During the general upheaval of preparing to move, things re-appear that may have been hidden away for years or even decades, case in point, my father's clarinet.
I can't even remember when I acquired it - probably when I cleared Mum's house years ago in a frantic two weeks before it had to be rented out to pay for her nursing home. The instrument has lurked in various cupboards though various moves, an idea of selling it surfacing from time to time to then be squashed by the thought that one of us might learn to play it. Not happening. Mark only hits or bows things - piano keys, cello strings etc, and Ezra has played just about everything else apart from any wind instrument. Me . . . strictly voice since I've ceased being in Samba groups.
And, I suppose I had a certain sentimental attachement to it, not sure why as my useless male parent walked out on Mother and me when I was two months old - and I only met him twice - briefly and with my mother's replacement acting as a neurotic and jealous barrier between us - a whole other story. Recently my dear brother (half-sibling) has enlightened me with more background on the behaviour of my absent Dad; suffice to say, time for the instrument to leave my life.
Of course, as we do, a quick peruse of the internet revealed that it COULD be worth quite a lot. A very lot if we happened to be lucky . . . so Mark, needing to refurnish his dwindling curry spices supply went off to Paris and stopped in at the 'Buffet-Crampon' (maker of the clarinet) headquarters, and waited with anticipation while they inspected the instrument. He called me later to say it and its case are basically worth more as a doorstop. Ho hum, so much for being able to buy a wood stove for the next house, or taking an actual holiday. I'm sure there's some old proverb about not letting one's imagination create ideas of sudden, unexpected wealth . . . something to do with donkeys and or coins found in a brackish ditch.
Beware the glint of gold, half disclosed, ensconced within a patch of trembling bog reeds. If the donkey's hoof should dislodge a roundness of metal, it hath no doubt the chance of being no more than a momentarily sun-kissed penny.
Or a Corona bottle top.
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