“Is it time?” “Not yet, there are two more before you and then you are on.” I feel so sick. We have come all this way to Belgium. Dad drove. Time off work. What if I don’t even get through the first round? They will be so disappointed. Everyone looks to be my age. Some younger. I am never going to have time to read those books for my A levels. I am a terrible pianist. Out of my depth here. Sometimes I play beautifully, but I get too stiff and tense. And then all the processes

“Is it time?” “We have to leave in ten minutes – so gather your music and don’t forget your book of scales and arpeggios, like last time.” “I don’t feel well mum. Can I skip the lesson this week?” “No.” “But I have swimming on Thursdays, and now piano on Tuesdays, and soon I will have cross country running on Wednesdays – and anyway I have Asthma.” “What’s that got to do with it?” “I can really feel it today mum, in my kidneys. I don’t think I can play scales.” “Don’t be sill

“Is it time?” “Another ten minutes sir. Don’t worry, I’ll come and get you.” Pacing. Always pacing. I can’t play. This is impossible, nothing works. My hands feel swollen and obtuse. Maybe I practiced too much – Ha! “Such a lazy boy” – my mother’s voice. No, I never practice too much. Why am I doing this? I am not sure I enjoy being a pianist anymore. I always said – “I am not a Pianist. I am a musician. The playing of the piano doesn’t interest me. Music does.” So sickly. Te