Almost exclusively about pianos

For many years I have been living in a very nice terrace in an inner-city suburb which served me admirably for many purposes. It was a great area to live: walking distance from the CBD, good cafés, a cracking good local pub, a quiet, tree-lined street, a comfortable and elegant house. Almost perfect.

Almost.

Sadly, the house had no free interior wall that my piano could stand against. It could not fit in my bedroom as it was filled by my bed. It could not fit in the living room as its one solid wall had a table against it. It could not fit anywhere.

I missed my piano. Being able to sit down and play through a sonata at will was a joy and I missed it. Strolling past my piano, I was able to just plop myself down for a second and extemporise a whimsical melody through some different keys and then go on about my day.

Well, life in merry Squidtown moves on and I now live in a house blessed with a spare room and a few days ago some professional piano wranglers moved my piano into my home. For the first time in four years I have my dear Kawai upright by my side.

Colour me cheerful, I entertained a lady with some Eisler, I charmed her with Chopin, I beguiled her with Beethoven, I shocked her with Shostakovich, I let the lucky lady luxuriate lengthily in the likeable lure of Liszt.

It is woefully out of tune after many years of neglect but that should soon be rectified. Hurrah!