I always feel a little ping of excitement when I find my car again in the airport parking lot and it starts. Ever since that one time that it didn’t (which was my fault; I have concluded I left an interior light on) it’s like a little gift every time. Even though I had to beep the lock several times and locate it by sound this time around because I forgot where I left it. I wonder if there’s a way to get my car horn to play “scherza infida”?
And this was after I ended up on the same flight home as a colleague of mine, who plays the violin and has this slightly bizarre resemblance to Andrew Manze. To the point where I have almost called him “Andrew” even though his name is not Andrew. He always asks me if I’ve gotten my violin out again. This makes me feel bad, because I haven’t. It’s in my house, and sometimes I’m tempted to take it out, but I know that my technique has gone to shit and part of me does not want to know how bad it is.
Having written the above, I went and got it out. It still works. My ears still work. My body still knows what to do with it – odd how it’s more physical memory than anything else. I don’t know where my tuning fork has gone, so I may have tuned it to not-quite-A440, but it’s in tune with itself, at least. And I can still play a D major scale.