thank you for the music

 

Visited Bainesy who's dying in hospital.

The dying man true to form looked like death warmed up when I arrived.

My initial conversational sallies did not seem to be helping.

So I turned to prayer.

"Will I pray with you?" I asked.

"Nothing wrong with it," he grunted.

A few prayers.

Still not the atmosphere of warmth, peace and optimism. I like to engender with my visits.

This is bad.

Bad for my ego I mean.

Maybe I'm losing it.

Time to bring out the big guns.

I recommend to anyone visiting the sick to have a few strings to your bow, a repertoire of things you can do to give them a lift.

Lately I've taught myself to sing.

Or as I explained to the patient, it is my firm conviction that a mystical event has taken place in my middle years whereby I have been given the gift of song. I asked him did he mind if I sang a few bars.

Without much enthusiasm he gave me the go ahead.

I launched into Soul Of My Saviour.

As I finished, Bainsy appeared too moved to talk.

Were those tears of joy swimming in his eyes?

Interpreting his silence as an  appropriate encouragement I followed up with Jerusalem.

You know the one that goes:

"Jerusalem

Jerusalem

Life up your hands and sing

Hosanna

In the highest

Hosanna to our King."

It's a cracker.

But you've got to sass it.

Bainsy still hadn't spoken so I sang a few more, crowd pleasers every one, Ave Maria, Silent Night (you can't go wrong with Silent Night) and Our God Reigns.

My voice went a bit squeaky on the choruses of Our God Reigns but I don't think anyone noticed.

The patient seemed enraptured. I was beginning to realise how good I'd gotten at this. I was asking myself how long should I go on? Bono does two hours.

Maybe I could slip in a few John Denvers or a Roger Whitaker.

Presently the sick man spoke.

In good humoured but essentially colourful language, he roundly disabused me of the notion that I had ever been given the gift of song, early in life, late in life or at any other time in my life or anybody else's life for that matter. As politely as he could in the circumstances, ie broaching such a delicate subjec with a singer who can't sing, he forbid me under pain of death to ever try singing in his presence again.

This was the sensation scene of the visit. I recognised it would be hard to top it. I waited a few more minutes so he wouldn't think his lack of appreciation had offended me, and then cheerily enough, I made my excuses and left.

The great performer always knows when to call it a day.

You don't chase the audience as me and Pavarotti always say, him because he's too fat to chase anyone, me because I can't sing.

As I reached the door I glanced back.

Indupitably, Bainsy had quite perked up.

He was like a man who had realised there's worse things than dying.