Yesterday, in an attempt to
break the tedium while waiting for a parcel to be delivered, I decided to
treat myself to a little musical interlude by pulling out my acoustic to play
through a couple of songs before having a jam on the piano too.
The last time I’d
played the guitar was almost a month ago, when I took it to the Sun Hotel for
that night’s Mostly Comedy, after receiving a text from Phil Kay asking if he
could borrow it for his set. Knowing how manic Phil can be, my impromptu busk
after tuning it up for him felt like saying goodbye before it was sent to battle,
perhaps never to return, at least not in one piece; I prayed to the God of
Contents Insurance for a little mercy, before sticking it in a guitar stand
on-stage to await its final destiny.
For someone who’s
earned a living (of sorts) from music in the past, I felt guilty for how long I
hadn’t even taken my acoustic out of its case. Like my other guitars, it has
remained untouched at home, gathering dust, only to be used one other time that year to
record a few songs for Edinburgh; a ten-second ditty about the length of
John Snow’s socks hardly being a fitting epitaph for an instrument I’ve
had since I was fourteen.
What was nice was
it all came flooding back with little effort, save the inevitable sore fingers you get from such a long hiatus and the fact it hasn’t been restrung in an aeon; I
guess there are some things you never forget, no matter how much time has
passed.
Playing the piano
yesterday, however, was slightly different. It felt like I was exercising muscles
that hadn’t been used for ages, both literally and metaphorically. I’m sure it
wouldn’t take much to get back up-to-speed; this may be something to
consider for the New Year, though I might need a comedian to ask if they can
borrow it for me to have the motivation.