If there is such a thing as a past life, I like to think I was an accomplished musician in one of mine.  Or that perhaps I will be in one yet to come.

I figure, if there is anything to the whole Jonathan Livingstone Seagull thing, that you have to start somewhere.  So (perhaps) this life is my starting point musically, because, clearly, it cannot be an intermediate stage, and it certainly is not the final stage.  Because if it were…well, that would be quite sad.

Sad because my musical and rhythmical capabilities are…er, challenged, is probably the kindest word.  (And as I am the Blogger, I can use whatever word I want, thereby avoiding: useless, inept, ungainly, frankly – mortifyingly terrible…)

That is not to say that I have not actually tried to develop my musical side.  It’s not as though I am just picking the most unattainable goal in the world out of the air and wondering why I am not getting there.  I don’t want to be a Trapeze Artist or a contestant on Zimbabwe’s Got Talent.  I just want to be able to play the piano (fluently) (with two hands doing different things at the same time) (without sending my children into paroxysms of embarrassment, as they dive for cover and glance around rapidly to assess how much damage control is needed).

With this humble goal in mind, about 3 years ago I started piano lessons.  My daughter, who is now 9, had started the year before me (maths is not my strong point – along with Science, see Advice from The Vet – but that means she was about 6 when she started), so I already had a rudimentary grasp of the basics.  (Where middle C is and the difference between a crotchet and a…not-crotchet.)

I also had this wonderful conviction that I was Beethoven in a former life.  Or, if not Beethoven, then at least Whatisname…Creator of Great Symphonies and Piano Player of Note.  I just assumed that my talent had just been resting, latent, under a bushel, and that my parents had failed abjectly to provide me with the tools necessary to expose my brilliance.

So it was with the best will in the world that I embarked upon my (rather late) musical career.  Off I went, manuscript book in hand, whistling merrily in anticipation of my Concerto in H Minor, delighted that at last I would be able to throw myself down at the piano after a hard day in the office – and simply play my frustrations away.

(If you are a Follower, you will know by now that the path of True Louise never did run smooth…)

Basically, my first lesson went like this:

I discovered that there is no such thing as H,

that in piano there is A Lot Of Maths (seriously, there is.  I know because I come up in hives),

that hearing 4 beats in a bar should come naturally (especially if you are Whatisname),

that if you are left-handed you are at a distinct disadvantage because most of the Real Tune is played in the right (well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it),

and that, in spite of Coming Completely Out Of The Bushel, I am regrettably still…challenged (not useless, inept, ungainly, or frankly – mortifyingly terrible. Just challenged.)

This does not mean I have given up!  No – not I ! – bushels aside (what is a bushel in any case?), I am faithful to Jonathan Livingstone, Seagull.  Practice makes perfect.  Dedication is the mother of good fortune. I am determined to one day rise above my (rather abject) musical station.  One day I shall be miraculously transported into another (tuneful and harmonious) dimension.  (Or, alternatively, I am going to be a pole-dancer.  I am going to have one of those sleek, tanned belly buttons (see Yoga One) and at least a 34-C cleavage.  My Glutes are going to be Truly Admirable, and I am going to have the Self Confidence of a…well, of Something that is Extremely Self Confident .  And I am to going to wiggle my hips like Shakira.  But that is another Blog entirely…)

Back to The Piano…I have visions of myself sitting down at the Baby Grand, flexing my fingers, bowing my head, then launching into Something Complicated And Impressive, fingers flying, body swaying from side to side, head flying back and forwards to the movement of the piece as I am carried passionately away in the melody…People will clap (applaud, I mean.  Not hit me.)  U-tube will put me on their Pick of The Day.  I will be famous.  Well – perhaps not famous.  But I will be able to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with two hands.

In the meantime, I plod away painfully.  After 3 years of gentle forebearance and unflagging encouragement, my piano teacher has finally given me a New Scale (E Minor).  She is very kind and knows I am Chordphobic, so she avoids anything with more than one note at a time (of course this may also be In Her Own Best Interests, but as I am a self-indulgent Blogger, I will avoid this line of thought).

After 3 years of dedication and hopeless commitment, I can finally play The Cricket (basically one note played over and over and over again.  I am struggling with the timing, but I have completely WAXED that note) without looking at my hands.  And when I have had a stressful day – I throw myself down at the piano, flex my fingers, bow my head and launch into…er, The Cricket… with joyful abandon, and play my frustrations away.  It is amazing how good it is for the soul… (mine, that is…I cannot speak for anyone within a 4 kilometre radius of the piano).