Forgive me if I’m a bit crotchety – I was at a bar last night drinking with the staff and you know their measures are largo – more like a treble.
Allegro Adagio, the Italian head clef, came out with some home-made quavers with his special home-made presto and thyme signature, and they repeated on me all night. I had terrible wood wind although I'd never have the brass to tell him. Can you imagine the repercussions? He's something of a sex cymbal round here, though he shares childcare duties with his Irish ex-husband so is also a great coda.
You’ll have to give me a minim; I’ll try to be breve. And, yes, there were a few lines too, I have to confess, so don't give me that chorus of disapproval.
The conductor on the bus home was really interesting; he used to be an architect for football clubs’ chapels of rest. He was instrumental in the building of Man U’s crypt, or so he said. By that time I was pretty pizzed and he might well have been stringing me along. He did snare me with it though, fair play, with his smattering of dim innuendos.
When I got to the hotel I realised I had no way of getting in my room, but luckily the concierge Tom-Tom had a spare set for which I gladly gave my key signature.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
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