365 Ways With Words

The Last Resolution

I resolve to make this my last resolution. I resolve to not take up anything I will later want to put down and resolve to continue with whatever is currently going on. This I resolve to do for this is my final year. Yes, I resolve this will be my last resolution.

Last year's resolutions were a sham. I resolved, perhaps for the 45th time, to give up smoking. But smoking is something I really enjoy – the play of the lighter, the opening of a new packet, the feel of one smoking away in your fingers.  The whole tobacco thing had me hooked at 15, or was it 13, and I don't intend to stop what is a very peaceful and calming activity. I harm none by it (a considerate smoker) and can go for nearly a day without lighting up – well, almost. But December last year, the insurance on the car went up again. I calculated that at 40 pence or so per cigarette and an average of 20 each day I would save about £3000 each year – way over the price of the hiked-up insurance which, as an added bonus, would then be reduced. Then I thought of the pleasure of smog-free lungs and of vigorous exercise, hiking across the downs courtesy of my nice, smokeless car. And as I thought about it I found myself lighting up to enjoy that very thought and I knew I was a gonner. I knew I'd have to continue paying for my pleasures. January 1st was, therefore, not a day locked in a titanic struggle against the demon weed, but was instead a nice relaxing sunny day spent at home recovering from a great night out with the additional help of nicotine. After all, hangovers would be perhaps the worst occasions to quit smoking.

The other resolutions were equally ineffective – yoga, reading more, taking up painting and trying to leave work earlier. Actually, the last one was a bit of a surprise, but obviously not in the way I had anticiated. Who could have forseen the following twelve months? I suppose leaving work would have enabled me to take up the yoga and to read all those unfinished books and to start painting again, but it's a strange thing that with all the time available none of those have happened.

My last year. Wouldn't have believed it on January 1st, that's for sure. The Grünfelder project was only just in its infancy and there were so many things to complete from the previous scheme. So when I entered Mike's office on March 22nd with the news that I was scaling back my input, he was dumbfounded. We both were. I'd never seen him cry before. Silly old duffer. Got me going too.

In a way, I expected it to go on forever. Maybe we all do. Not that I had any delusions of immortality, but I really didn't expect it quite so soon. Death is so drearily emphatic. There is a full-stop to the book; a last page without a joyous and miraculous post-script. I suppose I hadn't given it any more thought than pension payments.

That's another funny thing. Now I have a pension in full, and life insurance and mortgage paid up, I would really rather have the drudgery of payments and a question mark over retirement age than have all of that money and be so near the end.

So, Mike has allowed me to continue adding drawings and attend meetings. Quite frankly, I haven't noticed much of a difference as far as my capacity is concerned, but the sideways glances and the sympathetic handshakes have added an emotional strain. I could do have done without it. By emphasising my condition they have unecessarily distracted themselves from tasks at hand. I really can't stand it. One day after loosing my hair I came back into the studio, to which Shirley gave out a particularly heavy sigh. I'm afraid I lost my temper. It made me shout, "On-on!" rather defiantly. I definitely couldn't stand another 12 months of that.

My resolution for this upcoming year, then, is to enjoy what is left and do no more. I will not add or subtract, deviate or dally. I want to go right through to the end without any tacky and desperate grasps at straws. I am neither going to take up saintliness and moderation or self-pity and anger. אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה – I am who I am, and in that I am resolute!

Strength of Arms

A short knock announced the opening of the door.

"Sir! We've been given orders, sir!"

The figure hunched over a large map said nothing.

"Sir! We have been given our orders. We are to attack at once."

Again the figure said nothing, but rubbed his chin. He looked up, acknowledging the subaltern and his message.

"SIR!–"

"I heard you, lieutenant."

"We are to attack at once." He stood to attention, the urgency of his message overtaking his military bearing. He trembled slightly.

"I heard you. Now, stand easy." The lieutenant colonel took out a hip flask and poured half the contents into his enamel mug. He held it out to the junior officer. At first he didn't even look at the offered drink, then wondered what to do: nothing in his training had prepared him for this.

"Here, take a drink."

