For forty years I’ve been telling myself I’m not musical.

And then, at a conference in Ravenna, Italy, the pianist in the bar went home and a drunken man sat down at the keys and murdered the night. He thought he was good, but he really, really wasn’t.

I wished desperately that I could have jumped up there and saved the day. I wish I’d known just one song well enough to rescue things, a song good enough for all the glasses to raise to. A song to save the day.

A couple of weeks later my wife’s Dad sold his house, and the command came through: “Come and get your stuff.”

Amongst that stuff was a fairly hefty Yamaha keyboard, and as we loaded it into the van I felt it was a sign. This is my chance.

So, without paying a penny, without any formal training, without any prior experience, I decided to learn to play piano.

Week One

This feels weird. My fingers have never needed to stretch this far. It takes a couple of days to get used to ensuring that each finger occupied just one key at a time

Week Two

I’ve just realised that a chord is more than one note played at the same time. I can identify where the C-Notes are. And our friend Emma Fairey’s birthday was a good reason to learn happy birthday. The one-hand version took 15 minutes and I was smug. Then I realised there was a two hand version, with chords, and after 30 minutes it was slow, but getting there.

I can play pieces of Lean On Me, Stand By Me, Mad Love, Chopsticks, Happy Birthday and Home and Heart.

And I’m still enjoying this.