I started learning the trumpet when I was seven years old. This was largely my mum’s choice, so — as is often the case — I didn’t have any particularly profound reasons for choosing it. Since then, I have threatened to quit playing trumpet about three thousand times, but to no avail. Whenever I would storm out of practicing when I was little, my mum would just laugh at me. By turning my expression of anger into a comical event, I struggled to even take myself seriously. And so, begrudgingly, I would return to finish practicing while trying (and failing) to conceal a smile.

“I think in hindsight, the tears derived from the sheer entertainment value of a mini red-faced-hobbit-me trying to play a piece”

Music career wise, I peaked in Year 4 when I played Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in front of all of KS2. I made my (infamously sullen-faced) deputy head teacher cry, although I think in hindsight, the tears derived from the sheer entertainment value of a mini red-faced-hobbit-me trying to play a piece which was probably (definitely) outside of my ability. Anyway, I continued to play Rudolph each Christmas without fail until Year 7, when I became too cool (or too scared — interpret as you will —) to play an orchestral instrument in front of peers. However, I built up quite a name for myself, to the extent that people still recognise me now, at aged 20, as the “red-faced girl who played Rudolph.” I take it as a compliment. My playing must be so memorable because it was so good, and when people mention the “redness” of my face, they must surely all just be a little bit colour blind.

Unfortunately, playing the trumpet got a whole lot less fun when it came to scales and aural tests. At first, I resolved not to practice, as my foolproof theory was that if I pretended there wasn’t a problem, then there could be no problem. I hoped the ability to play scales and answer music-related questions would just come to me in a dream or something. I am disappointed to report that this never happened. And so, with a lot of huffing and puffing (and door-slamming and eye-rolling), I tried to practice scales at least once a week. My mum would watch this theatrical display from afar with a twinkle in her eye.

Back in the day, I also had a brief stint as a french-horn player. Much to the displeasure and horror of my teacher, this consisted of me accidentally dropping my french horn one week in and creating an enormous dent in it. I proceeded to learn a few pieces and was generally having a whale of a time, until my french horn teacher took me aside one afternoon and said to me that if I wanted to carry on playing the french horn, then I had to quit the trumpet. I still have my suspicions that this was a cunning scheme to remove me from the equation on his behalf because he knew full well that I wouldn’t quit the trumpet when I was playing “The Great Escape Theme” and “Yesterday” in concert band on the trumpet. And so it came about that my promising career as a dented french horn player went out of the window almost as quickly as it came in.

“I proceeded to learn a few pieces and was generally having a whale of a time until...”

After I finished my grades on the trumpet, I spent a lot of time frolicking around in music groups which I was now apparently good enough to play for. The local youth orchestra brought plenty of gossip and drama, mostly fuelled by boys who fifteen-year-old-me thought would be forever but actually only turned out to be a week or so. Musically, I’m not sure how much I learnt from my four years in orchestra. I had plenty of time to scroll on Instagram during the rests, so I was very up to date with the lives of the Kardashians, but beyond that, I don’t have much to show for it. My attendance dwindled in later years, so that in Year 13 I won “Best Attendance” and wasn’t there to show up for it. Interpret as you will. On the whole, and I would say despite, but probably in part because of, the drama, I enjoyed these music groups.

Recently, then, having taken a two year hiatus from the trumpet, I thought that I’d give lessons another go. My music teacher and I spent the first lesson chatting about houses, marriage, politics, my old conductor, and why, if I don’t like playing the trumpet, do I want a lesson? I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly in response to this, but was left a bit puzzled by the question all the same. I complain about the poor trumpet all the time (see above for proof), but I can’t seem to escape it. This leads to a truly terrifying conclusion: maybe I don’t want to escape it after all?