Late last year we redecorated in short order the kitchen and hallways. Rather, I redecorated the hallways, and, as I didn’t have the time for the kitchen as well, we were put onto a friend of a friend who would do the kitchen for a reasonable price while I completed the woodwork elsewhere.
Nice chap. In fact, lovely chap. A fine decorator to boot.
By profession, I quickly discovered, a jazz trumpeter
All builders, decorators, plumbers, electricians and workmen of whatever stripe are whistlers. It is surely in the union rules, nestled between two sugars in the tea, thanks, and I normally don’t carry those, but I might just have one in the van.
So, a whistler who is musical. That’s alright, I thought, setting back to the woodwork. Makes a nice change, tunefulness. Perhaps he does requests.
Some hours later, the awful truth has long since dawned. The terror, like any good disaster, is threefold.
First, with his nigh perfect embouchure and practised projection, the chap can’t half whistle at a volume.
Second, did I mention that he is a jazz trumpeter? The meandering freeform beebop riffing is impressive, but hard on the listener. A couple of times I spot a motif returning after half an hour on the sidelines, but most of the time I’m pressed to tell if we’re still on ‘Oh when the Saints’ or if we’ve moved on to ‘Fly me to the Moon’.
Third, Oh Lord, third, the chap has of course mastered circular breathing.
It is incessant.
In the end, I am reduced to ever more frequent mugs of tea (two sugars cheers) purely to enforce a five minute intermission.
Kitchen looks nice, mind.
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