Yesterday morning I sat drying my hair and glanced in the mirror. And stared again at the silver glinting in the sunlight (this was before the hailstorm). “I hadn’t noticed how grey I’m getting,” I lamented. “I see no grey hairs,” said the Sage stoutly. “No, they aren’t normally this visible, but look, as my hair is blown by the hairdryer and the sun catches it, it’s shocking.” “I see no grey hairs,” denied the Sage.
I related this to my escort at the performance last night. “I can’t see any grey hairs either,” he said. So it’s official. I may have grey hairs, but they are invisible except to me.
Before the concert, I became aware of someone looking at me. When I glanced round, he smiled cheerily. It was my piano tuner. Not that I have a piano at present, he has it. He has had it for the last 18 months. I enquired after its health. “It’s fine, safely wrapped up just as I took it.” I suppose I’ll get it back eventually.
It is, in fact, a pianola, which was my mother’s; it is also a very good piano and it’s the one I learned to play on. I also spent many hours as a child playing the music of the many rolls, which we still have. I know all the music from such shows as ‘No, No, Nanette’ and many other songs from rather before my era. It must have been the equivalent of miles of hill walking I should think, pumping those pedals for hours on end. Anyway, after many years, it needs a thorough overhaul and the piano tuner knows an excellent bloke to do it. Unfortunately, he is very old and can’t take on too many projects at a time, so I must be patient. And I assured him that I will be, but that I miss my piano enormously, so such patience is absolutely saintly.