There's the little girl whose shoes are shorter than my hands; who stands on tiptoe to see through the windowed door; whose fingers on the keys sound confident and strong; whose mother cups the back of her daughter's head protectively; or is she just keeping warm from that tiny spring of energy? There's the tall teenage girl with short, short hair whose footfall is softer than snow on the carpet; who seems to bend into walls like a cast shadow; who nods hello but her voice is inaudible and her smile seems to repeat "sorry. i'm so sorry" over and over again. She vanishes into a room, like mist into the sky and I lose her from my mind without meaning to. What instrument does she play? There's the family of four who troop in like soldiers each armed with the right sized violin and the right sized school uniform and the right sized smile. I hear them soon, their tuneful sawing and imagine them practising all in their rooms but the sound leaking out to Mum cooking dinner the beginnings of an orchestra - fledgeling and sweet. There's a girl with long hair who shrugs deeply into her tracksuit her hands disappearing like her eyes behind her fringe. And yet she looks graceful and her violin becomes her and her smile is as fresh as new coloured pencils. She chats to somebody's mother; uncomfortable but polite; her eyes often seeking out the cracks between the ceiling tiles And there's the drums - crashing through the double thickness door and wall insulation and loving their own racket in wholesome dispute. "That's my son!" I smile to myself. He's finding his thunder already. And I think of his grin as he makes the whole house dance with his epic vibrations and the irrepressible rhythm in his soul. It's nice to sit here with nothing to do but wait for my children and yet ... and yet I'm just itching to sit down at a piano.