CONFESSIONS

       You Traitor, my Piccolo whispered hoarsely from my bag. Fine, thought I. Fine. I’m a Traitor.

        I was standing in a flute shop, conversing with some quite nice flute players - in a casually professional, please-don’t-think-I’m-an-idiot way.

       When Suddenly.

       The subject of The Piccolo sidled in. Don’t know why, don’t know how. A shame, but there it was.

       What piccolo do you play? someone asked. A Braun, said I, smidge of pride. The other player smiled and said: 

I just needed a piccolo that plays the notes (bloody miraculous), never take it out of the box if I can help it.

       Pause.

       Pride deflates.

       I nodded, laughed along, gave some vague response, backed slowly towards the door and…. Yes! I was safely outside.

       My Piccolo didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

       Sobbing away in its box, probably. Well, what was I supposed to say? That I like playing the piccolo? Come on, be serious.

       So. Here we go. This is my Confession. Or Confessions. Confessions of a Piccolo Player (or of someone who likes to play the piccolo and even sometimes be paid for it). Write it on the gravestone if you want. Here lies a Piccolo Player. Died practising the Vivaldi. Still checking the intonation.