The Things We Do For Love

I was reading peacefully in my room last night when someone came in whilst noisily blowing his recorder. He had learned how to play Ba-ba-black-sheep and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star at school.

Excuse me, but dont articles in the glossy magazines say that the bedroom is supposed to be our personal abode away from the house traffic? And that it is supposedly our sanctuary?

He sat beside me and kept on playing. I wondered if he knew what that sounded like to my ears and in my head. But I let him play - he's got to try before he can be any good. I'm sure Mozart was equally teribble when he started with the piano (or maybe he was never ever terrible; gifted as he is..)

I said, play my favorite song (I dont know the title of the song; but the children call it "mama's wooh song" because I like the woohs in it..) He said I only know these songs. I said if you know what each note sounds like you can try. I later regretted for encouraging him because.. oh my poor head..

It was quite sometime before my hero got tired of his music. By then my sanctuary becomes not and my peaceful reading went awry. But I reckon we had quality time together amongst the cacophony sound that he created.

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