carpets of crocuses sticking out golden tongues to the early spring sun.
Inside, the hotel has rich brown panelling, a sage-green carpet, faded chintz upholstery and gold-framed paintings on the walls. It even has old-fashioned lighting—modest chandeliers and unpretentious sconces fitted, brilliantly, as far as I am concerned, with incandescent bulbs.
The whole effect is mellow and relaxing. It even smells right—no discordant notes of new furniture, or industrial detergent, or frying.
A friendly receptionist, soft and beige and rosy, shows us into a sunny sitting room, and we wait on flowery armchairs, on opposite sides of a low table withcarved paw-like feet, smiling at each other, because we know we’ve found the place.
Then we meet Celia, the wedding co-ordinator.
Celia has jet-black hair that reaches midway down her back, a bony, angular body and black eyebrows drawn together in a semi-permanent scowl. She is wearing shiny black court shoes with finely pointed toes, and stands before us, arms crossed across a file, legs apart and spiky feet splayed outwards, like daggers. There is a patch of high colour on each of her cheeks.
We tell her we really like the hotel, and are thinking of getting married in September. “No,” she says. “You can’t do that. You’ll have to go later in the year. September’s gone.”
“But—we rang this morning and they told us the ninth is still free.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know—whoever I spoke to—the receptionist?”
Celia clicks her tongue and snorts. “Oh. Well, it might be, but if it is, it’ll be the only one.”
“And we were thinking of ninety guests for a sit-down meal.”
“You can’t have ninety,” Celia snaps. “You can have forty-five in the Oak Room, or seventy in the Garden Room. Or you can have a fork buffet for one hundred and ten.”
“Well …” I say, “supposing we used both rooms. There’s quite a wide connecting doorway. We could have close family and friends in the Oak Room, withus, and everyone else in the other one, and keep the doors open.”
Celia’s eyebrows surge downwards into a savage V, and her eyes flash. “There aren’t enough tables,” she counters. “They
Then I catch sight of a small silver radio perched on top of the piano, its slim shiny aerial extended to maximum length. All at once, what I am hearing makes total sense.
Pete is practising, but he is also listening to a football match on Radio 5 Live.
“PETE!” I say loudly. “What on earth are you doing?”
He stops playing and looks round. “Er … I was sort of multi-tasking,” he replies, sheepishly.
“Pete,” I say, exasperated. “Honestly, it’s not worth it. You’ll get much more benefit from ten minutes’ practice if you’re really concentrating, than from half an hour going round in circles because you’re listening to the football at the same time. Believe me, it’s not efficient.”
“Oh all right, point taken,” he says, switching off the radio.
“Look, you’ve probably done enough for tonight anyway. Why don’t you just stop and listen to the match?”
So he does.
As it turns out, when it comes to Pete’s progress on the piano, football is not entirely unhelpful. I find the following written in his piano notebook, as a practice exercise in the notation of rhythm:
February 2006—Later
Pete and I set about organising a wedding. The plan is to find a hotel in the vicinity where the civil ceremony can take place, go to Pete’s church for a blessing (he is a Christian, I am not) and then come back to the hotel for the reception.
We check out various venues, and the one that looks most promising is a hotel called The Manor, a long, rambling, two-storey building, set in pleasant grounds. Tall plane trees line the drive, their sturdy bases sunk in carpets of crocuses sticking out golden tongues to the early spring sun.
Inside, the hotel has rich brown panelling, a sage-green carpet, faded chintz upholstery and gold-framed paintings on the walls. It even has old-fashioned lighting—modest chandeliers and unpretentious sconces fitted, brilliantly, as far as I am concerned, with incandescent bulbs.
The whole effect is mellow and relaxing. It even smells right—no discordant notes of new furniture, or industrial detergent, or frying.
A friendly receptionist, soft and beige and rosy, shows us into a sunny sitting room, and we wait on flowery armchairs, on opposite sides of a low table withcarved paw-like feet, smiling at each other, because we know we’ve found the place.
Then we meet Celia, the wedding co-ordinator.
Celia has jet-black hair that reaches midway down her back, a bony, angular body and black eyebrows drawn together in a semi-permanent scowl. She is wearing shiny black court shoes with finely pointed toes, and stands before us, arms crossed across a file, legs apart and spiky feet splayed outwards, like daggers. There is a patch of high colour on each of her cheeks.
We tell her we really like the hotel, and are thinking of getting married in September. “No,” she says. “You can’t do that. You’ll have to go later in the year. September’s gone.”
“But—we rang this morning and they told us the ninth is still free.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know—whoever I spoke to—the receptionist?”
Celia clicks her tongue and snorts. “Oh. Well, it might be, but if it is, it’ll be the only one.”
“And we were thinking of ninety guests for a sit-down meal.”
“You can’t have ninety,” Celia snaps. “You can have forty-five in the Oak Room, or seventy in the Garden Room. Or you can have a fork buffet for one hundred and ten.”
“Well …” I say, “supposing we used both rooms. There’s quite a wide connecting doorway. We could have close family and friends in the Oak Room, withus, and everyone else in the other one, and keep the doors open.”
Celia’s eyebrows surge downwards into a savage V, and her eyes flash. “There aren’t enough tables,” she counters. “They
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