Piano practice

Shortly after moving into the lovely new place that she now shares with Cath, Emma Jane expressed an interest in learning to play the piano that stands in the corner of their living room.

My enthusiasm for the scheme was immediate – less from the thought of hearing beautiful music than from the kinky potential. See, a few years back, Haron and I captured a rather lovely item on eBay – a music teacher’s satchel, marked with their initials, and containing a small tawse (also initialled):

So, the prospect of a piano-learning girl being made to play her scales or the piece she’d been learning rather appeals. Mistakes would be punished, of course, and the lesson would become harder and harder for the girl as she tried to play with sore, strapped hands – perhaps through a veil of tears, and doubtless with her frustration at her own errors growing by the minute.

More serious would be were the teacher to conclude that, rather than just not playing well that evening, a girl had failed to practice during the previous week. He’d surely place her over his knee – but would he use his hand, or a hairbrush? And then there’s the girl’s guardian, told by her instructor that she’d been slacking. Once the teacher had left, she’d be sent upstairs to wait; he’d follow a few moments later, and after a lecture, she’d find herself bent over the side of her bed as he unbuckled his belt.

I love the idea. And yet… see, if Emma Jane did really want to learn, my instincts would be entirely contrary to the above. I’d want to support, encourage, praise my lovely girl – especially early on, when mastering the techniques might be difficult. Mistakes? They’re bound to happen; my natural tendency would be to want to gloss over them, to help to build her confidence. I’d find myself in something of a quandary – yet the thought of her standing, looking at me, palms upturned waiting for the strap, really is so amazingly appealing.