I could probably measure this time, like TS Eliot’s coffee spoons, in chiropractor bills. To shift my harp around, I lay it flat in the back of a large car, and this is why my mother wants me to drive a second-hand hearse – ‘SO practical! And you’d never have any trouble with road rage!’ She may well be right, but I don’t think I’d much like people nodding at me, solemnly, wherever I go. Although I wouldn’t mind the occasional salute… But when I can’t face the thought of finding a parking spot, I push it along in a trolley with pneumatic tires. I have walked with my harp for up to two hours, through crowded streets, over cobbles and hills – to which my biceps are testament. If only. ‘Knots on a piece of string’, as my gym teacher used to say (not letting that one go, it seems). It’s my poor back that takes the heat. And my thighs, but the less about them, the better. I can run with it - although perhaps it’s more of an ungainly trot - and hauling it up flights of stairs is par for the course. The only time my trolley has ever broken, I was playing for a wedding at a hotel where the lift also, by happy coincidence, happened to be broken. And it was a women-only reception. And none of them would help me, because they didn't want to risk ruining their outfits. And none of the male concierges were allowed upstairs, for religious reasons. And the concierge team was all male. Long story short, I accidentally forced a groom to help me carry my harp up four flights of stairs, minutes before his wedding - he was too polite to tell me that he was the groom. And much too polite to exclaim profanely when it came to rest - momentarily - on his foot.
When it comes to actually playing the harp, I'm a big fan of its intimacy. You have to almost wrap yourself around it to play. I like feeling the weight of it just touching my knees. I don’t like getting blisters, but I enjoy the asbestos fingertips that follow. I love resting my head against the soundboard, and when I was at boarding school, I used to curl up for a nap in the practice rooms, nestled in my harp covers. I occasionally yearn for my former life as a viola player - the joys of really digging into a string and the luxury of a small case are never pleasures I’ll underestimate again. But contrary to the assumption of taxi drivers and knowing pedestrians everywhere, I’ve never wished I played the piccolo.
People often ask me why I started playing the harp (as opposed to the piccolo for example! ho ho ho) and the truest answer is that I’m not sure. I remember desperately wanting to play it as a child, but the whys and wherefores elude me. It was probably for as crudely aesthetic a reason as my coveting its beauty. This is a feeling that hasn’t gone away. Sometimes I think of my harp as an inanimate thing – be it a big, heavy burden or a masterpiece of human craftsmanship. Sometimes I think of it as a friend, often, a nemesis. But I don’t think I have ever looked at my harp without marvelling at the fact that I'm allowed to touch it. What a thing!
Visually, my harp is very striking. I mean it’s basically an ornate wardrobe with strings, or - in its cover - an enormous oven mitt. It's ebony and gold, with a gold (paint) crown and fleur de lis carvings. After trying so many others, I fell in love with this model when I saw one belonging to a very kind man called David, who works at Holywell Music, a harp shop in London. He named his harp Margo, after the character on The Good Life, because ‘she thinks she’s a bit posh.’ I just love that. My harp was made in Chicago, and arrived in a box bigger than my bedroom. My friends and I pushed each other around in it all afternoon.
In terms of a more personal connection I wanted to give it a name. That seemed to be a thing that proper musicians did. My first choice was to name it after Harpo Marx, who I love, but Harpo seemed a silly name for a harp, so then I was going to use his real name, but that was Adolph, so I decided against it. Wisely, I reckon.
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