Carol’s Column

If music be the food of love . . . starve

I KNOW a person who plays Paganini violin concertos in the lavatory.

Me.

And if you're wondering why anyone would want to listen to the sweet and piercing strains of Paganini in such an unprepossessing room — it's simple.

In our household it is my only haven.

We are at the moment living in a state of war. Undeclared, but nevertheless, war.

Other people spring out of bed in the morning and get dressed.

I leap out of bed, discard my fleecy-lined sleepsuit with the down-filled elbows and don — not my Mucci outfit — my sound-proofed ear muffs.

After 17 years of cacophony I have discovered it's the only way to live equitably in this homemade Tower of Babel.

Things came to a head a week ago.

Picture the scene. There we were, a typical, suburban family, sitting down to a peaceful dinner.

And all around the happy sound of much music blasted away.

Now my mother, a small lady with a large verbal capacity, had always maintained that music was an integral part of life.

She'd say "Music is the wholewheat bread of life".

An admirable sentiment if you lived in a monastery — preferably one where the inhabitants had taken a vow of silence.

Anyway, to get back to this charming scene.

"Pass the salt," said my Financial Asset from his usual place at the head of the table.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The salt, pass the salt, please."

"Speak up, I can't hear you."

"I can't shout any louder," he yelled.

And all around was the sound of music.

Loud and deafening.

The Beatles blaring as if their vocal chords were going out of action, Adam and the Ants wailing wildly, Bill Haley rocking around the clock in top gear, Puff the Magic Dragon puffing away and above them all — Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, the chords magnificent in their clashing splendour.

The trouble is — in this family, the fight for recognition and independence is fearful.

Now all the psychologists and psychiatrists say that children should not be stifled — they must be allowed to develop to their full potential in every field.

Academic, sporting, creative and musical.

Which was why we'd encouraged each child to develop along his or her own musical line.

With the result that everyone does their own deafening thing.

This causes a certain amount of stress.

Only yesterday morning, the Beatle freak and the Adam's Antman came to blows when my oldest son accused my youngest of removing his record from the turntable.

We decided to try democracy, that fine institution.

"Nobody in this house will play any music," bellowed my husband.

"There will be silence, total and absolute."

And in the true democratic spirit, his children listened, assimilated the message and did exactly what they wanted to.

Which was to play their different kinds of music on full blast.

But we've come to terms with the situation.

I've invested in earplugs and only this morning the builder started with the soundproofing of the bedroom.

Our surrounding neighbours have all moved out and I received the account from the ear, nose and throat specialist who diagnosed severe trauma to the middle ear caused by exposure to excessive noise.

And the present system has its advantages.

Why only this morning, when my husband growled his usual pre-breakfast morning litany: "Why the hang isn't there a button on this shirt? Why haven't my pants been pressed? Why hasn't my jacket been brushed? I haven't got one clean hankie and none of these socks match. I haven't got a thing to wear!"

Because my ears were incarcerated in their ear-muffs, I was unable to hear a word he said.

He doesn't realise I can lip read.

What joy — while he's naked in the bedroom, I'm listening to Paganini in the lavatory.

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