Failure to Launch

Chuckles

Don’t you just hate it when some new thing in your life full of potentiality and excitement, utterly fails to deliver? Like this morning when you stood there by the door as the postman walked up, certain that an intriguingly anonymous pink card perhaps smelling slightly of some exotic perfume would flop onto the mat, only to be greeted with a garish circular promoting the virtues of Zumba.

The failed spinach

There have been a few false starts at Pilsdon recently. The spinach seed I sowed in the glasshouse last November has resolutely failed to grow, whilst in that same bed a forgotten un-harvested potato is impertinently pushing up its shoots instead. Bill* is back at Pilsdon after an attempt at starting afresh in Bridport last week didn’t work out (we’re glad to see him back though!)  And our sow Chuckles** was due to produce her first litter earlier this month but the day passed without incident; after five more days the vet announced after inspection that the pig was not in fact pregnant. This was bad news - for us as we’ll soon be running out of pork in the freezers, and for Chuckles whose very future hung in the balance. On a farm a sow has to come up with the goods. We think she somehow reabsorbed the foetuses (foeti?) which we know she had a few weeks previously. Leniency prevailed and she has been given one more chance, and we’re also buying in some eight-week-old pigs (“weaners”) to make up for her non-existent piglets.

Chuckles enjoys a nice quiet nap without any pesky piglets

Another promising beginning which has swiftly and sadly come to nothing has been my attempt to teach piano to Rupert. His previous piano experience was zero unless you count his deep appreciation of the works of Frederic Chopin and Keith Jarrett. As for personally tinkling the ivories himself, he was a complete newbie. Yet a newbie with an enthusiasm to learn. His eyes lit up as I handed him the book “It’s Never Too Late To Learn The Piano”, and then and there I gave him an impromptu lesson, by the end of which his right hand was slowly and falteringly picking out the tune of “Four Note Tango” (the world’s least danceable tango tune.) It was a fantastic feeling to be initiating someone else in the dark arts of playing the piano.

Rupert talked about practicing but by the time of the second lesson, a few days hence, it was apparent that he hadn’t got round to it. Nevertheless we got his left hand going and I was quite willing to believe that he would spend some time going over the tunes before our third lesson. Without practising in between, lessons would be much less fruitful. Yet it became a joke between us that he somehow never managed to get down to it. Maybe I was too harsh when I said I would only give him a third lesson after he’d done some. Maybe not, but it was sufficient for him to call the whole thing off. 

Apparently it wasn’t my teaching style, which he said he liked. His excuse, and perhaps there’s something in it, is that he is also learning to do pottery which requires his hands to form flippers and move his digits all together in gentle motions - quite the opposite from a piano where each finger must be moved independently from the others. The part of the brain controlling finger movement was, in Rupert’s case, being overloaded with taxing new demands and something had to give. He’s decided to try the trombone instead, an instrument which could be played by a man with hooks for hands. A clever choice no doubt, and I hope it works out for him, but I have to admit I’m sorry to lose a pupil so soon. I’m going to have to find some more willing subjects to work on...

Our baby cauliflowers wrapped in sheep's wool to ward off slugs. Here's to their success!

*Not his real name

**Believe it or not, this is her real name