I was given a didgeridoo the other day. Now that's a line I never thought I'd type.
You might ask (and I can assure you, dear, dearest, darling reader, that I have been asking, repeatedly) what on earth I am to do with the thing?
The fact is that I have no idea. Not only can I not play a didgeridoo, I am not altogether certain I can even spell the word.
I make no apology for this. It is not a device that I have had any cause to consider for more than a fleeting moment, even in a life as rich, varied, and filled with adventure as my own. It does not feature on the musical curriculum of Britain's schools (or at least it did not when I was a lad). And it is not an implement that one feels a pressing need for in quotidian life. One rarely hears urgent cries of "Quick, pass me the didgeridoo!"
If I may speak frankly, I have begun to ponder the semiotics of the gift. Why, I wonder, did it seem credible to someone (I will not name names) that I would welcome this antipodean interloper into the bosom of my home? Did they ever stop to consider the impact that this would have on the scarlet temptress? More than that, did it not cross their mind that the didgeridoo is not, and never could be, an appropriate instrument for a gentleman?
Clearly not.
So it sits, unplayed, unloved and unregarded, in a corner of my study: a chaste white cotton wrapper conceals its vivid aboriginal decoration. The untutored eye would pass over it without thought. But not mine. Every time I see the blessed thing it reproaches me. Every time I allow my gaze to light upon it, a dreadful, creeping, presentiment comes upon me.
I am going to have to learn to play it.
And then, dear reader? Please...do not toy with me. You know the outcome: obloquy, opprobrium, disgrace. I will have to resign from the RGS, the London Library, the Civil Service Motoring Association...give up all that I hold dear, leave London. And I retain enough pride to know what is expected of me then: retreat to the dingy little seafront hotel room, recourse to the bottle of whisky, and finally, the inevitable moment of truth with my old Webley service revolver...oh, it's a sordid end, but in a way a cleaner one. And better than the steady decline from Didgeridoo, to calabash, to ....wobble board. No decent human being wishes to end up like that.
It is cruel fate that bought the accursed thing to Springheel Towers. But the die is cast. I must face the inevitable outcome with stoic calm.
This is what comes of allowing Rolf Harris into the country.
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"We are all of us obliged, if we are to make reality endurable, to nurse a few little follies in ourselves."
3 comments:
I had to look that up. I've read some of your past posts,and I bet when you get with your male friends and some liquid refreshments, you could probably get a little native. Your neighbors might not like it. If you get good, your wife might like it when you are better. My children have done recorder and flute. The music can be hauntly pretty. One of my sons has been playing the piano in the late afternoon when I cook dinner, and it's really pretty to listen to. Gee I missed your posts. I went looking for English bloggers over the weekend, and got some taxi driver (whoa, the rates those guys charge.) and some guy called Diamond Geezer I think. Hope you don't catch the flu over the winter.
Going native is never quite as glamourous as one might think. All that comes to mind is the lack of proper and regular bathing.
I feel your pain, my friend. Many year's ago, I was given a pan flute as a gift, along with the infamous Zamfir and the Magic of His Pan Float cassette (cassette, yes, that's how long ago). It was an albatross.
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