A Jaunt to Remember

Laura McMillan

I am standing in the centre of Glasgow's most prominent avenue of retail: Sauchiehall Street. It is another spine-tingly bitter cold day, in which I'm half expecting a troop of artic penguins draped in woolly scarves to come waltzing around the corner. Yet I realise that even if an entire colony of artic critters- polar bears and all, were to come waddling along, with Debenhams bags in tow, no-one would notice. The people are crammed shoulder to shoulder, tottering by as fast as their frozen limbs will allow them. And although they are trying to keep their distance, it is obvious that they are secretly trying to absorb the radiating heat from others. The overpowering desire to not bump into someone they know, is etched upon their faces. The thought of any more time between themselves, and a hot cup of tea at home seems to be driving them along. However, in spite of the red faces tingling with the cold, I can see that there is something distinctly magical about this particular day. The sparkling frost glitters upon the pavement just like powdered diamonds, and the icy puddles look like giant mirrors, throwing off bright reflections of the snowy white sky above.

'Is this the fiddle shop Laura?' These were the words of my 84-year old grandmother standing beside me, of whom I am deeply fond of. She was pointing towards the building with the elaborate window display of shimmering instruments of silver and gold. 'Yes, but why?' I demanded. I couldn't think why she would want to go in a place like that. Yes, I did play the flute, which was a real passion of mine, yet I was quite content with my borrowed school flute, which is in fact, quite rightly dubbed , 'The Flute From Hell'. Surely, (and hopefully) my grandmother was not having some late-life crisis that was possessing her to adopt some crazy, extravagant hobby! Images of my Gran kitted out in full gothic attire and performing a wild cadenza on the electric guitar poured into my head. 'Gran, there's no easy way to say this but... maybe you should stick to knitting, I mean you're as young as you feel, but don't you think a rock band is taking things to extreme? My Gran laughed heartily, (she and I both share the same sense of humour). There was a real twinkle in her misty blue eyes as she told me not to be daft, and why don't we, as she likes to put it, 'take a jaunt inside?'

The warmth of the shop embraced us as we wandered around the store. In truth we felt like strangers drifting through this wondrous musical kingdom, which was one that we didn't really know much about. Different sounds poured from all areas, from Ghanaian to Baroch and they all seemed to emerge into one big musical concoction. We spent quite some time, sifting through the music books and scores, giggling occasionally at the amusing names of composers, take it from me, it is comical to hear your grandmother pronounce 'Tchaikovsky!' We received a few glowering looks from the odd 'culture vulture', but that was to be expected in a place such as this. I was mesmerised by the solid silver flutes, which were displayed in a gleaming glass cabinet. 'Wow', I breathed. 'Aren't they amazing?' I turned around to look at my Gran, but to my dismay, she wasn't there. I scanned the area, yet she was nowhere to be found. I told myself that she was probably away, in search for her electric guitar, and in turn, this made me laugh. Realising, that I must have been a strange sight, chuckling to myself, I briskly moved on. I (quite literally) bumped into a grand piano, and I was transfixed by the sheer mass of it. It was luxuriously grand, with its spotless mahogany cabinet and pearly white keys, just inviting you to touch them. I finally pulled myself away, deciding not to contaminate it with my substandard version of 'chopsticks'. I wandered around aimlessly, until I finally found what I had been looking for : my Gran. Before I could began my rant of 'where-were-you-how-could-you-leave-me?!' She produced a little metal case, and from it she pulled out the most elegant and striking object that I have ever seen: a gleaming silver flute! I gasped, speechless as she placed it in my hands. The light, cold touch sent shivers up my spine, as I gently tapped the delicate keys. 'Go on, give us a tune lassie!' She smiled. I laughed as I breathed out a series of tuneful, clear notes. 'It's perfect Gran!' I exclaimed. And very gently and ever so carefully I slipped my new flute into its case, and I finally did what I was so desperate to do: I threw my arms around her. 'Thank you so much', I whispered. 'You're worth it sweetheart', she said, 'You're worth it'.

And so we left the warmth of the music shop, and carrying my new flute with great care, I couldn't seem to hide my smile. 'So that was why we went there', I said, suddenly understanding the purpose of our strange venture. 'Yes', she replied. 'Well, you didn't think I was going to buy myself an instrument did you? I mean it's all very nice but you can keep your Tchaikovsky, I'd much rather listen to you play any day!'

'Thanks Gran', I laughed. It truly had been a special day and, I smiled to myself, with a very special person indeed.