The piano has been a form of relaxation for me as long as I remember. When I moved up here, without one, it took me a long time to learn to wind down, without the piano to use as my emotional adjunct. I sung a lot more, mostly – and as my singing voice is not the best in the world, this is not really an adequate alternative. I love to sing, but other people don’t love hearing me. (Although I sing a mean game of Rock Band, provided the stereo is cranked loud enough.)

The piano got me through some really tough spots. I’d come home from a bad day at work, or university, especially when I was in my worst spot with depression, or after I broke up with Cyclenut, and I’d play for hours and hours. Mum always knew that if I started off playing Rage, it was probably best to leave me alone until I worked it out of my system.

When I bought the piano in February, I had lost a lot of skill. This wasn’t entirely surprising, owing to my three years without a piano. I could still sight read, although some of the notes out of stave and stave swaps are still catching me out – I can interpret them, but instead of my previous ability to subconsciously translate music->brain->fingers, I now have to stop, check, read, place fingers, continue. Practice is, unsurprisingly, helping.

I purchased myself the second volume of sheet music from The Piano. My piano teacher gave me the first book, years ago. I’d never seen the movie, but the music caught my ear from day one, the haunting emotiveness of it. I watched the Piano for the first time last month. Mostly, I’ve been playing the music correctly. Having seen the film, I can play the music better. It’s taken me a while to return to skill levels where I felt comfortable attempting new music; I then realised that I’d underestimated my returning abilities. It was a good feeling.

In March, I tried a piece from Prokofiev. It’s a piece I loved playing, prior to The Big Move. In March? I physically could not force my fingers to play the appropriate sequences quickly enough to even vaguely resemble anything musical, and the octave stretches required were a little testing.

A little testing? A lot. I cried, several times, in February and March, through sheer frustration at my inability to play, something that used to be almost as easy as breathing. I had to force myself through exercises that I used to be able to do with my eyes shut, literally. I’m still having trouble with octave reaches – either this piano is small, or my hands have grown, because I keep playing ninths instead of octaves. Playing scales in octaves is helping, if extremely boring.

Tonight, I tried the Prokofiev again. I manged to play it through. Not well, admittedly, and in retrospect playing glissandos with a large chunk out of one finger (playing with cat, did not move fast enough) may not have been my wisest ever move, but… I can actually DO this. My skill IS returning, I’m not just dreaming it.

I’ve been around music all my life. My mother is a pianist (although by her own admission, less technically proficient than I am – she is better at playing by ear, though). My grandfather played saxophone and clarinet. I remember sitting in front of a keyboard without legs, bashing away happily at the keys while I was wearing nappies. Mum has corroborated the memory, along with my memories of plunking at the piano she and Dad got rid of before I was three.

I love having the piano. I really can’t express how much. I’m relearning music, and enjoying the simple academic achievement therein. I have the emotional release, where I can storm home on a bad day and work my way through Michael Nyman, John Williams*, Michael Hsiao**, Prokofiev, Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Debussy… anger and fear and upset and rage, temper and stupidity and irritation and frustration, working through to quiet and calm and peace.

Having the piano is really what’s made this house home. I’ve played until my hands hurt, tonight, until the tendons in my forearms are painful, despite scales and exercises, until typing is difficult because I’ve just had to rewire my brain-finger connections for the third time today, until the cut on my finger was bleeding; and I am unspeakably happy.

* I have the sheet music from Schindler’s List. The Krakow Ghetto and the main theme are in pretty much constant rotation.
** I found his music online years ago; the site doesn’t exist any more, and none of the Googling I do can turn the man up. This is possibly Google-fu-fail on my part, but it is quite sad.

By the time last night rolled round, I was exhausted. But, exhausted or not, things need doing around home, so Tobermory and I stopped by the local supermarket on the way home. We’re browsing the baking needs aisle, and I am merrily picking up cinnamon sticks, vanilla pods, and generally browsing through the herb and spice goodness.

T: “Have I told you recently what a gorgeous bottom you have?”
Me, absently: “No, but feel free.”
T: *compliments, gropes my backside in a mostly publically acceptable fashion*
Me, browsing the types of pepper: “I should buy mace!”
T: “… EXCUSE ME?”

I eventually made the connection between mace, pepper spray, and the fact that Tobes had very affectionately been groping my bum, and we both fell about laughing.

I got a text message from my mother this evening. My Nana cut out mentally at the supermarket today – just floated away into la la land whilst standing in an aisle with her walker. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, but it’s probably the worst so far. Mum, watching her, actually saw her float back into the real world, just by the expression on her face. Nana’s felt for a long time that something’s not right in her brain, and indeed she’s been diagnosed as having transient ischemic attacks*. I’ve heard her say myself that she’s getting tired. Which is never a good sign.

She’s suffering from a lot of health problems, and her world is very small these days. Just my mother, the news from various family members. The television. Her neighbours in the assisted living facility she’s in. The only family nearby is my mother; the next nearest is me, three hundred kilometres away. We grandchildren all try to keep in touch, but we have our own lives, our own families too.

She likes Tobermory. Never liked Cyclenut much, but Tobermory she approves of. She doesn’t like that we live together before marriage, of course; it’s not just religion, but that’s just not how things were done in her day. But she likes him. Sees that I’m happy with him. And of course he’s a tie back to the England she misses. When they first met, Tobermory did her the courtesy of letting her talk about England with him. I don’t think I got a word in edgewise, except possibly Hello. She misses her sisters cruelly in her old age; one of her closest sisters died, fairly recently, and Nana was distraught.

