Piano Man's In Need Of A Plastic Head

Day 35, Wednesday, Feburary 4, 12.21pm - My piano teacher has some good news for me, and some bad.
(Oh, yes, sorry, I'd forgotten to mention. Learning the piano is my third NYR, after (i) getting back to my 1989 weight and (ii) emailing as many as my old friends and colleagues as I can find in my email box).
The good news?
I am not, it transpires, tone deaf, as I had always imagined. And I could learn to sing, he says, I really could.
"Not that I would necessarily pay to listen," adds Neil Piano Teacher after forcing me to hum 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'.
Apparently I have never recovered from being humiliated by my prep school music teacher, who used to make each pupil stand up in front of the class and sing. As a result, my vocal chords have been tied in the tightest of knots ever since. Appropriately, that acutely short-tempered teacher was called O'Kill and still stalks my nightmares to this day.
The bad news? Well, after four lessons and a fair few hours of practice, I currently perform - and I use a direct quote - like a "buffoon". I'm willing enough, apparently, but my fingers do not appear to be capable of obeying the simplest of commands, my timing is erratic and I have the disconcerting habit of humming the wrong tunes while clapping out a piece of music.
"I'm not sure I could do that if I tried," says Neil Piano Teacher, secretly impressed and not-so-secretly exasperated.
Apart from that, everything is fine.
To my utter surprise, I am rather enjoying this introduction to crotchets and quavers, even if much of what NPT says seems to be in medieval Latvian (what the heck are tonics and mediants and sub-dominants? - answers on a postcard. I just nod whenever Neil strays into Latvian, press down the nearest available key and smile simply at him while hoping the question will go away.)
Emma, meanwhile, who is also having lessons, remembers everything. She just plays. She just does. I think, she does. I ponder and she presses keys. Apparently, it's something to do with mental plasticity. She's malleable and flexible and open and I'm hard-wired and ancient and as pliable as ironing boards.
My measurable goal, incidentally, is to get to grade three within the year. I was told by one of my School Mum Chums that I'd struggle to get beyond grade two, so I'm determined to show her.
One current form, I'll do well to find middle C by December 31.