Breakfast the Thirty-Eighth

Cinnamon and raisin bagel with raspberry jam & some cherries.

This evening a friend gave me a cello lesson. Incredibly, I wasn't completely hopeless. This definitely bucks a trend: I've rarely found myself to be any good at the things I'd like to be good at, such as the cello. Instead I have an array of bizarre, or frankly just pedestrian, aptitudes.

To wit: I'm actually pretty good at parking -- but have no car. I can eat an entire can of condensed milk in one sitting with no ill effects. I'm rather good at the hurdles -- actual ones, metaphorical ones trip me up every time. I can navigate quite proficiently so long as I am allowed to turn the map upside down, and I can stick my big toes straight up at right angles to my feet keeping the remaining toes flat on the floor.

I would however like to be good at a few worthwhile and satisfying things, like painting, or dancing, or doing cartwheels. Even being a good knitter would be nice. I can only do scarves; and always have to google how to cast off.  But perhaps the cello could be my as yet undiscovered forte. All I need now is an anonymous benefactor to give me a cello and pay for my lessons. (And while I'm asking for things from anonymous benefactors, a two-bedroom flat in Stockbridge, or around Broughton Street, would be lovely too.)