Quiet Nights

As I write I hear piano from upstairs. I have not listened to the news this week. I have read the soaring numbers of Covid 19 cases. I have watched footage of the democracy versus entitlement emergency, without sound. It was not a deliberate decision but it seems that I did exclude those news noises.

I have listened to the continuing roadworks at the end of our block, and heard how a wood pigeon seemed to harmonise with the grind of heavy machinery. Perhaps my imagination is playing tricks. Upstairs there are musicians, and in any waking hour we suddenly hear electronic music or piano, drums or a bass player. Other people might consider it an invasion and go to complain, or tetchily wear ear plugs; but the folks upstairs are good musicians, and after years of hearing my children’s music I am comforted by the presence of unexpected performances in my lockdown home.

My fingers type slowly and these laptop buttons barely sigh. In the other room I hear what sounds like the scuttling of a thousand tapdancing mice as my sweetheart clicks code into order on a clattering keyboard. Later I will read another news update and the wood pigeon will keep on woo wooing; and now the bass player upstairs is noodling around the tune too.

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