One of my neighbours plays the guitar. Beautiful, lilting, sing-to-your-inner-soul kind of guitar. I was hanging out another basket of washing on the clothes line today (it is a rare day that I don’t hang out at least TWO baskets) and had the very good fortune to be treated to the magical sound of classical guitar float over our back fence. For a second or two, I thought it was someone playing a CD but on a closer listen, I realised that it was someone simply letting the music within decide where their fingers were going.
Gosh, they were good – I could’ve listened to them play for ages (except by then I would have had sunburn as it was still around 35 degrees outside) – and although it possibly may have been because of the unbelievable heat, I also enjoyed the little journey my mind began to take, the music conjuring up pictures of me, relaxation and a long, cool drink, reclining on the sparkling sands of somewhere exotic. *smiles* Oh yeah.
I’m not exactly sure which particular house this talented musician lives in, and to be honest I don’t actually need to know. Sometimes, a little mystery is good, right? All I know is that as long as they keep on playing, I’ll be quite happy.
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