Pipe dreams

The two great regrets of middle age are: ‘I never learnt a language’ and ‘I never learnt an instrument’. One of my regrets is that, because I was a happy-go-lucky sort of chap at school, my music teachers kept giving me heavier and heavier cases to carry.

They started me on the trumpet. That was fine; I could hide away in the brass section and camouflage my errors among the better players. But then they moved me to the euphonium. ‘We need one of those, Newton. Get practising.’ I could just about cope with the euphonium. But then came the final call. Your school needs you. The orchestra expects. ‘We need a tuba, and you’re the man!’

I was suddenly armed and dangerous. As the only tuba player in the wind band, any error I committed was both prominent and unmissable. Eyes would turn to the scruffy boy at the back as he knocked out a sharp instead of a flat and — on one memorable occasion — added an extra note to a bar. That would have been fine, except that it was the last bar. The conductor’s hand had stopped. The flutes were practically packing away. The violins were planning their night out, and I was rewriting a Gershwin classic. Embarrassed? You betcha.

So when offered the chance to fade away and hand over this most toxic of briefs, I grabbed the chance to stop.

And that was it. I had proudly won an undistinguished pass at Grade Three. I had ruined modern music for 200 spectators, and had endured a thoroughly lonely and miserable time. Job done.

Then, middle age struck. One summer’s day, in my present job as headmaster of Taunton School, I was visiting the prep school music building and noticed the music store had been left open.