Scales - Tweak That Metronome

 No amount of practising simplified Mozart pieces or running up and down major and minor scales would impress the piano teacher. I stopped trying.

In the pubs I grew up in, there was always a piano, sometimes more than one, and before the juke-box ruled the roost, there was always someone to play it. As a young child it was a skill I longed to learn. I listened to my mother’s Russ Conway records and loved him. I plonked about, wishing a proper tune would come out. It never did. I was enthralled by Sparky’s Magic Piano which we had as a set of 78 rpm records, so badly scratched that they hissed and crackled.  I was about seven and a half when my hands could just about stretch an octave, the required size for piano lessons. A teacher was found.

At first, it was okay. I suppose it was the novelty of actually learning to play the piano properly and it wasn’t all nursery rhyme tunes. It was harder than I had imagined but I soon moved on to simplified versions of the classic composers works which I enjoyed. As I got a bit older, my problem was the teacher and I would dread Saturday mornings so much I would keep a low profile, hoping my dad might forget to take me. He never did. The lessons took place in a small upstairs room at the teacher’s house. The house is close to where I live now and still makes me shudder, though he is long dead and I’m sure his house is a lovely home to someone else. I used to wait in a dim sitting room full of dark furniture with the deep tick-tock of a huge grandfather clock and the piano sounds of the person finishing off their lesson. Then it would be my turn. A whole hour in the little room, foggy and stinking with his cigar smoke that gave me a headache and I would feel tense if he left his desk by the window to stand behind me, always too close. The lesson would begin with a run through the scales and broken chords to warm up then he’d find me a piece of sight-reading that he would complain about. Nothing was good enough. I didn’t play to the correct speed, so he fiddled with the metronome and made me keep time with it over and over until I had it to his satisfaction or I’d given up, fighting tears.

My pleas to stop the lessons fell on deaf ears at home. I was at secondary school with homework and all manner of other things. I’d passed some grades, it must be time for a break. I tried to explain what made me feel uncomfortable and wary of the teacher, a hand on my shoulder, a hand on my thigh, just standing too close to me. I couldn’t say it.  Eventually, the teacher sent my father a letter to say that he was discontinuing my lessons in favour of more promising pupils. Good. I hope they push his podgy hands away.

I’m glad I learnt to play the piano. I’m glad of the enjoyment I get from having the occasional blast, satisfied that I can still do it.  I’m not in any way a talented musician – in the family that title belongs to my son and one of my nephews.

My Haiku poem, inspired by the scales:

“Play me C Major
Now with both hands together
No! No! Start again.

“Just play the right hand
Keep up with the metronome!
No! No! Start again!

“What are you doing?
Did I say play G Major?
No! Don’t touch F sharp!”

On my own piano,
Happy and loving music
Without him shouting.

Running through the scales,
Smooth and shiny piano keys
And my eyes closed, tight.

He made me wary,
He was a scary monster.
He made me silent.

When I found my voice,
There was no one to listen.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Biorhythms - Life Cycles

Long before speed cameras were installed on the A583, my personal best driving time from my little house in Layton to my place of work in Preston was seventeen minutes. This was early morning, summertime and green traffic lights. I promise I kept to the speed limits until I was on open road, in that quiet window between the factory workers heading to British Aerospace or GEC setting off for Strand Road, and regular morning traffic building up. I liked to arrive at work for seven-forty-five. I liked to be one of the first in.

One morning I was thwarted by incidents beyond my control. A minor collision between a car and a van had occurred on the bend at Lea, blocking the road and putting traffic in both directions at a standstill for ages. This was in the old days, before reaching for a mobile phone was second nature. As time marched on and despite the soothing tone of Terry Wogan keeping me company on the radio, I began to feel stressed. Out of three key holders, I was the only one expected in work that day. The other two both lived in Blackpool and would have had the same problem as me, had they tried to get there. All I could do was wait. Eventually, things were moving and I managed to fly up Riversway, lucky green lights, all the way to work and a car park full of patiently waiting staff. I gave apologies and explained the situation, which they were aware of as someone had heard a traffic report on local radio.

“Bad biorhythms day, love?” A colleague offered sympathy when we were inside the building, unlocking doors and switching off the alarm. She made me laugh, if nothing else. Biorhythms had become popular at that time, mid-eighties. I remember someone having a book about it and learning how to work out biorhythm cycles. I just thought it was a fad, I still do. I believe that my thoughts and feelings are all to do with how I might deal with something, be it stressful or otherwise, and not where I might be up to on a biorhythm cycle. Of course, I might have it all wrong.

From Wikipedia – “The biorhythm theory is the pseudoscientific idea that our daily lives are significantly affected by rhythmic cycles with periods of exactly 23, 28 and 33 days, typically a 23 day physical cycle, a 28 day emotional cycle and a 33 day intellectual cycle. The idea was developed by Wilhelm Fliess in the late 19^th century and was popularised in the United States in late 1970s. The proposal has been independently tested and consistently no validity for it has been found.”

There it is. The cynical side of me is amused that a man decided to refer to the 28 day cycle as ‘emotional’.  

Biorhythm readings, predictions, whatever is the best description, are available online. On the strength of nothing more than my date of birth, this reading came back in a nanosecond: ‘Physical’ – Efficiency is high. Use it. ‘Emotional’ – There will be light at the end of the tunnel. Sitting in your shell is not much fun. ‘Intellectual’ – Getting better with intellectual skills, if work needs concentration, it’s good to do it within the next ten days.

Actually, I’m having lots of fun sitting in my shell, being efficient and doing my own thing, be it intellectual or not. Everyone who shares my date of birth will have the same reading, just like a horoscope.

A bad biorhythms day as suggested by my colleague all those years ago means nothing. Sat in a traffic jam, concerned about staff, unable to let them know and feeling tense because of it is all there was to it.

My haiku:

Tell me if it’s true,

All this biorhythm stuff,

I don’t believe it.

 

Don’t bother checking,

Nothing more than horoscope.

Take life as it comes.

 

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, take care, Pam x

 

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