Master Class with Boris

So, it cannot be denied that slowly but surely my brain has started to take on the colour, consistency and intelligence of mushy peas (which I so despise) since the beginning of my 6 month work abstinence. I feel as though my return to England, coupled with overwhelming boredom and impending dread for fear of being alone all day have drastically intensified the deterioration of my central neurons and it is almost guaranteed that before the sun sets on this day (which is in about 6 hours) I will have slipped into another state of dementia altogether. Yes, I am bored, lonely and frustrated at having nothing to do here. I feel as though I have decided to take 2 weeks of phoney sick leave and as a result have resorted to skulking around town, saturated with guilt and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible......

It's a good thing (for a lot of reasons) that I went to spend Monday night with my Godparents. They say a change is as good as a holiday (not that I need anymore of those) and I needed a change of scenery from number 8 Freke Rd. Going to my Godparents' house is like going home for me. I have lived there just shy of 2 years and the familiar sounds of Natalie practicing her piano and Robert's deep voice on the telephone are most comforting. It is such a real home, filled with treasures like champagne, elegant crockery and privacy. It is so tastefully furnished and welcoming, a sanctuary in noisy London. Most important of all though, are the people inside it, my adoptive family, who I thrust myself upon 2 years ago and have been stuck to ever since.
They have shared a part of London with me that I am quite sure most South Africans here have not experienced. They have involved me in many aspects of their family life which have taken me right across London, out into Oxford and down into Surrey and beyond. And what happened to me yesterday is a perfect example of just how interesting life with my adoptive family can be: While we were having dinner, Natalie's extraordinarily talented, eccentric and rumoured to be aristocratic Russian piano teacher called to say that the following morning the maestro, BORIS PETRUSHANSKY would be giving a Master class at The Royal Academy of Music. Now to give you some background, a few moths ago we had Sofya Gulyak come and stay with us and play for us (our own private concert) at Brookgreen while she was competing in the London Piano Festival. Sofya won second prize and then went on to win first prize at the LEED'S PIANO COMPETITION this year (the first ever female winner). This young up and coming star's teacher is Boris Petrushansky and so it would be tantamount to treason for us to miss an opportunity to see him teach and play.
On arrival at the Academy, we were ushered into Duke's Hall, a very grand yet intimate setting for the recital and on Natalie and Lydia's insistence, we were seated first row on the left, so we could see the pianist's fingers of course (I must confess I did not know this was the reason) What an experience this Master class was. The Academy offered up its most talented pianists to be instructed, coached and occasionally teased by the Maestro (he compared one part of the student's rendition of Prokofiev's Sonata no.2 with the sounds of Chinese water torture) It was fascinating to hear him warble off in Russian while transforming the piece with his own interpretations. He made the music come alive with his metaphors and imagery and even a musica non-intelligentsia like me could not help but be inspired as he struck or caressed the keys with such passion.

Such little mornings are an ever welcome distraction from the depths of boredom and self-loathing which arise from unemployment and a subsequent lack of routine. They are the benefits of having an artistically inspired God mother who has lived here for 30 years. They are also, a gentle reminder that London is not such a bad place after all and that varied and exciting life really does exist beyond the boundaries of the Northcote Road.