Where there's muck

My middle child (in common with middle children everywhere, everywhen, for ever and ever, amen) who would rather chew his own arm off than evince any enthusiasm for anything, has declared he wants to learn to play the trumpet.

Those of you with middle children may grasp the frenziedness of the spin that Jeremy and I promptly went into. Into which we went. YES! CERTAINLY! WHAT A GOOD IDEA! LOVELY BOY! WHEN DO YOU WANT TO START! LET'S GO TO THE SHOP AND BUY EVERYTHING THEY HAVE TO DO WITH TRUMPETS! I kid you not. This was an iron, it was hot, we struck.

Jeremy took Beri off to RoseHill Instruments to have his embouchure inspected, and to get a list of teachers. (Is this an instrument taught at his school, where lessons can be paid for at an EXTREMELY decent rate? Is it heck. We were going to have to go Private. Oh, the blow to our ethical position.) I spent the next few days on the phone, gradually crossing teachers off as they didn't return my calls, or the phone was answered in a wide variety of foreign accents, telling me they had no idea who I was talking about. About whom I was talking, Speaking.

Hooray for Amersham Music Centre, who told me that my first choice, the teacher who was listed as living right here in Chalfont St Giles, was not, in fact, dead, just dilatory about returning phone calls. Turns out he passes our door at a very convenient time on a very convenient day, and if we liked he could pop in and give Beri his lesson right here. Well du-huh.

And then having decided that £200 for a trumpet was going to be money well spent, my ma tells me my own trumpet, which I last played - oh gosh. Thirty-eight years ago. Gosh. . . . is in her attic, and we can pick it up tomorrow.

If Beri isn't a natural brass player, I'm contemplating chapeau en croute. Capello al Forno. With fava beans and a nice chianti.