Peter and the Wolf

When I was at primary school our teachers were not good and not imaginative; they never stretched our imaginations or developed our growing desire to learn. On rainy days we would be left alone in the classroom at lunch time unsupervised and we loved to commit the “crime” of lifting the piano lid and playing it ourselves. Of course none of us - except a couple of very lucky children - had piano lessons; our parents could not afford that sort of unnecessary expense. So when we played the piano it was our own free form expression, and maybe as many as five children could comfortably fit side by side next to each other at the piano and we made an almighty discordant sound.

But wasn't this great! Children initiating their own expression and creativity, unsupervised by adults. Any good teacher would have instantly given them all piano lessons, recognising the learning opportunity and the need and enthusiasm of the children to learn. But did the teacher that walked into the classroom on hearing the cacophony from the staffroom do this? Not on your nelly. The keyboard cover would be slammed down on the children's fingers and they would be told to sit down quietly in disgrace.

Music lessons were unimaginative. I remember having to have the music of Prokofiev via Peter and the Wolf thrust down our unwilling throats by more than one teacher over the primary school years. Did we want this? No! We wanted to learn the music of the theme of Gerry Anderson's Thunderbirds and Batman. This was our enthusiasm, this is what we wanted to learn. But it was bloody Peter and the Wolf that we had to dance round the school hall too.

“Just imagine that you are Peter, children! Jump and skip like Peter would, Children!” the teacher would shout, so we all skipped and bounced around in our black plimsolls, self conscious in the knowledge that we looked stupid, especially the boys.

Then we had to bring in empty plastic containers which we filled with dry white rice, and had to shake them around, like maracas, in time to the beat of Peter gambolling in the meadow. This was so boring. I used to quietly unscrew the lid and nibble some of the dry rice grains; this was much more interesting.

Even now I really, really hate Peter and The Wolf. I even hate Prokofiev. When his music comes on the radio, I imagine the taste of that dry rice in my mouth; as dry as the quality of education I received as a child.

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