I cannot tell you how different life feels with a piano in the house.
It all started 25 years ago, when my parents discreetly removed me from ballet (apparently I had the grace and co-ordination of a bull elephant) and signed me up for piano lessons.
Even at the age of 5, there was something magical to me about weaving your fingers over the cool, smooth keys and producing a piece of music that could be as upbeat and joyful as it could be solemn or romantic.
Throughout my teens, especially through the stressful exam years, locking myself away for a couple of hours piano practice was the ultimate distraction. Absorbing, mentally taxing and soul-settling – it became my ‘go-to’ when I needed a little escapism.
Even at uni, I was saved from many a meltdown thanks to the common room piano. Then came the ‘studio flat years’ which, as you can imagine, were not *that* conducive to piano-ownership.
Now, with slightly more cat-swinging room, my parents-in-law have passed on the family upright and I am OVER THE MOON.
I have enlisted the help of my utterly perfect (think Miss Honey from Matilda and you are 0.5% of the way there) original piano teacher to give me a crash course, to hopefully get me back to my grade 6 standard.
For now Country Bebe is completely OBSESSED with the house’s new addition, hammering out what can only be described as some ‘experimental jazz’ on the ol’ ivories. Hopefully he’ll get the bug too…
