“I suppose I could retrain as a plumber,” I say doubtfully.
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” says Pete. “You’d need to be able to lift a bath.”
We are sitting at the table, replete with Sunday lunch, considering what kind of work I might be able to do, and attempting to think outside the box. The challenge is to find something that does not take place in modern office environments, does not involve spending too long out of doors, and does not require extended periods under fluorescent lights.
“It’s got to be some sort of personal service,” I say, “where I control the surroundings and people come to see me.”
“Psychotherapy or counselling,” suggests Pete.
“I wouldn’t be any good at that at all,” I reply firmly. “Absolutely not. What about reflexology or kinesiology or some sort of complementary health thing?”
It is Pete’s turn to look sceptical.
“Prostitute!” I say. “One of the discreet, suburban kind.”
“Suppose we try a different approach,” says Pete. “Apart from develop and implement government policy, what can you actually do?”
“Er, play the piano?”
“There you are, then.”
“You mean teach it?” He nods. “Do you know,” I say, “that is not a completely silly idea, and it had crossed my mind. It would be a bit weird, kind of like entering the family business, but it could be good fun.”
“Well, it seems the most realistic, darling.”
So I look into the matter, and discover that some people set up as piano teachers without any specific qualifications at all, beyond some grade exams, and then learn on the job. But I do not have sufficient chutzpah to do this. Being a bureaucratic soul, I know I will feel much more confident if I have done a training course and got a certificate.
I also discover that the European Piano Teachers’ Association (UK branch) runs a piano pedagogy course that starts in January, and involves going to the Royal College of Music every second Sunday for six months. Given the state of my face, this would be difficult, but just about achievable. I qualify to go on the course, because I have passed my Grade 8 (when I was seventeen) and have been playing pieces of diploma level since. The deadline for enrolment is looming, and I am feeling keen and motivated, so I decide to sign up—but there is one snag. In order actually to be assessed and therefore qualify for a certificate, I am expected to have procured two students on whom to try out what I will be learning from week to week. For each student, there are lesson plans to be prepared, a lesson diary to be kept and an extended essay to be written about their progress.
The course is aimed at a wide range of levels of experience, so, for those participants who already have a teaching practice, this does not present a problem. However, I am new and green, and therefore have somehow to lasso two pupils from the local community, from a standing start, before the middle of January, which is in about four weeks.
I design an advert. “Have you always wanted to learn the piano?” it says. “I am looking for two students to take part in a teaching project.” Pete photoshops the text white on black, with a piano keyboard running up one side, and we distribute copies around the neighbourhood in local shops and the library. Nobody does anything over the festive season, so I settle down to enjoy Christmas, and hope I will get some replies in the New Year, when people peel themselves off the sofa, and start to look about them.