Music and movement

"- so I hope you'll all take great care of it as it's a very special instrument that's been in my family for a very long time," says Sasha. "Don't you agree, Mrs Philistine?"

There's a pause as one of the teaching assistants, under instructions, prods me with the business end of a yellow and black HB school pencil, jolting me abruptly out of my sun-drenched, Sasha-less reverie and back to the grim reality of assembly.

I nod, dumbly, while the word 'instrument' - the only one to have reached me, conjures up visions of Sasha admiring her heirloom collection of various torture devices, all mellow wood and gleaming metal, buffed up with nowhere to go.

"What instrument?" I hiss.

"The piano, silly. Haven't you noticed it's different? Sasha's donated it to the school," the teaching assistant hisses back. Given a heavy drinking session with Vicky and Bad Lindy last night, causing every object in my line of vision to splinter agonisingly into zig zag lines - something that, in Sasha's case, can only be a blessing - it's as much as I can bear to open my eyes at all, let alone get them to focus.

"And now, let's have our hymn," says Sasha. "Something really uplifting. I think 'Morning has broken,' would be nice. Sorry - what was that, Mrs Philistine?'

"Just a bit of dry retching, Sasha. Nothing to worry about," I think of saying, but instead stifle my groans as I shuffle cautiously and agonisingly over to the piano.

It's during the opening verse that I begin to suspect that it's not just the morning that's having problems.

The piano normally cowers against the wall as if terrified, though, given the treatment it receives at my hands, who can blame it?

As my right foot aims, optimistically, for the loud pedal and, as usual, misses, thumping the wooden base instead, there's a juddering, creaking sound as if the piano is attempting to join in. Suddenly it's pressed up close against both my knees, like an attention-seeking labrador. "Down, Spot," I mutter - but it has no effect. Blackbird may indeed have spoken, like the first bird - but he's clearly not the only one.

And it's only just started. At 'Praise for the springing, fresh from the word,' I pump up the volume and the piano shifts a foot to the left. I follow it, lagging two beats and several keys behind.

'Sprung in completeness where His feet pass,' and there's a jolt to the right. I lunge again, hitting a random, though nicely arranged, bunch of black notes.

'Born of the one light, Eden saw play.' I can only be glad Eden isn't around now, as the piano hits the back wall again, though only temporarily and I fall on top of it.
I'm just getting the hang of what's coming to resemble a slightly unusual take on 'Simon Says,' when the hymn ends, after a third verse that sounds as if the Musique Concrete movement, acting en masse, has taken out Christina Rosetti with a length of lead piping and then fired the various body parts from a series of cannons.

"You seem to be struggling," says Sasha, after the school has filed out.

"Not at all," I say, wondering if there's a way of luring the piano back to the wall by using a particularly attractive little glockenspiel as bait. "It's just that the piano's particularly lively today. It's got a fine range, hasn't it. I'd say it could be as much as 20 feet."

There's a pause, during which I wonder whether I can get away with asking her to sign a request form to fit 360 degree castors to the piano stool together with sat nav.

"I see the problem," announces Sasha, inspecting the piano base. "The lock hasn't been applied to the moving wheels. I'll call the site manager and we'll get it sorted out within the hour. Obviously you'd worked that out."

"Obviously," I echo. "Mind you, leave it like this and it could add a whole new dimension to music and movement."