
I remember receiving my first saxophone when I was approximately 11 years old – the golden light beaming out of its rickety case onto my face, almost blinding me. It was second-hand, given to me by an older sister who had upgraded to shinier and newer instruments after passing a grade or two. Regardless, my new toy gave me an immense amount of joy – dents and all.
What is more, one of my favourite memories as a child was taking a trip with my parents to the instrument repair workshop. This was a place I likened to that of Harry Potter’s experience in Ollivander’s shop full of wands. I clearly remember my mother joking that ‘the instrument chooses you’, and an elderly gentleman with a magnifying glass contraption attached to his glasses, performing some magic on the intricacies of a faulty clarinet. It was such an exciting outing that I debated breaking my new instrument (Kurt Cobain style) in order to pay them another visit, I am embarrassed to admit.
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