Sometimes I think I’m in a relationship with a 12 year old boy. I went to a music shop earlier to get my old trumpet fixed up, and I caught him sniggering as I chatted to the assistant.
“What’s that called?” he asked, pointing at the tip of the horn.
“And it’s at the end [more snorting]”.
Moving around the shop, I sifted through the accessories and picked up some valve oil. My boyfriend held up a furry brush to clean the inner tubes and raised his eyebrows: “Trumpet snake.”
I headed downstairs to see how it sounded, and with no sheet music in front of me, I began to play some old tunes I remembered. I hit nearly all the notes, but couldn’t quite recall them all.
“I’ve forgotten the fingering” I mused, and he fell to the floor.