"Th.. thank you. Sir."

"It doesn't make sense. None of it makes any sense. Do you know what I mean?" His attention was drawn back to the map. "Lieutenant Meier, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." He took a tentative sip from the mug. "Thank you, sir."

"Look–" the captain indicated with his hands across the top edge of the map, "here are our forces on the front line – loosing, I might add."

"Just rumours spread by the enemy, sir!" the lieutenant stood erect correcting his superior's information.

"Yes, yes, of course, but look here–" the captain drew out the map overlay that showed railways under construction, "if we were to align our reserves behind the mountains at this point, where the railways and roads intersect, we'd have the element of surprise. Their forces would be drawn away from our frontline cities and, who knows, we might even be able to mount a successful counter-attack of our own, right in their underbelly. It's so simple. Why, even a child could direct this war. But perhaps that's what's been happening all along."

"Our leader commands respect and admiration. He knows more than we do, sir."

"Hmmm!" the lieutenant colonel took a long swig from the remnants in the hip flask. "I wish I had your confidence, Meier. I've been in this business a long time and, quite frankly, I don't think we have a hope."

The lieutenant looked like he was about to speak, but decided against it. He took another drink. "Sir. When... if we become successful in this engagement, we become elite, don't we, sir?"

"We either become elite, or we die. It's that simple. And this time, we're going to die. We have no back-up, no air support and no defences. It's just us veterans, one single battalion, facing them, and God above knows what they'll throw at us this time. Lady luck has stopped smiling – turned her back."

The lieutenant swayed and looked like he was about to faint. The captain pulled out a collapsible chair.

"Easy there, lieutenant Meier. When did you last eat?"

"Not for two days, sir."

"Then this may not be doing you any good." he took the mug from his hand and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a small chocolate bar. "Here, take this. I was saving it for... well, I don't know what for – our return home, perhaps."

"Thank you, sir. That's not going to happen now is it, sir." he slid his eager fingers under the silver foil to access the fatty noirishment within.

"Nope! It may be that we never stood a chance from the beginning." The lieutenant colonel drew another chair out from beneath the table and sat beside the young soldier.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"When you look at our development, it all seems to have been wrong. We took up the wrong technologies, right from the start, and our planning has been haphazard. So much time has been wasted in foolish explorations and unnecessary building work. We really needed a strong army – at first to defeat the raiders, then for the rest. We could have turned the enemy back at the first encounter; perhaps even deterred them forever. It's as if some child was at the controls – over-reacting here, barely noticing there. And now we're in the shit."

He paused, aware that he had been too free with his feelings, a politically dangerous thing under the current government. He changed the topic. "Where are your from, Lieutenant Meier?"

"London, sir."

"As am I. As are we all, really. Do you like living in London?"

"I... I... really don't remember much about it, sir. We've been so very busy – with manouvres and the war."

"Wouldn't it be nice to see London again, lieutenant? Wouldn't it be nice to live in peace together, not to have to build weapons or wage war but to prosper? Wouldn't it be nice if our neighbours didn't feel threatened by us and kept themselves to themselves."

"But they threaten us! They invaded first! We must destroy them – at all costs!" the young lieutenant began to get agitated.

"Easy there, son. We're just talking. But have you ever wondered why we do it? Have you ever wondered if the enemy also want to go home?"

"What do you suggest, sir? We have our orders."

"I know. It just isn't possible to disobey, is it, lieutenant? Without our obedience, the whole game's up." The lieutenant colonel stopped; then stood up astonished by what he said.

"Sir?"

"We can end it all. Right here. You know, we really could."

"We could? I mean, we could, sir?"

The commanding officer turned away and grabbing a note pad began to furiously write a note. It took him only a few moments, but he folded it and handed it back to the lieutenant who promptly offered back the remnants of the chocolate bar. The CO refused.

"You take it, and this–" he tapped the lieutenant's hand containing the note, "this is my response. Make sure it is transmitted back to the command centre as soon as possible, every single letter and number. Do you hear, every single digit." Under his breath he murmered, "No one else need die."

"Pardon, sir?"

"You're dismissed, Lieutenant Meier, and good luck."

