Something unusual happened today. For a long time now I had assumed that the old upright piano at the market was lost, gone, never to be played again. Seemingly, against my supposition, the old upright had been for repair. When I graced the little shambles with my presence today (little Ronulus Latrator in tow, for he had an appointment with the vetinary surgeons) it was in a much better state of repair. The key which always went out (a middle 'G') had been repaired and it seemed as though the piano was in tune. I had gone into town to get a haircut and a shave (as well as my top priority of making sure little Ronnie Barker was healed at the vets) but soon enough I was lost in a whirlwind of sound, a melodious and most sonorous tinkle of the ivories. God bless the custodian of the market, for he had ensured that this upright was in good working order.
I used to have a piano, for a time, and it was my pride and joy, more so than any mere floosie, and just as much as my faithful Cantab' terrier. Now, I have no piano. Like a knight without his sword, I have only Saint Lilian, my classical guitar, and Gertrude, my slide guitar (as well as one or two other instruments, none of which are in working order). So, I sat at the entrance of the market and played and sung my heart out. Many onlookers were impressed, filming me as I was rusty on the keys (for I have no working piano at home to practise on). Some (including the luthier...) poked their heads around the corner in wonder and awe, but upon seeing whom it was that was making such a harmonious sound, rapidly dismissed it, with a "it's only him.". This is of no consequence. The luthier, while talented, is merely a drummer (therefore of limited use, though useful he be).
Then came the work shift at that... place, with those... people. My immediate boss was in her usual humour, calling people 'pooh face', and 'grandma's ****' and 'sugar tits' (to a male member of staff, somewhere between Viz's Farmer Palmer and Jethro). This is the young lady that when asked, "Who was Ghandi" replied, "He's the President of Africa." She is supposed to be a student of leisure and tourism, yet could not differentiate between Africa as a continent and a country, much less identify India as a nation. These are my 'learned' colleagues. Then there was Bligh himself, hard on me, but at the same time amicable at times. It is nothing short of hell on earth, but that's okay. Holding a master's degree in classical Latin and being enslaved (doing unskilled labour for minimum wage) says more about this so-called country, than it does about me. This is not, after all, the heyday of Cosimo de' Medici. It's Dark Age Britain. That's what happens when you spend a dozen years studying Latin in Dark Age Britain: nothing. Nothing, that is, except fifteen grand worth of debt, not to mention being extremely marginalised for taking an interest in reading books.
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