Own Goal

Everyone is supposed to have goals, aren't they? I became disturbed that I didn't seem to have any, so I bought a book, a few months ago. "Be Your Own Life Coach!" it exhorted enthusiastically. It promised me that in seven days I would have a compelling action plan, covering all the key areas of my life. Hurrah.

It divided life up into several sections, shown in a neat pie chart (no, I can't remember what they were - probably family, health & fitness, friends, career, all that..) I had to rate how satisfied I was with my life in these areas. My chart when I drew it was hideously mis-shapen and asymmetrical. Now there's a surprise. At first I was upset. Oh no, my life is all out of kilter - then I thought, hey I knew that, that's why I bought the flippin' book.

Pulled myself together and I set down some goals in each area. Wrote them in the neat little charts that were in the book. Drew up steps, how to make my way towards achieving them. Put them on a little card to carry around with me. I pursued these goals, half-heartedly, listlessly, for a while. If I was honest, they did not speak to me - I didn't really care whether I achieved them or not. I had created the sort of goals I thought I ought to have: I didn't know what I really wanted, couldn't find anything that mattered enough.

I still don't know now. I'm wondering if it's to do with the fact that a lot of the things I might want, underneath, I can't have unless there are earth-shattering changes that make me feel weary even just allowing them to creep into my peripheral vision. Everything staying the same is a dispiriting prospect too: I feel I'm between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Saw a great article the other day about how women in their twenties fantasise about meeting Mr Right and moving in together, the wedding, children, all that. Women in their thirties are too busy balancing family and career to fantasise about anything other than getting a decent night's sleep. Women in their forties, we fantasise about living in a small, uncluttered house with evenings free to read, chat to friends, take up forgotten hobbies, flirt on-line - and alternate weekends blissfully empty of children and available for hot, dirty sex with Sean Bean.

My newly-single friends however are finding that, as I have long suspected, all the nice men are hooked up with nice women, living in nice houses with nice children, nice holidays and a nice life. Even Sean Bean. They might be kicking over the traces just enough for an illicit skirmish, but they are staying where they are. The nice men are sticking it out for the kids, or staying because that's what they promised, or better with the devil-they-know.

So here I am - drifting, aimless, often lonely, busy oh god yes, but without any clear goals. Apart from one. There's one thing I'm pursuing relentlessly, with focus, with commitment, with enthusiasm. No matter the work commitments, the mounting ironing-basket, the taxi service, I am finding the time for this. You'd never guess it - unless you asked the girls. They know.

I want to play Lullaby Of Birdland, no mistakes.

I grew up to a soundtrack no one hears these days. Deeply unfashionable. Frank Sinatra, ok. Mel Torme, Peggy Lee, Julie London, Georgie Fame.... and I want to play the piano like George Shearing. (Who he? Shame on you). All those lessons with Mr Fenwick's wrinkly hand squeezed between my thighs till I told mum, the Beethoven, the fucking Goldberg Variations (music to prompt OCD and a nervous breakdown if ever there was an accompaniment to that) it doesn't help you play like George, no way, no how. My Uncle George, he's a jazz pianist too, had his own quintet, played with George Shearing sometimes, before they all went off to America.

It's a bloody hard piece (if you're a grade-5-at-school piano player like me). Every chord needs to be mapped out note by note. It's in a weird key to start with, and then all sharpened and flattened. And when you play it slowly, to learn it, each individual chord sounds wrong: they only make sense in the progression of the phrase. Undeterred, I am making my way through. It's been taking me ages, months. The commitment I'm showing, the time that I'm carving out for it, the slow but perceptible progress...... maybe anything is possible......

(Well maybe not playing it like this... maybe that's not possible. But certainly something worth trying):http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1CAgSbNDLc&feature=PlayList&p=2C3EE439D886B3D3&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=47