Oh, the man upstairs is an adequate pianist, I suppose, but it's his metronome that really irritates me.
That bloody click-clack, sometimes till eleven o'clock. All through the snooker on the telly.
I've asked him to practise without it, but I'm not as young as I was, or as persuasive.
If my Charlie was alive he would have given him a piece of his mind.
The metronome does have one advantage though, it's loud enough to conceal my work.
It's been hell on my arthritis, holding my hands above my head; first marking out with a scratch awl, then three months working with Charlie's paring chisel, timing every hit.
But I think, tonight, he'll have a surprise when he sits down to his baby grand. He's not a small man you know, and that floor is really not very thick.
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