To the man in the flat below me

The man in the flat below me

is learning to play the trumpet.

It’s only as I write this sentence that I realise I have no idea whether it’s a man or a woman — but it’s definitely a man. If reverse sexism existed, I suppose this would be reverse sexism. Trumpet lady would use a mute; she would not announce her new hobby daily with a literal fanfare.

It’s not a trumpet child either; what parent would buy their child a trumpet?

I wonder what it is that prompts a man to learn the trumpet? There’s nothing sexy about it, unlike, say, a guitar or even the whistle. It’s also not a particularly gratifying instrument — does good trumpeting actually sound that good? Wouldn’t good flute-ing be better?

No, I don’t think trumpet man is trying to impress anyone. This is a personal endeavour.

He’s got much better since he began, which you might find difficult to believe if you heard him today. But I’ve been with him since day one: the evening he first picked his trumpet up out of its velvety, perfectly shaped case — like an enormous puzzle piece that might fill the hole in his soul. I was there.

I wonder if it’s accountability for giving up smoking — a celebration of newfound lung capacity? I wonder whether the trumpet was left to him by a mysterious distant relative, and now he is compelled by a deep ancestral force to learn its secrets? I wonder whether his friends know.

I look forward to approximately 7pm; I crack open my windows in anticipation. “You did it!” I want to say. “You’ve been struggling with that bit all week!”

I’ve always thought there’s something incredibly vulnerable, and intimate, about practising an instrument when people can hear.

If you’d asked me, trumpet man wouldn’t have been the neighbour I wanted. But trumpet man, with his plaintive toots telling us to fail and fail loudly, and fail every day, is the neighbour we all need.

I’ve picked up the ukulele for the first time in years. You won’t know it, trumpet man, but I’ll join you at seven tonight, and together we’ll make terrible music. It’ll be lovely.