As if my life wasn't difficult enough, eldest son has just purchased a trumpet. Between them, my kids play bass guitar, drums, mandolin, electric and acoustic guitar, ukulele, harmonica, keyboards and now the bloody trumpet. Actually, that's a lie; my son doesn't technically play the trumpet as he hasn't yet worked out the whole cat's-bottom mouth shape and breathing thing. It's more of a loud, wet-fart sort of noise reverberating through the house while I try to write, or talk on the phone or fall asleep...
And then, just to really piss me off, he opens up a tube, blows through the mouthpiece and blasts the accumulated spit out onto the floor.
"All brass players do it, Mum. You have to clear out the moisture to preserve a clean sound."
"Not on my bloody carpet, they don't! And that's not moisture, that's a flaming waterfall!"
Now, I'm all for encouraging creativity, but when will they give me peace to nurture mine?
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment