I first heard him as I wandered up the garden to add nutrients to my compost bin. It was an otherwise quiet and peaceful morning but two doors down, the Gothic Trumpeter was practising his scales. Badly. Doe-ray-me-fah-so-la-tee-duh. That last note repeatedly wrong. In the time it took me to mosey up, encourage my decomposing vegetables and potter back again he hadn’t played it right six times in row. I understand dogged enthusiasm in the face of obvious inability so this didn’t faze me.
Twelve hours later I’m back in the garden retrieving some implement from the shed and wafting through the twilight, the same flawed musical sequence. Twelve hours later. And exactly, I mean exactly, the same mistake. Perfectly reproduced each time. I stood and listened. No variation whatsoever. Time after time. And then it occurred to me - maybe it was just a recorded ruse to disguise the fact that he slept through every hour of daylight. Almost made me fish the used garlic bulbs out of the bin.
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