Sheffield, England (Circa 1965-1968): When I was a kid around seven, eight, and nine years of age, I used to live in dread of Tuesdays...
The problem was that my mother wanted me to learn a musical instrument. Furthermore, she had decided that the instrument of choice would be a piano.
Actually, I didn’t have a problem with the concept of learning to play the piano per se ... it was just that I lived in fear of my piano teacher, who gave lessons in her home on Millhouses Lane, which was about half-a-mile from our house.
My instructor was an older lady (maybe in her late 50s or early 60s ... it's difficult to guess that sort of thing when your own age is measured in single digits). Her name was Miss Long, which was unfortunate because she was "vertically challenged" being no more than five feet tall (and that was while wearing high-heeled leather boots and swinging a whip).
As far as I could tell, Miss Long was not a happy person. One of the things that she really didn’t seem to enjoy was teaching the piano. Coupled with the fact that she loathed kids with a passion, this was not a winning combination.
If you misplayed the same piece of music more than a couple of times in a row, Miss Long would suddenly reach out, grab the piano lid, and slam it down with as much force as she could muster. I absolutely believe that this would have been sufficient to break one's fingers had they still been in the vicinity. If nothing else, however, Miss Long's (surviving) students developed lightning reflexes when it came to pulling our hands out of the way.
My 30-minute lesson commenced at 5:30 p.m. every Tuesday evening. When I awoke in bed on a Tuesday morning, my first thought was: "Oh no, it's Tuesday!" I then spent the remainder of the day in ever-increasing dread as the evening approached and my torture loomed ever-closer on the horizon.
About 10 to 15 minutes before my ordeal was scheduled to commence, the skies would begin to darken, eldritch clouds would appear from nowhere, a howling wind would start to pick up, and sounds of rumbling thunder would be heard in the distance. With my head bowed low, I would gather my sheet music and begin the long, slow march of doom to Miss Long's house. (This isn’t exaggeration ... it's artistic license ... this is what it felt like, OK?)
At 5:30 p.m. on the dot I would ring Miss Long's doorbell and then wait for the approaching sound of her Igor-like footsteps followed by the tortured creak of the hinges as the door grated slowly open.
As the door swung ajar and one's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, it became possible to see the haunted look on the face of Miss Long's current victim who was standing beside her ("The Beast" herself was wrapped in shadows). Time froze as my eyes locked with those of the other kid ... who suddenly made a desperate leap for freedom leaving me to stagger forward into the pit of despair.
For 30 minutes (with a subjective time of weeks) I was exposed to the most horrific torments known to man. Time slowed down to a crawl ... each tick of the metronome took at least an hour ... I fully expected to end my life sitting on that piano stool ... and then ... and then ...
... what was that sound? ...
... could it possibly be the doorbell?...
Yes! It was 6:00 p.m. My trials were over for another week. I accompanied Miss Long to the entrance where she disengaged the mantraps, rotated the keys, drew back the bolts, unhooked the chains, and flung open the door to reveal a new white-faced, wide-eyed kid quivering in fear. Once again, my eyes locked with those of another victim ... but this time I was on the inside coming out (an action I performed with alacrity!)
What a difference! The birds were singing and the flowers were blooming; the sun was shining and the skies were blue; and generally speaking the world was suddenly a very happy place. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders as I skipped merrily up the road to meet up with my best friend Jeremy Goodman.
Wednesdays were unreservedly happy days, and Thursdays weren't too bad, but Fridays ... well, even though they heralded the weekend, Fridays lacked a little something because – following the weekend it would soon be Monday, which was the thinnest of buffers before ... my next TUESDAY OF TERROR!
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