Rain sodden corpse, in a churchyard. Abandoned, unclaimed, slowly decay setting in.
Once you wowed audiences. Your music had couples dancing, romancing. Many a love was born as you filled the air with melodies sweet.
Now your heart is still. No more tunes will eminate from your once mighty chest.
An old piano, your notes immovable, choked with rain water, you stand by the church, sadly waiting to be taken away.
(On Thursday 2 October my mum, her partner and I came across an abandoned piano, in the church close to my home. When first discovered it still worked. However due to heavy rain the piano’s notes are now immovable. How the instrument came to be in the churchyard I have no idea but, at time of writing it remains there).
It was a lovely summer’s evening. The birds sang and I felt the need for a convivial pint in my favourite local. I harnessed up the large brindle wolf (sorry guide dog) and set out in search of a cooling beer.
On the way through the churchyard (the church stands directly opposite my luxurious penthouse, sorry flat), I was accosted by a gentleman sitting in his car
“Excuse me, how do you spell Tudor?”
“Oh I always thought it was Tuder with an er”.
“No it’s definitely Tudor”.
I have no idea whether this gentleman was attempting to engage in japery of some kind (if so I fail to see the joke although the incident was bizarre in the extreme). Perhaps he was participating in one of those research projects in which the researcher asks random strangers peculiar questions in order to gauge their reactions. Alternatively was he (how can I put this politely) err, “away with the fairies”, or “a few sandwiches short of a picnic”. On balance I am inclined to the view that he fits into that long and honourable tradition of British excentrics, those men and women who enliven our often humdrum existences with their interesting and often bizarre mode of living. Lets hear it for the excentrics, long may they continue.