There is a half-decent piano here on the SIL centre in Yaoundé, so I have downloaded some sheet music from the endlessly wonderful Petrucci Music Library.
I have decided to practice Schubert’s Eb Impromptu (op. 90, no. 2) for thirty minutes each evening, inspired by Alan Rusbridger’s Play it Again (my top book for 2014).
This particular Schubert Impromptu prompts a childhood memory. When I first began learning the piano, age 9, I used to wait in the adjacent room for an older boy to finish his lesson before going in for mine. Week by week, I would hear wisps and snatches of liquid gold emanating from the next room. He was learning the Schubert Eb Impromptu. I was captivated, and promised myself that one day I would be able to play it myself.
Well, here I am almost 50 years later and, err, I can and I can’t. Trouble is, I’ve spent so many years not bothering with the painstaking, humdrum task of working out the fingering, that by now a host of tiny lapses are stubbornly cemented in and unyielding.
This particular pianist’s brain has an astonishing capacity for flagrantly ignoring mistakes, filtering out bothersome, unintended sounds, blithely convincing itself that no listener can possibly have noticed, and letting ten unbridled fingers scamper headlong towards the coda.
So my approach for the next three weeks is keyhole surgery: diligently, methodically and slowly unpicking fifty years of lazy fingering.