Monique played the oboe in the symphony orchestra. If the truth be told, she was a snob; an utter cultural elitist. When the guest conductor included a selection of Christmas Carols into the seasonal program Monique refused to take part. The orchestra was there to play masterpieces and not jingles. Composers such as Bach and Mozart and Beethoven and Tchaikovsky were high on her list. Even the contemporary composer, Haruto Takahashi, was worthy of consideration. In fact, Haruto Takahashi had been commissioned by the orchestra to compose a new work especially for them. The new work was to have a spectacular cadenza in the middle to be played solo by the oboist.
Oh the excitement! Oh the expectation! Monique and Haruto Takahashi were to meet to discuss the intricacies of the proposed 30 second cadenza. It was then that they fell in love.
Haruto Takahashi had a reputation for being a bit of a rake; but it was Monique’s behaviour that stunned the orchestra. The Woodwind Section in particular couldn’t believe what was going on. Monique had gone from upper class oboist to trollop overnight. Meanwhile, Haruto Takahashi had gone off to compose his masterpiece. Monique cast her eye around the String Section. And then the Brass Section. And then the Percussion Section. Oh that timpanist! He knew how to hit a thing or two!
Haruto Takahashi produced his work. There was a magnificent oboe cadenza. Unfortunately the orchestra had to employ another oboist. Monique was in Bermuda with a plumber she had met when he was unblocking the orchestra’s kitchenette sink.
He brought the woman out of her 😋 Sorry, couldn’t resist. Whatever caused it though? Jealousy? Misery? Guilt?
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I think she should be shut up in an oubliette.
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Ha ha! Or stung by a spindrift from hell and never allowed to listen to the aubade of the songbird.
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!!
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On another note, I enjoyed this. It showed an all new dimension to your writing.
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Thanks – I was just being a little silly I think!
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Nah it’s good to explore mature themes (other than murder, beatings, ghosts and human pies) sometimes.
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I’ve always wanted to write a murder. Maybe I will after Easter.
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That’s awfully dark. Whatever happened to sonnets by Victorian gentleman in trains wondering about what life would be with an alluring woman they saw on the platform?
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You didn’t even need to finish the story… when I read “Oh that timpanist! He knew how to hit a thing or two!” that was it…game, set, match. Great story.
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I am rather partial to the oboe.
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That would have worked also.
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I guess she’s enjoying a new kind of beau…
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At least she’s not blowing her own trumpet.
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You sure he didn’t unclog the commode?
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I wasn’t there at the time so can’t be too sure.
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I was stalked by a lady who played oboe in the community orchestra.
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I trust you weren’t the timpanist.
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Just because I know how to hit a thing or two doesn’t mean I hit everything!
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lolZ
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The whole story is a beautifully orchestrated masterpiece.
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Thanks Herb. A veritable symphony of words..
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A new theme – and interesting: a sexually predatory oboist. Who woulda thunk?
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I thunk you made me LOL !
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I’ve always thought oboists were the floozies of the orchestra. But I dated a tympanist once. Very inaccurate.
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I always though clarinetists as being the floozies! (Rhapsody in Blue!) Flute players were chatterboxes. Bassoonists were simply boring. And oboists were lonely people sitting on top of a mountain looking at a view! I have always admired the patience of the kettle drum player.
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