"Sir. Yes, sir."

The lieutenant turned and firmly shut the door. On his way to the communications centre he glimpsed the contents of the folded paper. It contained columns of digits and numbers that, unknown to him, contained the machine code command trigger for the collapse of the entire game, for both defenders and opponents and for the nine-year old player.

Ghosts

Although they may appear at any time, Christmas seems to be a particularly good time of year for ghosts: apparitions are just more 'apparent'. We all know the story of Scrooge and there's something delicious about hearing a scary Christmas ghost story. There's also something obviously special about this festive season – a time where comfortable family values are traditionally supported and recollections of cherished childhood are never far from the surface.

Many phantoms manifest when least expected, when the mind is occupied and when tasks have already taken the hand. It may be that the way the dinner is arranged is exactly the way mum did it, or that Grandma in her chair is momentarily glimpsed from the corner of the eye. These departed and the dead will always exert a pull on the attention of the present and the living.

Those who actively seek ghosts may unhappily find that their appearances are weak, contrived or nonexistent. Conversely, an un-sought presence could be most strongly felt at odd junctures: peeling potatoes, lighting candles, going for an afternoon walk, doing the stockings on Christmas Eve. Such poignant times may prompt a quick sigh, a pang of heartache or a solitary unnoticed tear to fall – after all, the departed are gone forever leaving only memories as the strongest proof of their once-vibrant existance.

Who'd not want to be a part of Christmas, at least in its effect? The occasion for repetitions of cheerful customs and of actions that by common consensus usually create untroubled happiness, we want our nearest and dearest to enjoy the occasion, wherever they are. It helps reminds us that what we did then affects what we do now and that this will change the future. We are but the middle of the string that links past with future.

So, if you are happy celebrating and the ghosts of the loved and the lost come a-calling, smile and raise a glass in their honour. You owe it to them, yourself and those that will come after.

Merry Christmas Mum and Josie

Blue Sky Thinking

The dream outcome is the same:

Long-term, unattached, pie in the sky

Beyond fingertips – gripped on the ether, the yonder

Only stars above, nothing below.

 

Astounding tales with no kite strings:

Submarines, rockets, nanotechnology, abstraction

Revealed resultless – a summertime harvest for next year, or the year after

Only stars above, nothing below.

 

Impossible form to possible structure:

Design, system, theory, innovation

Woolgathering for imagination strike – at any inconvenient, lumpy hour

Only stars above, nothing below.

Back to Reality

These days within the Christmas holiday season between Boxing Day and New Year usually form a hiatus wherein the majority of normal working folks go back to the accustomed grindstone. Like a perineum, they are weird in-between days, quite unlike any other: all the anticipation of the lead up to Christmas is released and what's left can feel a little flat. The decorations are still up, but for a festival now past and the remaining days of work are necessarily less than a week because New Year is imminent. On top of that, the dubious activities of the office Christmas party are still fresh in the mind – for good or ill.

Some workers, such as those of a teachery persuasion, do not work during this time. Others may enviously spy their lengthy days off and yearly react with a grumble. All I can say to thems that see ill in it is to jump ship, be a teacher and then decide if those holidays are too long – or not long enough.

Other professionals will not really have had any time off other than by agreement. This year the local Ponorka pub was open and very busy on Christmas Eve and other eatery/drinkery places were open for Christmas Day – so no rest for the wicked therein. Doctoring, and emergency services get shifted as do flight crews and those at air traffic control, thank goodness. As far as I'm concerned, they deserve all the pay they need to keep safety first.

For the rest of us mere mortals, these days are for recovery. The roast turkey/goose/porpoise/moose has been finished off in curries and soups and the empties are carried to recycling. Kids loll about at home watching telly until boredom forces them to find 'things to do': during snowy winters sledging and other outdoor sports takes up sweaty hours. Although some pantos continue until mid-January these days are good for visits and cinemas and museums are well attended.

The remaining days of the old year are rapidly passing in the approach to another New Year's Eve. It is, if one can be bothered, the opportunity to review the activities of the past twelve months, but this usually results in a list of could'ves, should'ves and would'ves, sentiments that are probably best left well alone.

