I’ve come to a sad and shocking realisation – musical instruments are the work of evil.
What was I thinking? How could I ever have thought that giving two small boys (aged six and eight) instruments of volume could be a good idea? And why did no other parents (yes, that’s a dig at any chums who are reading this) flag up that the introduction of a guitar and a keyboard into the family abode would be about as welcome as gastroenteritis and fleas?
It all started when Low the Elder asked Santa for an electric guitar for Christmas. I should have said no. I should have resisted. But I had a flashing image of how cool he’ll be when he’s eighteen, dressed in boots, hat and jeans, chewing a cocktail stick as he casually strolls into a party with his gee-tar over his shoulder. Memo to self: must seek help for country music addiction. Of course, in the cold light of day that’s a ridiculous image – he’ll be at least thirty by the time I allow him to walk anywhere with a stick in his mouth without screeching, ‘Take that out right now in case you fall and swallow it!!!!’. I’m sure Johnny Cash’s mother did the same.
Inspired by his sibling’s success in the instrument-request department, my youngest son, aka ‘Me Too’ decided to get in touch with his inner Liberace and announced that he wanted a piano. Cue one letter to the fat bloke with the reindeers asking for his very own Steinway. With a backdrop of rising panic (and the thought of my bank manager rocking back and forward in the foetal position), I attempted to dissuade him with, ‘Sorry, sweetheart, but a piano would be too big to fit on Santa’s sleigh’. I thought I’d got away with it until he appeared the next morning in the closest thing he’s got to a starry little lamé number (a Captain America costume) and said, ‘Mum, if a piano is too big, how did Santa get the pool table here last year?’
Damn those superior superhero powers of logic.
This time, even husband diverted his attention from the holy wall box of Sky Sports for long enough to protest. He said it was a bad idea. He sat on his credit cards. He offered therapy. He threatened to cut off my Revel supplies. But did I listen?
No – because, inexplicably, my imagination kicked into overtime once more and my judgement was yet again clouded by notions of the future. My two boys both playing instruments? I was thinking Jonas Brothers (if you’re over thirty, ask a teenager). Maybe even the next Osmonds (but without the extra brothers and the superior dentistry). Or Bros without that third guy.
What did we get? Oasis. Without the musical talent.
For the sake of marital longevity, I hereby offer an official public apology.
Come Christmas morning, Santa rustled up a keyboard and aforementioned electric guitar for the boys – the tinnitus for the parents came shortly after.
8 a.m. on Boxing Day, we were lying in bed being serenaded by what sounded like Liam and Noel Gallagher after a night on the batter, when husband nudged me. ‘Hear that? It’s the Hallelujah Chorus.’
‘It sounds nothing like it.’
‘I know that, but it’s what all the neighbours will say when they’re done.’
It’s hell. With sound effects. They play in the morning. They play in the evening. The play so much that I keep telling myself that maybe they’ll cross from noise pollution to a real tune some time in the next decade.
In the meantime, thankfully I’ve still got my oh-too-vivid imagination to see me through. I’ve dreamt up a whole new set of snapshots of the future… In every one of them, there’s Liam, there’s Noel and mum and dad are the ones in the earmuffs.