As I left work this evening, I decided to give the Boy Wonder a call on my way home - the fifteen minute walk is just the right length to get a full round-up of the last few days' news and events, and since the bise that was howling through Geneva yesterday appeared to have dropped, I thought I'd probably last the distance without my tiny hand freezing completely. Nevertheless, by the time I'd found the number - isn't that a shocking admission ? I don't even know my own son's phone number by heart, so much do I take the memory on my mobile for granted - my fingers were starting to feel the nip in the air, so I pulled my gloves back on before pressing, with some difficulty, on the dial button.
It was not the BW who answered, but the Laughing Buddha, and his voice nearly blew my ear off, so loudly and clearly did it come through. It wasn't that he was shouting - though I got the impression he might have raised his voice slightly in order to be sure of being heard over the radio that was playing in the background. It was that in my fumbling attempts at pressing the dial button with my gloved forefinger, I had managed to turn the volume up to the maximum level.
That CD playing in the background, the LB's voice boomed across Plainpalais, and for all I know through Carouge, across the border and out into the French countryside, amazing though it may seem, is your son playing his Fantasia at the piano workshop he went to a few weeks ago.
A couple of bars of what could only be Mozart floated away into the crisp Geneva air.
Oh bugger, I've just ruined your Christmas present, the LB went on, before making a tactical withdrawal. Hang on a minute, I'll hand you over.
A series of clunking sounds followed, but failed to disrupt completely the flow of music.
Hello ? The elegant inquiry with which the BW traditionally begins any telephone conversation. Once again half my face was nearly blown away, as I had made the mistake of bringing the phone right up to my ear in preparation for our father-son chat.
Hang on a minute, I said. Don't go away. I'm going to try to turn the volume down on my phone.
For the next thirty or forty seconds, I desperately fiddled with my mobile, trying with a total lack of success to turn the volume down, while at the same time enjoying the sound of the closing section of the Mozart Fantasia being played with fluency and feeling on what I still assumed was a commercial CD. I'd heard the Laughing Buddha's words a minute or so before, but they had not really registered.
Just as the performance at the other end of the phone ended, and the audience launched into enthusiastic applause, I decided to give up on fixing the volume.
Are you still there ? I asked. What was that we were listening to ?
It was me. Playing at Uppingham. They recorded us all. There were microphones and stuff all over the place. We've been waiting for ages for the CD to arrive. Mum said she's going to send you one for your Christmas present, but I think you already know that.
It was him. It was him.
I don't think I'm going to need any other Christmas presents this year.
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