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“Facebook Official” is possibly the most annoying phrase that never seems to go away. Nothing is real until it’s Facebook Official. Since when did I need to post my life up on Facebook for it to become real? I’m fairly certain that I was dating Russell before I announced it on Facebook but one question my cousin continually asked me was:”when are you making it Facebook Official?” In her eyes it wasn’t a serious relationship until I’d posted it.

I have friends who have tried to fight this. If you read their profiles then Facebook will insist that they are twelve and ten years old and are married. Alarmingly this is fine – shouldn’t Facebook have a filter for that? You’d have thought that flagging up child marriage would be a priority, but apparently not. As the marriage is “Facebook official” though it must be true and both of my friends have been asked how long they’ve been married and if it was a nice service.

On a more depressing note my poor mum was greeted by name by one of her managers today after adding him on Facebook last night. It’s the first time he’s used her name yet she’s been working there for six months. Facebook Official can’t apply to our names as well, surely? Does this mean that there are millions of nameless people running round out there who only become real once they’ve joined Facebook and uploaded a photo? What if they don’t upload a photo? Does their visage cease to exist and they become just a blue outline? Where does it end?

It should begin with common sense. I accept, as reality, that people are still doing things when I am not around. I also accept that people sometimes lie. If you add these things together you get Facebook posts that are not only random but often completely idiotic and pointless as well and that’s fair enough because it’s cyber-space not tangible reality.

However as they’ve written it on Facebook it’s Facebook Official and so must be true.

My Best Teaching Aid – Bonnie the dog

It’s all over You’ve Been Framed. Little Johnny gets out his recorder and the dog goes nuts. Or little Suzie picks up her violin and the cat runs a mile. I am, predominantly, a saxophone teacher which means that ever year I get new students who need to be taught which way to hold the thing and which end to blow in. Like everyone else (you and I included) the first few lessons tend to be evil honking affairs about as musical as a stepped on frog.  Through it all, though, Bonnie will sit in the corner of the music room and have a nice kip.

She’s not a small dog, being half Labrador and half Alsatian. I had worried that she would intimidate my students but, bless her, she’s so happy to see each and every one of them that she instantly puts them at ease. For the kids that don’t practice this must be great because they can come and see their teacher and get a big hug from Bonnie before confessing that they didn’t actually learn D minor this week.

One thing always confused me though. Bonnie kept silent all the time I was teaching but as soon as I started to practice she’d begin to sing. What the hell?? Is she self conscious of her singing ability? Does she not like my sax? Is she respecting my students? All these things and more were running through my head as I tried to play Harlem Nocturne – The Woof Chorus.

Then came Gustav. A mature student who’d been teaching himself for about two years and came to me to work out theory as much as anything. He had a nice tone, full range and a good feel for the music. Bonnie thought he was great but still sat in her corner watching the lesson, not a single howl escaping her furry muzzle.

Three months later Gustav had a break through. He arrived at the lesson keen to show me what he had achieved that week. I was impressed, he’d broadened his tone considerably in that time.

 Then Bonnie joined in. Gustav’s face fell a mile, “I thought I was doing so well,” he said “but now the dog is singing it must be awful.” But for me it all clicked into place. “No,” I said, “she only sings when she likes it.”

From then on that became a bench mark. Every student asks the same question; “when will I be able to play well?” and thanks to Bonnie I always had an answer. “When Bonnie sings you know you’re doing well.”

Sadly Bonnie has retired from teaching and gone to live on a farm with my parents (that’s not a metaphor, she really has.) Never again will I have a teaching aid quite as good as she was.

My Keilwerth Needs A Name

Why is it that giving your instrument a name is seen as blisteringly un-cool? I’ve seen people shy away from me when I call me sax by its name, like they think they might catch un-cool vibes just by being near me. But I really don’t understand why.

A professional musician builds up a relationship with their instrument. You spend hours alone with it, the pads wear according to how you play and you even hundreds of pounds modifying it to your specifications. You worry about it if it gets to hot or too cold and most of us wouldn’t contemplate leaving it in the car. Some pets don’t get treated this well (poor things.)

I’m quite happy to tell people that my tenor is called Sam, my back-up is called Dean, my bari’s name is monster and my flute is called Castiel. (I know there is a theme here but it actually wasn’t intentional until Castiel came along.) The only instrument with a name that hasn’t stuck is my clarinet and that’s probably because I haven’t spent enough time with it.

Now I have a problem because I traded my lovely Selmer alto ‘Tatty’ for a Keilwerth alto and I can’t find it a fitting name. It’s actually a bizarre reason to practice more because only by getting to know the sax better will I find it the perfect name. Bet you haven’t tried that one on your students have you?

“That’s right kids; if you do a lot of practice you’ll be able to give your sax a really good name.”

(And I wonder why people think I’m strange.)