For myself, this year has been astonishing. Not only had I ceased working as a secondary school teacher, but in that time moved country/continent and embarked on a new career. If the past twelve months are anything to go by then the following twelve will bear even more exciting surpises. You'll have to watch this space!

On the Feast of Stephen

'Good King Wenceslas looked out', so goes the carol, 'on the Feast of Stephen'. You may have sung this carol without too much thought beyond the alternating of verses for men and women. But who was this good king, why was he looking out and when was the Feast of Stephen?

The carol was written by an Anglican of catholic-ish Oxford Movement leanings, John Mason Neale (who, by the way, also wrote O Come, O Come, Emmanuel). He took the theme from the Czech historical figure King/Saint Wenceslas. Over here Wenceslas is known as Václav – which is said vass-lav. First Duke of Bohemia of that name, he had a turbulent time of it in the 10th century. With hungry Hungarians on one side and ferocious Franks on the other, the duchy of Bohemia was beset by difficulties. Václav's death was the result of pernicious family shenanigans and was murdered by his cheeky throne-grabbing brother in the year 935.

Later canonised, Václav not became a figurehead of Czech national identity, but also of saintly hagiographies. For some reason knowledge of his good deeds reached England where he was also widely venerated. His mortal remains were sent to the hilltop cathedral he founded in Prague and later his statue was erected to remind the humble citizenry just what a good bloke he really was. His legendary status is such that whenever peril threatens the Czech nation he will will arise, King Arthur-like, with an army of knights sleepily residing within the hill of Blaník in order to defend the nation. Sadly, it appears none of the nation's historic invasions have proved sufficient occasion for their arousal.

The legend about Saint Wenceslas trudging about the snowy hills with a servant to find poor and needy souls is given credence within those marvelous medieval hagiographies, some of which were compiled within decades of his death. They suit the medieval mind of saintly kings, but who is to say the man didn't find occasion to display largess, widespread acclaim or gain merit. Or he might just have been a nice bloke.

What makes this of interest (to me) is that the site of his murder was a mere 100 metres from our flat. The present Cathedral is a mere century old, but the foundations go back to a Romanesque structure dating from 1131. Outside my window is the dirty great spire containing the bells that ring out at various times of the day to call to prayer the catholic faithful in this supposedly-atheist country. Could it be that the rise of faith in this country will finally arouse the dead king and sleeping nights from their overdue mountain siesta.

December 26th, the Feast of Stephen, was one of the 12 nights that took up the traditional festive Christmas season. A holiday in the Czech Republic, the day commemorates the first Christian martyr, but is now largely known as Boxing Day because of the Christmas family fights that culminate in a good dose of boxing on that day. Or maybe it's because servants would be expected to work and wait on Christmas Day, then be allowed to bugger off home on the next carrying gifts, including food, in boxes.

It's been a bit of a quiet day round here. I suppose Boxing Days are supposed to be quiet, an occasion for livers and waistlines across the land to be grateful for an extra day's recovery from the previous day's heart-aresting over-indulgences.

The Christmas Present

The long-drawn soft evening light, quick to run away towards the rain-driven west, left a sky black night to walk the distance to Mrs Shears' house. The route took the little pianist up city lit avenues, past the darkened primary school and across the new all-colour television mews. The dogged streetlights glowed with a wide aura of incandescent orange that seemed to hum and resonate with a life of their own. The passing motorists drove with enthusiasm towards home and the awaiting wife and kids, the bike hidden in the garage and toys secreted in the loft, and a few happy days away from work. They didn't see the little boy, music bag in hand, walking in a world of his own.

This would be the second time he would have walked to his piano lesson alone, mummy considering him old enough to make the short journey without supervision. In the previous weeks they had counted each window-set Christmas tree as they passed – a sport of hunt and count in which he excelled in bagging those hidden away. He was almost delirious with pleasure at each plastic tree bestowed with cheap, gaudy lights and considered each house suitably blessed to be a part of such unbridled festivities. For at the foot of each were an exciting assortment of wrapped toys and gifts bestowed from loving, thoughtful hands. Choosing different routes to count more trees each week, Mummy had securely held his hand before crossings and would afterward give deep, approving smiles.

