Keir Royale

A small miracle has happened in our house. The children can read music.

I’ve often sat down at the piano with them in an attempt to interest them in Doe a deer or Z-cars, but while Hannah happily picked up the first few notes of Maria’s singing lesson, Ben remained resolutely uninterested.

After a year of learning guitar though, he wants to add piano to his repertoire -

“Not with you Mummy, with a proper teacher.”

It’s true my expertise ends somewhere around grade four, but he knows how to hurt a person.

I managed to find someone young, cheap, and not fixated on exams, and both Ben and Hannah started on the same day.
Just twenty minutes each, always leave them wanting more.

Two lessons down the line, and Ben is enthusiastically trying to play his piece - When the Saints Go Marching In - two-handed and at the speed of the Flight of the Bumble Bee.

When I point out that it’s not meant to go that fast, and ask why he’s playing it that fast, he replies -

“Because I want to.”
Shades of Billie Piper aged fourteen.

I gave up piano lessons when forced to practise, and - as predicted by parents and grandparents - have since regretted my decision. So I’m playing it gently.

I, too, was enthusiastic at first, so I shall be watching out for signs that it’s becoming wearisome.

A weekend away has inspired Hannah, as her fourteen year old cousin “can do it like this Mummy.”
And she proceeds to run her fingers up and down the keyboard, tickling the keys into an approximation of an enraged and slightly drunk Bela Bartok.

It’s great when older cousins provide positive role models.
Saves Mike and me a job.

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