I had begun to wonder if our gothic Trumpeter had lost his trumpet, a terrible thing to happen to any man. Apart from the occasional swish of wings, it’s been remarkably quiet for a few weeks now. In fact I can’t even remember the last time I heard him trying to wake the dead with his horn. It was always early Sunday morning, you see. Heaven only knows why that’s the best time for him. Perhaps Saturdays are good hunting nights and he feels the need for early morning celebrations. Still, it’s not the way I like to start the day. It’s not quite as bad as tinnitus but at least ringing is appropriate on the Lord’s Day.
But he is no better. I mean his trumpeting is still appalling. Absolutely bloody awful. Barp, barp, burp. Barp, barp, burp. It sounds like he’s sneezing into a bucket. Now, the whole sum of my musical ability is playing a CD so I can’t really comment but perhaps he should reconsider his orchestral ambitions. After two years of practise, he still can’t hit three notes in a row: I can unwrap parcels more tunefully.
Still, it can’t be easy for him - I don’t think brass mouthpieces were designed for a gob-full of fangs. Maybe he should think about something that requires sucking and give up on hobbies where he sucks.
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