Mrs Shears was happy to receive her last pupil before Christmas. The garden studio, strung with shiny plastic decorations and strings of pupil Christmas cards, was a little too warm. A diminutive table-top tree sat a the end of the short row of plastic chairs – another one he had counted in previous weeks. He plucked off his gloves and threw them down under his brown coat and school scarf. The lights were on and, because there was no sound of a piano being played he opened the frosted glass door and walked straight in.

"Hello, Mrs Shears. Happy Christmas!" He handed over his card, carefully written that morning at breakfast, that wished the very same seasonal compliments. Using his untrustworthy blue fountain pen he had unexpectedly smudged the 'H' by pressing too hard and had only made it worse by trying to correct the uprights. So it looked like 'Mappy Christmas', at which he howled with puerile delight, imagining his piano teacher's house pasted in maps for Christmas decorations. His mother, bearing in mind the increasing cost of cards these days, had frowned over another spoilt one.

The comely lady, sitting at the shiny black baby grand that seemed to fill this small room, returned the compliment. She moved to her side seat and he sat down on the warmed piano stool to unpack his small, black music bag. They began with scales, his enemy, and proceeded to arpeggios, his nemesis, until she'd had enough of his flat-fingered, irregular performance and moved onto his pieces for the January exam. He hammered each out with the artistic sensitivity of a dog, phasing out as he imagined his Christmas list requests answered. Would he receive the 1/32nd scale 8th Army, the gun emplacement, the Messerschmitt Me 262? He'd spent hours poring over the Airfix catalogue. A Scalextric set was out of the question, unless an uncle, feeling particularly moved by noting his obvious innate merits, saw the sense in granting upon him paroxysms of supreme Christmassy happiness, not to say playmate prestige. Wasn't Christmas all about the giving?

The 1/2 hour lesson seemed to take a day. By the time he'd paid the money and stuffed himself back into his coat and begun his run home he was beginning to feel the late afternoon hunger. His eyes on the prize, he returned through the back door to set about having tea and planning the evening's war. Mummy was out. Instead, his older sister was busy wrapping presents on the dining room table by the television's light. 

"Do you want to see what mum got you?"

The choice! Wasn't it wrong to peek at your presents? Wouldn't it be punishable? What would happen if you were disappointed and come Christmas afternoon were reserved and unexcited because the surprise had evaporated? On the other hand, surely it would be a naughty thrill to get the heads-up on your present.

He nodded. She showed him what appeared to be a massive box called 'Pontoon Bridge'. Wow! This was better than expected, but what on earth was it? Over the coming few days he would ponder exactly how these pieces of green plastic would be used in daring scenarios against impossible odds.

Christmas Day broke, just as any other grey-sky day, and the sounds of the kitchen stirred him. It was to be a bath and hair wash because the family were coming round. Best clothes donned, including a navy polo neck and aggressively patterned tank top, the morning was passed picking up and fondling the presents under the hideous silver tree. Long lengths of aluminium tinsel draped over each rigid arm that ended in a little red plastic safety cap. Each year mummy had bought ONE extra decoration for the house and ONE extra decoration for the tree. It was perhaps the worst dogs breakfast Christmas tree in the world but, because it was a full six feet high and draped in multi-coloured fairy lights, it was the most seasonally lurid and therefore the most impressive in the entire street, even from behind net curtains.

At last the cousins arrived and ran uncontrolled throughout the house and garden. The adults talked. By the time all had sat for dinner around groaning tables, the kids feet swinging wildly, a feeling of excited family bonhomie had burgeoned into a party. Paper hats slipped over the ears, crackers were pulled and drinks poured. All the pudding and cream were cleared in time for the Queen's Speech. Having been banned all day, it was a relief to turn on the television and sit around whilst it warmed up. Sure enough, after lots of silly saluting and standing to the national anthem Her Majesty appeared and said a lot of meaningless words. It was seconds before attention drifted.