She’s past 80 now. I really don’t think she’ll be with us much longer. In a way, I can’t be sad. Not that I won’t miss my grandmother; but Nana as she is today isn’t Nana as I remember her. Not the grandmother who’d laugh over games of cards, and make up dirty words playing Scrabble with my mother and aunt until they all laughed so hard there was a three woman rush on two toilets; inevitably leading to a scrap between Mum and my auntie, with the one who laughed hardest falling over and losing the race to the loo. The Nana who would surreptitiously top up the sweetie jar with the favourite candy of the next visiting grandchild, and never comment when it mysteriously emptied itself. She wasn’t one for giving toys, knowing that she wasn’t really in touch with what modern children liked, but she’d always make sure we could buy ourselves something nice on special occasions. For that matter, she still regularly gives little presents of money to all her children and grandchildren. Gives us twenty for gas when we visit.

She’s not perfect, of course, never has been. There’s a bit of a family trait to deal with emotions badly, and Nana has that. Well, shared it with us. She doesn’t handle stress well. And yet, she bought up one of my cousins when my aunt couldn’t cope. And I remember her telling me that she and Grandad fought quite bitterly on a few occasions. She’s struggled to keep up with the times, and it can be frustrating, the complete disconnect from reality she has, especially when it leads her to be quite selfish. Unaware of the time and work constraints we are forced into, unaware of the reality of finances today. But everyone has their own foibles. And maybe I’m too young to have noticed the really bad points.

Maybe I’m wearing the proverbial rose spectacles; but I don’t remember Nana as anything but generous. She brought up my grandfather’s daughter by his first wife**, and treated her like her own. My step aunt still has an equal share in my grandmother’s will. Well, technically her heirs do, as my aunt passed away (cancer) a few years ago now.

Some years ago, she gave away some of the jewellery she no longer wore. It was fairly evenly shared amongst various daughters and granddaughters. I was given a bead necklace, and a gorgeous gold/garnet necklace. I don’t wear it often – it’s a bit ornate for my taste, but lovely. I also have a little bag she used to take dancing with her. It’s on a silver chain, with her name and phone number (five digits) written inside.

She and Granddad loved to dance. In Granddad’s Army days, they taught the younger soldiers in the camps. They danced, and Granddad played the clarinet and saxophone; Mum remembers a jazz band that used to rehearse in their lounge. I still remember Granddad singing while Mum played piano, with Nana humming along out of tune. She still plays the old records, all the wartime music. Jazz. Watches black and white films.

My grandfather has been dead fifteen years, now. It’s a long time to be alone.

* They are either stroke precursors, or mini-strokes, depending on who you ask. Regardless of who you ask, it’s not a good thing.
** Grandad’s first wife had a child by another man during WWII. When he went back to England, they divorced, apparently amicably.

It is Queen’s Birthday weekend, and I have managed to get all three days of it off work. Hooray!

I gave the kittens a hunk of raw beef this morning. It was absolutely adorable. There were little spats of YOU ARE EATING FOOD IN MY PERSONAL SPACE and killing Rrrrrrrrr!! noises. Tigra killed hers before eating it – the full-on toss meat in air to break it’s neck, bat it about the floor, bite down HARD – all while making adorable little GROWLY noises, before she eventually ate it.

We are eating the rest of the meat in a mystery stew – I knew the age of the contents of the freezer, but not exactly what cut all the dead cow in there was. Stew seemed to be the answer.

We have been busy, the last two days. Friday night, we emptied the spa pool and took out the filter for a clean. Tobermory managed to bash his head on the framing of the crawlspace door, and gave himself a concussion so bad I insisted we go to A&E. He turned out to be fine, but the doctor did say that I was right to bring him in. So, that was Friday.

Saturday, with Pstyken and Thaqui (well, fairly obviously Thaqui owing to the fact he lives here), we scrubbed the hell out of the spa with meths, then refilled it. It’s actually quite hard work, not to mention that all those alcohol fumes floating around the air aren’t much fun.

Tobermory and I also managed to have a rather vicious spat (during which I was a horrible harpy, and subsequently managed to cry so hard that I’ve burst blood vessels under my eyes, d’oh). I should note we were both in various different ways wrong, and frankly it boils down to the usual couply issue of communication-fail. Such is life.

Today, I committed acts of violence against the front gardens. I had kitten assistance! They were shut inside while we cleaned the spa, so that they didn’t decide to drink the chemicals, so of course today they went absolutely bananas outside. Boomer kept standing in the middle of the plants that I was trying to hack, leading to a couple of moments where it was chop, chop, cho-AUGH KITTEN TAIL. He is a lovely affectionate cat, which is wonderful except when he insists on Helping with Everything.

Tigra and Boomer also had several wonderful games of … you know, I have no idea what it actually was, except it appeared to involve chasing each other up and down trees at opposite sides of the section. Presumably it made sense to them.

It has been a pleasant couple of days, either despite of because of working hard. And I intend to spend the holiday Monday sitting on my backside, doing as little as possible.

beep beep beep beep beep
I vaguely stir towards consciousness.

beep beep beep beep beep
Gnhh. Morning. Beep is clock. Should do something about that.

beep beep beep beep beep
Wriggle, extract leg from underneath kitten. Extend arm to whack snooze button.

beep beep beep beep beep
Alarm is fuzzy. Why is alarm fuzzy? Made of plastic.

beep beep beep beep beep
Alarm also apparently purring.

beep beep beep beep beep
Wait. Object is in fact second kitten.

beep beep beep beep beep
Kitten is sniffing alarm, attempting to press snooze button with nose. Clever kitten. Scritch kitten ears, carefully dislodge kitten.

beep beep bee-
Alarm is mercifully silenced. Kitten comes to sit on my pillow and nuzzle. Kitten is made of cute.