The lone Trumpateer
There’s nothing quite so sad as the mournful notes set within a broken trebling of someone trying to learn the trumpet. Nor so hilarious. Take today for example. I was sitting there, minding my own business, working on my next book and then suddenly I found myself beset on all sides by the opening credits of Open All Hours. A lone trumpateer had stood up for their cause. Practicing the brass tube with all their might on this wily Sunday afternoon. It started out OK, I mean of course it always does. Three or four notes perfectly sorrowful, but then the somber mood is suddenly and inevitably destroyed, instantly and completely, as soon as a squeaky bum note is thrown in there for good measure. Baaa buuuu booor baaa fleek!
I tell you I completely lost it. I was laughing for about 20 minutes, but in between guffaws I was feeling almost guilty. Learning the trumpet must obviously a penance for some transgression. It’s so unforgiving. You’re either killing it, or it's killing you. I began imagining the lone trumpateer, sitting in their living room, perhaps slightly hungover and feeling sorry for themselves, at which point they realised that the only way they could feel better was to play the trumpet. Perhaps they thought it’s remorseful tones would counterpoint their feelings of guilt and nausea, perhaps in their mind they actually felt they were indeed a genius trumpet player, but I can tell you this as fact. Instead of a delicate keening floating through the warm afternoon air, promising us that whatever it was that led to this moment could only be expressed by compressed air forced out through metal, what we actually got was Baaa buuuu booor baaa fleek! And I’m still laughing. I’m not sorry.
I’ll leave you with this.