The other day, I had a
phonecall from a lady who suspected that she had a Swift in her
organ. Well, you know me: when it comes to helping damsels in
distress, I'm a regular St George.
So I met her at the
church where, that very same morning, she had been at organ practice,
when she heard a strange twittering from somewhere under or within
her organ. As she had seen a Swift flying around in the nave the day
before, she assumed it was the same bird finding somewhere to roost.
I scoured the church
but no sign of the bird, I explored the lady's organ as best I could,
but no sight or sound. She mentioned that the birdy noise had only
started up when she was about ten minutes into her practice, so I
suggested she should start playing again to see if we could get a
response. I think it was Bach, or it might have been Telemann, but
whatever it was, she played it beautifully and I immensely enjoyed
the experience, especially as the church itself is magnificent, grand
as a Suffolk wool church.
There was no birdy
noise, but the lady was clearly grateful that I had so gallantly
responded to her call for help. Chivalrous to a fault, that's me.
“Any time, madam,” I told her, as I left the church composing
this blog piece in my head.
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