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.