I sat for half an hour in Sheffield’s Winter Garden this afternoon.
There was a music festival happening.
While I read one of the books I had just bought from Waterstones ‘The Origin of (almost) Everything’, I listened to a young guy playing a bassoon. I haven’t ever seen a bassoon played live before. I have no doubt listened to it mixed-into classical orchestral music.
This was a solo. He sounded beautiful. Like a swan, a goose, an oboe and someone in mourning.