Today I have been relocated, moving beyond the walls of the hotel. Walls which have, over the months, been by turn cosy and claustrophobic. Now I find myself walking along the sunlit banks of the River Thames during one of London's rare bursts of true summer. Emerging from the cobbled paths behind Tower Bridge, I take in the scent of the river and the sound of water gently splashing around the moored boats. The sun reflects off the water, and all along the embankment people sit out, sipping drinks and smiling. There isn't an escort in sight, and almost everyone sits in willing, unpaid company.
I make my way into the restaurant, flattered but also slightly amused by the grand sign which reads "LIVE PIANIST: 2pm - 5pm". I move amongst the tables sprawled out over the terrace and approach the grand piano which lies by the door. It's keys are moving on their own accord, as if being played by a ghost: a classic trick, which always wows people more than the sight of somebody actually playing it. I almost feel guilty turning off the secret CD button and beginning to play the piano myself, in such a conventional way.
I begin with some upbeat and mood-appropriate numbers like Here Comes The Sun and Feelin' Alright. But after a while, I give my fingers a rest and play an old "saloon song" made famous by Frank Sinatra. The song is called "One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)" and in it a man sings about the end of his love affair to a barman, long after the place has emptied out:
We're drinking my friend, to the end
Of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road
Unlike the hotel, which closes its doors in the face of young children - God forbid them enter the world of whiskey and escorts - this restaurant is bustling with people who are still learning to walk. As I sing "make it one for my baby", the words take on a whole new meaning as I find myself swarmed with parents desperate to try anything which might entertain - and, more importantly, distract - their restless babies.
I change the song to make it a little more appropriate... flicking through the imaginary songbook in my head until I find Louis Prima's great Jungle Book numbers. The woman currently leaning on the piano dangles her baby boy over the side of the piano to stare at the strings, hammers rushing up and down as I try to put on a show for this curious young mind. The mother seems to enjoy it, but her son looks at me with a tired and slobbery expression only a baby can pull off, and dribbles slightly as his mother encourages more of a reaction. Trying not to take offence at this reaction, I smile back and bring the song to a close, moving on to the theme fromAristocrats, hoping that this will bring about a better rerponse.
But the dribbling baby has moved aside, sparing my piano keys of his slobber, and a child of about 5 shyly approaches, hand in hand with her slightly menacing and fierce-looking mother.
Look, Sarah. Isn't that good. See?? You need to practice hard.
She goes on to ask me all about my musical background and how often I practice. She seems slightly disappointed at my brief story of having given up the piano aged 12 due to dull, formulaic lessons and exams, only returning to the instrument at a later stage when it appealed to me. No doubt she wanted me to set a more conventional example to her daughter, who is apparently made to practice 2 hours each day.
It is a strange thing, to be a reluctant role model in this environment. Middle-class parents are inspired by the sight of a young man earning his living by playing the piano, and use it as an incentive to push their children to practice more and more. However, I feel a responsibility to counteract this, believing that the important thing is to learn to enjoy music, not simply to learn your scales while a cane-wielding old woman with glasses on her nose breathes down your neck. The thought of my piano teacher, urging me to balance an imaginary coin on my hand for half an hour while we ploughed through simplified versions of classical music, still makes me shudder.
Three more children approach the piano, taking my rendition of You Got A Friend In Me as a cue to dance like nobody is watching. I grin at them and up the tempo to encourage some more eccentric moves. The song itself is loaded with memories from my own childhood, as is the case with anybody my age who saw Toy Story. One of the girls comes up to me and stretches her hand up to the piano keys, looking up at me with an expression which begs me to let her join in. Not one to crush the dreams of a young girl to whom this gig appears much more glamorous than it really is, I shuffle aside and invite her to share the stool, showing her the simple bass notes of the song and asking her to "help me out". She does a pretty good job, but looking over I see that the dancing has stopped, and a short queue has formed... But the dribbling baby has moved aside, sparing my piano keys of his slobber, and a child of about 5 shyly approaches, hand in hand with her slightly menacing and fierce-looking mother.
Look, Sarah. Isn't that good. See?? You need to practice hard.
She goes on to ask me all about my musical background and how often I practice. She seems slightly disappointed at my brief story of having given up the piano aged 12 due to dull, formulaic lessons and exams, only returning to the instrument at a later stage when it appealed to me. No doubt she wanted me to set a more conventional example to her daughter, who is apparently made to practice 2 hours each day.
It is a strange thing, to be a reluctant role model in this environment. Middle-class parents are inspired by the sight of a young man earning his living by playing the piano, and use it as an incentive to push their children to practice more and more. However, I feel a responsibility to counteract this, believing that the important thing is to learn to enjoy music, not simply to learn your scales while a cane-wielding old woman with glasses on her nose breathes down your neck. The thought of my piano teacher, urging me to balance an imaginary coin on my hand for half an hour while we ploughed through simplified versions of classical music, still makes me shudder.
And so I spend the next half hour inviting people to help out with the songs. Through the open door people look in and go "awh", and some even join the queue. Helping each child up onto the piano stool, I feel a world away from the hotel, where no oil tycoon, politician or chief exec has ever grabbed my hand, jumped up onto the stool and asked me with longing eyes if they can join in.