Switched off after duty done, glasses were filled and toilets hastily used. It was time to unwrap. All the children sat on the floor as each present was handed out, the message read, and carefully unpicked (so the paper might be re-used the following year). So many were the presents, from each adult to each child and vise versa, that the whole process took as much as an hour. By the time darkness had fallen the centre carpet space was a mountain of patterned paper and sellotape and each person had a little pile of gifts – scarves, jellied sweets, toys, games, goggles for the upcoming German skiing trip, socks, toilet water, a tape recorder, frilly knickers for aunty and a library of annuals. The biggest was the 'Pontoon Bridge' box, with the mysterious little boats, roadway and girders: it supported a day-long smug smile.

Playing continued until tea with stodgy Christmas cake, and car-chase running farewells down the street formed the conclusion of the family and the resumption of normality. An inevitable sleepyness made for a sat still viewing of the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special and then the softness of bed welcomed. Taking a new permanent residency under the bed lay 'Pontoon Bridge', the proud centre piece of future battle scenes when family and feasting would be a tinseled memory.

Christmas Eve Shopping

Pressed up against the glass, the excited face looks at all the attractive things behind the window. On Christmas Eve there is more than usual to see: sparkling, wonderful, ready to be discovered, ready to be played with.

The fad quickly passes, as another and yet another item of interest is paraded before the eyes, but eventually even these prove too much and sleep beckons. Sleep is essential anytime, but at this time of year it makes for excited dreams and much tossing and turning in bed.

When awake, the Christmas Eve Shopping has all been done. The lights may still be on, but the voices have gone – the tapping, the cooing. Another long night awaits, with nothing to do, none of the attractive things behind the window materialising. No company, no presents, no fun.

All day Christmas Day there is only one visit – the shop owner to feed, water and muck out the animals, including the Christmas puppies like the one left in the window. The lights left on, there is little to do but sleep and wait for the next lot of attractive things behind the window to appear for the sales.

Assault on the New Territories Villages

                    Take them all

                    Grind them into lifeless dust

                    Use driver and dozer

                    Crush into cash –hard, cool-hard, cutting-edge cash–

                    Until nothing is left:

                    An enlarged figure in another off-shore account

 

                    As pockets swell

                    So pockets shrink

                    In the green spaces –open, beating heart, delicate breathing lungs–

                    All other residents suffer:

                    Consistently forgotten in the rush

 

                    The cardinal principle

                    Currency is king

                    The first language of this city –glittering, ever-prosperous, self-devouring city–

                    Toxicity for body and mind:

                    We live it, eat it, breathe it and die

 

                    The walls are strong, powerful, waxing

                    Concrete girt by stop-free road

                    In a sea of busy business –profitable, assuredly good, all-saintly business–

                    The parents' drug:

                    Rich creed bestowed, affluent belief swallowed, greenback morals lived

 

                    It can be stopped. It must. Stop.

She Played the Number 5 In D

 

Again, and again, the notes rose and fell in the right, but they remained stubbornly arrhythmic, or more precisely, stuck together in clumps of ugly misshapen threes. The left hand maintained the simple tapping of the root of whatever was going on in the right, but no matter what she did the regular right-hand certainties of Bach evaded her, like a precise architectural sketch smudged by a continuous downpour, except downpours usually stop after a little persistence; hers was more of a eternal drizzle.

The exercises her teacher had directed, Czerny mostly, were intolerably dull. Each day, the keyboard lid was pushed up and the hour's practice began with 15 minutes on the limbering scales, then a quick tour of the arpeggios and then a section of Czerny. She couldn't see the point of bloody Czerny – if you needed a particular way to move your fingers for a particular piece then surely you practiced that way and only that way. Why waste time drumming up combinations of 13542, 13452, 13254 and so on? She once told her teacher how much she hated doing these things. He had listened, apparently thinking, and then told her to get on with them anyway.

