Working Mum: 'Remember, it's the instrument that chooses the child.' Uh-oh.
By Tabitha Ronson
When I learned Master A would be learning a classical instrument this school year as is the norm, I let my fanciful head run away with itself.
I had visions of my offspring becoming the next Vladimir Horowitz, Jascha Heifetz, Julian Bream or Maurice André, playing at such revered venues as Carnegie Hall, Sydney Opera House and the Royal Albert Hall.
For the past few weeks, he has been testing out instruments to see which one he likes and, more importantly, which one his music teacher feels he is most attuned to - the one most suited to his personality and ability.
Like Mr Ollivander selecting the right wand for Harry Potter, our very own head of music Mrs Bishop would decide Master A's musical fate.
Monday was D-day, the moment all Year One pupils were to be given their instruments.
At pick-up, I was the first parent by the school gate. I couldn't contain my excitement.
One by one, the children filed out. Violin, bongos, tambourine, another violin, mini guitar...
Yes, I would be happy with either the violin or guitar. Master A could certainly make a name for himself, playing one of these instruments.
Always one to play games, Master A walked out with his instrument hidden behind his back. He was accompanied by Mrs Bishop who smiled conspiratorially at me and said: "Now remember it is the instrument that chooses the child."
Yes, I thought, she knows Master A is destined for great things. It was going to be a great musical journey, the road to fame and fortune. Make way Nicola Benedetti, Joshua Bell et al there's a new protégé on the block.
But the journey of a thousand miles starts with... a recorder.
The car journey home was hellish. For the full 20-minutes I had the high pitched shrill of the instrument, like fingernails running down a chalkboard.
Why, Universe, why the recorder?
Working Mum, writing off yet another career and wondering just what, if anything, will be Master A's "thing".