Another Frantic Friday
The problem with my Friday afternoons with Oisin is the way they’ve evolved. First there was the Piano Lesson. Then there was the Piano Lesson with Composing. Then there was (sigh) various assaults, insults and inroads of ME,* which is when the Cup of Tea with Musical Musings, Laced with Discussions of How We Would Put the World to Rights, developed. And then Oisin brought home his Amazing Electronic Organ. I’ve told you about it: it’s two rather beat-up electric keyboards, two computer screens, two very rough and ready speakers, a lot of mismatched wiring and an assortment of scraggy boxes. And then he brings his hands down on the keys. BROOOOOOOOUUUUNG. He was playing when I arrived today, and I could hear him from the street, which is up a hill and the far side of a hedge from his music room—and the windows were closed. Fortunately his door is half glass; he would never have heard me knock. The organ recital went on longer than usual today partly because we were testing out the playlist for next Friday, when I’m bringing a friend.**
But the Cup of Tea with Musings is now an established part of the Friday afternoon ritual*** and, you know, solving the world’s problems takes a little while. Which means that on Fridays, as today, when I also actually have something to show Oisin, most of the afternoon has disappeared by the time he manages to boot me out the door again. Today I brought him [Piano] Miniature #3: the miniature Miniature.
I like the fact that there are no wasted notes in what you write, said Oisin, and I made a snorking noise†. That’s mostly total cluelessness, I said.†† Hmm, said Oisin. I think we should orchestrate it.
Orchestrate! Wheee! I’d love to orchestrate it.†††
So I went off in a happy daze of possibilities‡ and fetched up (humming‡‡) at Third House where I slammed a few more patient, hopeful plants into the ground from outgrown pots and tried not to think about how much farther on I was planning to be at Third House‡‡‡ than in fact I am.§ Sigh.
And then I had to hurtle hounds before I went off to be Ringing Master at tower practise tonight in Niall the Ratbag’s absence.§§ Which was a lot more amusing than it might have been. There were only six of us—Vicky and Roger, who can ring, Leo and me who can sort of ring, and Cordelia and Mark, who can’t ring. Much. It was going to be chaotic and frustrating and stupid, and we were going to bash around making horrible clanging noises for half an hour and call it quits. No. Wrong. When I suggested that we have a whack of call changes for our beginners and go home, Vicky nearly sprang a leak in her turbo-charged rejection of this plan. She was right. We arrayed our beginners on treble and tenor and rang plain bob doubles—although this was made possible by Roger shouting a lot§§§, and Vicky made me conduct#–and it was fun. It was a bit like trying to spin gold out of straw## but hey. We had practise. We got our time on a rope in. Yaay us.
Now if it would only rain, so I can stop wasting valuable gardening time on watering.###
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* Entirely useless footnote, because the people who need to see it won’t. I’m not going to define ‘ME’ every time I use it; this would drive both regular blog readers and me crazy. But it’s in the ‘about’ section: Up there on the left of the opening screen: about. The bio section, you know? Hint: if you’re reading an unfamiliar blog, and the blogger makes reference to something apparently familiar to herself and her regular readers, try the bio section. Please don’t pester Blogmom. It’s not what she’s for.
** The next fortnight or so is scaring me to death. I’ve got something like six people coming through, some for a few hours, some for a few days.^ One or two of them will be forced to ring bells Mwa ha ha ha ha. And I’d better get some blogs out of it/them.
^ The Quilt is draped seductively over the sofa at the cottage, poised for compliments.
*** To the extent that I now usually show up already panting for my cup of tea. The cup of tea can’t fall out of the ritual or I’d expire pathetically of drought and caffeine withdrawal.
† Since I was still nursing my cup of tea while Oisin had to do the work. Well, I couldn’t play it, there’s a bar with triplets against semiquavers/sixteenth notes. Forget it.
†† Although it’s also true that I hear music a lot like I ‘hear’ Story. There’s a live, lithe line to it. In music it’s usually the tune, although not always. But it’s a sense of something there, of another note pulling you on from this one.
††† And after all, it’s short.
‡ Including a fresh new urge to write organ music. Some of the stuff Oisin was playing today is by a French bloke named Bonnet who does some lovely deceptively simple pieces that fit the tone of organ music like hot tea fits your favourite mug.^ And I already love Jehan Alain and (well of course) Messiaen.
^ The first metaphor that occurred to me had to do with a dominatrix and her black leather merry widow, but I decided this was open to misinterpretation.+
+ I like black leather.
‡‡ very quietly
‡‡‡ And on PEGASUS II
§ And the six or so people coming through in the next fortnight I am not going to show it to. Third House? You think I bought a Third House? A third house? Why would I do that? I may be mad^ but I’m not entirely daft.
^ I may need more bookshelf and rosebush space
§§I hope it’s raining wherever he and Penelope are. I hope it’s raining and cold.
§§§ Roger was tower captain for thirty years at another tower. He retired to become sane.
# Hey! It’s supposed to be Ringing Master’s prerogative to make other people conduct!
## The neighbours would tell you we failed
### There is this peony. The cottage garden had six or eight monster peonies when I moved in, and I managed to give most of ’em away the first summer—peonies are all very well but I needed the space for roses—but I missed one.^ Frell. I hadn’t seen it flower, so I dug it up and put it in a pot and shoved the pot to the back of whatever, the way I do. I know about peonies, it’s planted shallowly, but two years came and went and no flowers. I want flowers, to tell me if it’s worth saving. I pulled it out of obscurity and put it somewhere I was sure it got lots of sun. Still no flowers—and it’s taking up valuable sun space. So I took it up to Third House last year and put it on the patio, which is south facing, and you don’t get any sunnier.
No flowers.
Okay, this year, kiddo, this is your last chance. It’s either flowers or compost heap. Got that?
It produced one flower. I almost fainted with shock when I noticed a bud a few weeks back. One bud. One flower.
Today when I went up there the bud’s popped and . . . ungleblarg it, it’s really pretty. Pale pink^^ with an erratic, wandering thread of red, and a million fluffy petals. Tarnation and cheap whisky. I suppose I have to keep it now too–I was going to give it away. But I’ve got kind of used to having it around. I hope I can persuade it to bloom a bit more lavishly than one flower every five years.
^ I still have five peonies. I brought one, was given one, bought one, and I have two of my predecessor’s, the delinquent described, and the early-spring pale-yellow one which is one of my must-have plants. All but the delinquent flower.
^^ Yup. I’m lost
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