Bach's mathematical constructions weren't too bad, but her real love was Beethoven. There was something robust about Beethoven, particularly his strong themes and exact repetitions. The romantic allure allowed, if not downright encouraged, a delicious laxity in timing when played. If you slowed because it was a bit difficult – well, who was to know that it wasn't just part of the piece, your artistic interpretation? She drew out the Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, particularly the lilting Adagio cantabile movement, for as many weeks as possible and almost cried when, having forgotten herself and played it beautifully to him one afternoon, he simply placed a large tick in the top corner of the page to signify 'done'. Playing Beethoven she was the gifted daughter in a Jane Austin drawing room wowing the bitchy, spiteful ladies and curious, attractive gentlemen arrayed before here on rows of low chairs. After all, Jane Austin heroines didn't play Bach, did they?

 

In desperation she'd even flicked through the introduction to her book of Bach's 48 Preludes:

"One thing, however, is quite certain; viz. that before anything "pianistic" is attempted by way of free translation, the student should have thoroughly mastered Bach's exact part-writing as written, and should be able to express its climaxes distinctly without adding or altering a note."

"Damn you!" she said out loud in response. "Damn you for making it difficult, so damn difficult." She attacked the right hand again and again, as before, but it was no good. After ten minutes she gave up, slammed the lid down and stormed off.

Sitting, arms crossed, she watched Coronation Street with her parents. Her mum glanced over. Something was obviously up (again): tickling her hair, she asked, but got the teen shrug.

On the phone, when they'd all gone out, she talked to Amelia, "So, I can't play it, I just can't."

"Why not tell him you can't. Tell him and see if he'll give you something easier."

She drew a big 'A' for Amelia on the pad next to the wall-mounted phone. "I can't. Besides, he'd only say I have to practice it more. He'll probably give me another page of Czerny to loosen up, or whatever he calls it." Next to the 'A' she embellished an angry 'C' for Czerny.

"Well, tell him you don't like Bach. Get him to give you something else to play."

"Mmm... yes, but actually, I quite like Bach, when it's done properly. I just wish it was something a bit easier." In the narrow space between the 'A' and the 'C' she inserted a 'B' for Bach.

Before ascending the stairs for bed, she glanced at the phone pad. 'ABC' glowered back at her. She was calmer after her bath, but her mood darkened when she remembered the earlier secretive phone call. Her dreams of running for departing buses left her exhausted by the morning and she was silent during breakfast. Her mother kissed the top of her head (again) and called her poppet (again). It breached her outer defences and made her smile.

That afternoon, she shuffled the music on the stand and opened the Bach Prelude Number 5 page next to her music teacher. "I..." she faltered, then remembering Amelia's words steadied herself, "I don't want to do this any more. This piece."

"Oh!" he abruptly replied, more of a question than a comeback. "Why?"

"It's just... I can't get it right. It's too difficult. Here–" She pointed to the faltering section. "Can't you give me something easier to do?"

"Simpler?" He inwardly considered the term in comparison to the exacting heights of 'difficult' he'd had to assault as a pianist and accompanist– assault and sometimes fail. "No, I don't think so. It's only difficult because you haven't got it right yet. I recommend Czerny – pages..." He thumbed through the well-thumbed book of finger exercises.

There – she was instantly defeated. She sat petulantly, going through the section of exercises; triples, quadruples, quintuples, and so on. They were nothing more than meaningless arpeggio phrases. Her mouth was downcast and she considered jumping up, telling him to go to hell and storming off. But then, way before he normally did and after only a handful of repetitions, he picked up the Czerny and closed it.

"Back to the Bach." he ordered.

She picked up the dog-eared edition and turned to the dog-chewed page upon which were scrawled his hideous pencil markings – circles here, fingering sequences there, dynamic emphasis all over the place. She sighed. He ignored. She started, but he said, "No, not from the beginning. From there–" he pointed to the difficult bit. She began from there and couldn't believe what happened. Her fingers glided over the section she was sure was the breaking of her. He stopped her and told her to play it again. She did and played it even better the second time. He made her repeat it ten times or more and each time it seemed to improve one way or another.

At the end of the half-hour he wrote in her lesson book and smiled a little, waiting for her to leave. At the door, she turned and smiled the briefest of satisfactory smiles back at him. It was better, much better, than even he had expected.