Crumhorns at dawn

"Please come," says Cultured Mum.

I say nothing. Cultured Mum doesn't so much ask favours as demand sacrifices with potentially life-affecting consequences. Last time I failed to say 'no' quickly enough I found myself drafted in as a last minute replacement for the cookery demonstration at Ladies Night, the annual bonding event organised by Deborah's school.

Parents still talk in hushed voices about my sushi making demonstration. It was going well until Bad Lindy, who was bending over backwards to show everyone exactly which bits of her body were double-jointed, discovered a super flexible section and the shock made her fall on top of my food prep area just as I was talking about the importance of selecting the correctly balanced filling, and overturn it.

It was her idea to pick up the grains of rice from the floor. It was my mistake not to knock her out with the mixing bowl when she started reshaping them into little balls.

Personally, I thought the PTA over-reacted. After all, the salmonella outbreak was limited to just a few teachers and they only had to close the school for a week.

So this time round, I'm extremely wary.

"I've been asked review to review a concert for this music site. Colin's going to be there, and I don't want to give him the wrong idea."

"Colin? Anyone who's called Colin and has a whiny voice qualifies for some sort of disability benefit,"I say. "Anyway, if you're worried, just take your bassoon with you and honk at him if he gets frisky."

"You don't understand," says Classical Mum. "He's a world crumhorn authority. He'll probably take it as a sign that I'm keen. No, I need you as well. Tom refuses to come. He says he'd rather risk his marriage than listen to anything Radio 3 is prepared to do as a live broadcast."

Five hours later I'm sitting in a concert hall between Colin and Cultured Mum who are exchanging remarks about Early Music over my head.

"It's a real antiphonal exchange, isn't it?" laughs Colin. Cultured Mum is right. He definitely has a whiny voice. Perhaps it's all that crumhorn tongueing.

The concert features Shostakovitch, and lots of it. To my mind, it's a classic example from his prolonged, 'I wonder if I should put a recognisable tune in here. Oh, bollocks, can't be arsed. Let's have some more percussion. Oooh, isn't it loud," period, which probably explains my limited success as a music teacher.

Judging by the heartfelt sighs on either side of me, this is a minority opinion.

“I liked the saxophones,” I say, afterwards, trying hard to come up with something penetrating yet original. “Mmm,” says Cultured Mum. “I don’t think there were any saxophones in that piece. In fact, I’m not sure they’d even been invented.” She and Colin exchange indulgent smiles.

"My gooseberry days are over," I say to her, on the way home. "I am not doing this again."

She smiles. "Don't worry," she says. "I expect I'll manage."

I may not have that good a musical ear, but even I can sense a nuance. And if things develop and Tom finds out, will it be crumhorns at dawn?