The Strangeness Of Lessons

I’m writing this just after a piano lesson. Halfway through playing a piece (a stellar place of thought, second only to the shower). And I thought to myself. How strange is this?
I’m sitting inside the home of a an elderly frail woman. She’s French, I think. She’s old, really old, like she probably was there for the liberation of Paris (if she is really French). I think she was something of a model in her youth. She had a husband, never mentions him. She has a strange assortment of books, like one detailing the birth of Jesus but rather from the point of his parents and ends with the birth of Jesus.
For half an hour a week my parents send me to this mysterious woman’s house to learn the craft of a strange device made of wood and tensioned pieces of metal string. They don’t mind doing this, they think it essential. Frankly I didn’t find it odd until I hit the middle of this Scarlatti.
Anyway the lesson came and went and I managed to type all this on a tiny keyboard on my phone (smaller than usual) AND IS INVISIBLE!!

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