While I was practising on my violin today, in our small, two-bedroom apartment in Athens and playing Boulevard of Broken Dreams for the eight millionth time Dad stomped in and said, “My ears are bleeding, I know I’m meant to be supportive but please shut up!”
We came to a compromise, he would do wound dressing on my violin (Can you tell he’s a nurse?) and I could keep playing, but he also requested I play a new song.
After he raided our first-aid kit this is what it looked like.
It worked surprisingly well. After he’d put dressings over the f holes and a band-aid over the bridge it was a lot quieter. It now sounds a bit tiny but it’s worth it as I don’t need to wear earplugs whenever I practice now.
He’s still trying to convince me to learn a quieter instrument six years after I started, I still firmly resist.