Misplaced pride may have clouded my memories of learning the piano as a kid in the early 90s. I can still picture the piano itself, a knackered upright that was so old it had brass candleholders. I definitely remember my teacher, Issie, a local jazz musician. And I thought I’d done pretty well until … what, grade three? Maybe even four?
“Forgot you failed grade two!” came a recent WhatsApp message from my mother, who had excavated the marking form from a filing cabinet. That made two of us.
