Guitar is not a language, nor a form of finger crochet.
No Guitar is a big blue thing that sits on her knee and allows her to make a bad bad noise on it.
She has decided to become proficient enough in Guitar so she can sing songs around the Camp Fire. I am hoping for the Camp Fire's sake that she will become proficient in singing as well as Guitaring because she is not particularly proficient in either at the moment. In fact, if I was a Camp Fire I would have turned tail and run for it by now.
She has a book and a dvd and lots of scraps of paper she has printed off the interweb and even with all this support she hasn't progressed very far.
"Its coming along quite nicely" she yells from the sofa, "You cant expect me to be Bernie Tormé overnight"
"But its not been one overnight has it?" I mutter from the computer, "Its been more like three months of overnight and nothings improved"
"What did you say?" she shouts after a particularly tuneless C resonates around the room,
"I said I'm sure that in a few months you will have improved beyond recognition!" I lie whilst she hammers another version of 'Row Row Row the Boat' into the ground.
"Yeah Baby!" she croons happily and peruses her catalogue for black leather trousers.
I do sometimes despair. This is no life for a cat. She'll have me on keyboards next.
Bob.
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