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A add9, C maj7, Em7, E7sus4


(self indulgence ahoy, but hey, at least it’s not politics)

Many years ago, when I took the fateful step of opening my own business, it’s reasonable to say that I didn’t fully appreciate how all-consuming it would be come. I also, in a stroke of world-class boneheadedness timed it to coincide with the birth of my first child (I had a better idea how all-consuming that would be). Between these twin responsibilities there was nothing. One by one the various interests and elements that had characterised my hitherto fairly careless existence got squeezed out.

I’ve written about this before, in relation to the return of a few of them. Gradually I found time to run again, even more gradually I found time to write again, two of my holy trinity had been returned to me (admittedly by the slightly unappetising solution of forcing myself out of bed at an ungodly hour every morning). This became a virtuous circle, the act of running, much like the act of writing, is a calming and organising influence for me. Now I felt at last that I wasn’t sliding backwards, becoming less like myself. I was slowly, very slowly, pushing forwards. There was just one thing missing.

My guitars had sat, neglected in the corner of the room that we loftily refer to as the study, unstrung and unplayed ever since we moved in. I told myself that I’d restring them when I could trust my sons not to destroy them. This was, of course, a fairly transparent bit of excuse making. I didn’t feel any pressing need. I didn’t miss it in the way I had writing. I occasionally cast them a guilty glance, but there wasn’t the same visceral compulsion as there was to write.

Until, one day a few weeks ago, there was. And once the need was there at was as if it had never been away. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I hadn’t picked one up for years. One quick trip to the inconveniently located music shop, one set of strings and a few bridge pins later and all of a sudden I felt like myself again.

Of course, given that I learned to play thirty years ago, and had had a long break from the instrument, I’d totally forgotten about how it’s murder on the fingers when you first pick one up. But omelettes, eggs, etc.

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