LOSING THE WHISTLE

I think I'm losing the ability to whistle.

I've always loved a whistle. Walking down the high street, doing a bit of washing up, throwing your hands in your pockets on a warm spring day and tooting out a Land of Hope and Glory - a cheery, happy-go-lucky whistle always makes me smile.

Well, afterwards I mean, not during. I mean you can't do those things together, can you?

Well. Anyway, I was walking back to the car, rucksack over one shoulder, one hand twoozling my car keys, whistling a bit of Danny Boy through the resonance of the concrete car park... when I realised that there was one note that wasn't sounding right. It sort of wobbled, a bit like Cher let-loose with an auto-tuner.

I did it again. It happened again.

I whistled a scale. It happened a third time - one wobbly note, wavering in and out of pitch like the Year 5 Recorder Club. Another scale, same result.

Okay, whistling is not one of life's essential skills for us non-postmen in a post milkman universe. But nature only gave me just-over-an-octave to start with; seems a bit unfair to take away a couple of notes in the middle and make me sound like R2-D2.

I got in the car. Imagine not being able to whistle! How would I ever be able to express surprise at the size of a quote for any building work? And I'd never be able to walk a dog, call a taxi, play Bert in a stage production of Mary Poppins, or casually pretend I'm not listening to an embarrassing conversation... again.

I hope it comes back. I sound like a fax machine.