I was delighted this morning when the postie delivered my package. I removed the cardboard cover and set Mr Arban upon my music stand along with 120 Hymns for Brass Band and several loose sheets of music. I hurriedly put away my gardening tools and returned to my music practice corner. I found Mr Arban sat on the floor on top of the hymn book and loose sheets, and the music stand bowed down towards him. I decided that Mr Arban wasn't comfortable sharing space with these diminutive tunes, so I straightened up the music stand and set the elderly gentleman in pride of place. I departed for a while to make coffee, returning to find Mr Arban once again sat on the floor with the stand bowed towards him even lower than before. I presumed that Mr Arban thought he deserved a little more attention, so I straightened the music stand once more and carefully balanced the pages open at "syncopation". Several exercises went well and were quickly ticked off, but it wasn't long before he had the better of me. I made Mr Arban comfortable once again at "scales & arpeggios". We had fun for a while, then he started insisting on more and more flats and sharps. Tempers soon frayed and I walked away in frustration. I returned an hour later to find Mr Arban once again sat on the floor. The music stand stood there headless, totally decapitated and a pitiful sight. I picked up the fallen maestro and placed him on my desk; what is this monster I have invited into my home, what is this weighty tome that destroys both man and music stand. I sit here in the cinders of my own musical folly. My finger draws in the dust on the floor, I etch major keys with up to three flats. I make a wish for my fairy god mother to appear and utter those magic words, "You shall go to the Carnival of Venice!"