You couldn’t write it.

Ever Dearest Diary,

Today, something incredible happened. You couldn’t write it. Spectacular, fantastic, almost unbelievable.

After leaving the pub Gulliver and I headed to the secret garden. Met by the smell of sweet scented spices smoked by a certain someone. A long bowed sound sawed from the cello’s deep resonance. Before long Gulliver broke out with his fiddle, I accompanied on my guitar, Ashokan Farewell, a beautiful tune, most especially on the violin, and the cello. After that came the hot-diggedy hootnin’-tootnin’ ho-down hoot-nanny yessirree! Yeeeha! Words cannot describe how melodious a sound we three made. A half a dozen bullfinches listened in, a stormy looking woman walked past carrying her shopping, throwing us a sharp look as a neighbour, smoking, laughed, looked on and listened with joy.

So joyous was the occasion that I wished to record it, but didn’t want to taint the moment with red-eye fever; so I asked someone I knew to take a photo. It... was... magnificent.

No-one save the bullfinches that were there, the people, and the big-guy upstairs will ever know just how sweet a sound issued forth from the cello, save ourselves.