It might have been the bank of Geranium macrorrhizum ‘autumn leaf ’ which had gone leggy and floppy in the mid-summer sun. It might have been the intermingled stalks of Erysimum cheiri ‘Persian carpet’ which had passed their best. I can’t recall now. But whichever it was, I cursed the offending flora with some choice Anglo-Saxonisms when my secateurs deadheaded the tip of my own finger instead of the plant. Ouch.
Not the whole fingertip, thank goodness. It was just a deep slice into the pad of the third finger of the left hand. Cue gallons of antiseptic, layers of tight plasters, and a stiff drink. That’ll teach me not to bother with gardening gloves, I thought.
But, interestingly, it taught me a lot more too. A day or so later, I tried to play the piano and naturally found myself instinctively avoiding the use of that finger. Sometimes it was impossible: certain chords simply couldn’t be played. But sometimes I would automatically play a scale using the remaining workable fingers, and be surprised that it would not sound as awful as I’d expected. Most of the time these readjustments happened without my needing to think about them.
I wasn’t too worried about having to re-learn anything. I was fairly sure that a couple of weeks would set my finger on itssums up all the evidence, if you’re interested.) The point upon which most people agree, however, is that his decision to turn his energies to composition proved to be an immeasurable gain to the world of music.
