So, she can hear me muttering to myself in the kitchen then. Presumably she chuckles every time I stub my toe on the ironing board and I hop around wailing like the world is at an end.
She knew exactly where the piano is too. She's never seen it. Thankfully she said she enjoyed my playing. I told her to tell me if it ever gets a bit much.
It gets a bit much for me sometimes, playing that piano. I slump into lazy jazz and slumbering blues because I don't know what else to do. It is so depressing when you've got nothing left to play but the blues.
Anyway, it seems someone else might be listening now. And not just to me walking up the scale like a fed-up Fats Domino - to me scattering rice all over the kitchen floor, to me prancing about with a towel and to me making up songs about the microwave and then laughing uncontrollably at how silly a thing it is to serenade your kitchen appliances. I wouldn't want anybody to know about that.
However, I can't tiptoe around forever. Thankfully, her lounge is underneath my bedroom and mine is above hers. So hopefully she doesn't hear the windows rattling to the sound of my snoring.
Speaking of which, it's probably time to get on with it. Earplugs at the ready, lady.
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