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I’m 89 Years Old. They Tried to Scam Me over the Phone—But I Used to Be an Engineer.

I’m 89 years old. Someone just tried to scam me on the phone. But they didn’t know I used

The Cupboard and the Scales She reached into the cupboard, not in search of memories, but for a jar of pickled cucumbers for her salad. On the top shelf, behind a box of Christmas lights, the corner of a case stuck out—one that was never meant to be in her flat anymore. The fabric had darkened, the zipper got stuck. She tugged, and from the depths emerged the long, narrow body of a violin case, like a stretched-out shadow. She placed the jar on the stool by the door so she wouldn’t forget, then crouched right down, as if that made it easier not to decide. The zipper gave way on the third try. Inside lay a violin. The varnish had dulled in places, strings hung loose, the bow looked like an old broom. But the shape was unmistakable, and something clicked inside her chest, like a light switch. She remembered how, back in Year Nine, she’d carried this case across the entire neighbourhood, embarrassed by how silly she thought she looked. Then there was college, work, a wedding—and one day she just stopped going to lessons. Life was busy elsewhere. The violin was sent for safekeeping to her parents, then it came with her things when she moved, and now it lay here, in the cupboard among bags and boxes. Not offended, just forgotten. She lifted the instrument carefully, as if it might fall apart. The wood grew warm under her palm, though it was chilly in the cupboard. Her fingers found the fingerboard immediately, and then—awkwardness. Her hand didn’t remember how to hold it, as if it was a stranger’s thing she’d borrowed without permission. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen. She stood up, closed the cupboard, but didn’t put the case back. She left it in the hallway, propped against the wall, and went to turn off the hob. She could make the salad without cucumbers. She caught herself already looking for an excuse. That evening, once the dishes were done and nothing remained on the table but a plate of bread crumbs, she brought the case into the living room. Her husband sat in front of the TV, flicking through channels without really listening. He looked up. “What have you found there?” “The violin,” she said, surprised by her own calm. “Oh. Still alive?” He smirked, not meanly, just with that familiar, domestic irony. “Don’t know. I’ll check.” She opened the case on the sofa, slipping an old towel under it to save the upholstery. She took out the violin, the bow, a tiny box of resin. The resin was cracked, like ice on a puddle. She ran the bow across it; the hairs barely caught the surface. Tuning turned into its own humiliation. The pegs were stiff, the strings squeaked, one popped straight away and slapped her finger. She swore softly enough not to alert the neighbours. Her husband grunted. “Maybe better let the repair shop have at it?” he suggested. “Maybe,” she replied, though inside she felt the sting—not at him, at herself for not knowing even how to tune it. She found a tuner app on her phone, set it beside her. The screen showed letters, the needle wandered. She twisted pegs, listened—some notes slipped low, others went sharp. Her shoulder ached, fingers grew tired from unfamiliar effort. When the strings finally stopped sounding like telephone wires in the wind, she brought the instrument under her chin. The chin rest was cold; her neck felt thin and exposed. She tried to straighten, as she’d once been taught, but her back protested. She chuckled to herself. “So, concert time?” Husband asked, eyes still on the screen. “For you,” she said. “Brace yourself.” The first sound made her flinch—not a note, a complaint. The bow trembled; her hand couldn’t draw a straight line. She paused, breathed, tried again. It was better, but still shameful. The shame was adult—different from the adolescent kind where you think the whole world is watching. Here, the world wasn’t. Just the walls, her husband, and her own hands, oddly foreign. She played the open strings, slowly, counting to herself. Then attempted a D major scale, and her left fingers got jumbled. She couldn’t recall where the second finger went, or the third. Her fingers were thicker than before, fingertips too soft, no familiar pain—just a dull sense that her skin was unprepared. “It’s okay,” her husband said unexpectedly. “Well… you won’t get it all in one go.” She nodded, not sure who it was meant for—him, her, or the violin. Next day, she visited the workshop near the station. It wasn’t romantic: glass door, counter, walls hung with guitars and violins, the air smelled of varnish and dust. The technician—a young guy with an earring—handled the instrument confidently, as if it was simply a tool. “Strings need changing,” he said. “And the pegs greased, bridge sorted. Bow could use rehairing, but that’s pricier.” She heard “pricier” and tensed. Thoughts of bills, medications, a birthday gift for her granddaughter. She almost said, “Never mind, then.” Instead, she asked: “What if we just do the strings and the bridge for now?” “That’s fine. It’ll play.” She left the violin, took her receipt, slipped it into her wallet. Walking out felt like she’d handed not just an object for fixing, but a piece of herself to be returned in working order. At home, she opened her laptop and typed “adult violin lessons UK.” She chuckled at the phrase—adult. As if adults were a special breed needing things explained slower, gentler. She found some adverts. Some promised “results in a month,” others spoke of “individual approach.” She closed the tabs—words got her anxious. Then she reopened them and messaged a female teacher in the next borough. Brief: “Hello. I’m 52. Want to regain some skills. Is it possible?” She regretted it instantly. Wanted to delete the message—it felt like an admission of weakness. But it was sent. That evening her son visited. He stepped into the kitchen, kissed her cheek, asked about work. She put the kettle on, found biscuits. He spotted the case in the corner. “Is that a violin?” he asked, genuine surprise in his voice. “Yes. Found it. Thinking… of giving it a go.” “Mum, you’re serious?” He smiled, more puzzled than mocking. “You haven’t… not for ages.” “Ages,” she agreed. “That’s why I want to.” He sat, turned a biscuit over in his fingers. “What do you want it for?” he finally said. “You’re tired enough already.” She felt the old reflex rise—explain, justify, prove she had a right. But explanations always sounded feeble. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I just want to.” He looked at her closely, as if seeing not the always-capable mum, but a woman wanting something just for herself. “Well… alright then,” he said. “Don’t overdo it. And spare the neighbours.” She laughed. “They’ll survive. I’ll practise in the daytime.” When he left, she felt lighter. Not because he’d permitted, but because she hadn’t gone in for excuses. Two days later, she collected her violin. The strings were shiny, the bridge set straight. The tech showed her how to adjust, how to store. “Don’t leave it by the radiator,” he said. “Keep it in the case.” She nodded, like a pupil. At home, she set the case on a chair, opened it, stared at the instrument, afraid to ruin it again. For her first exercise, she chose the simplest: long bow strokes on open strings. As a child, it had felt like punishment. Now it was a lifeline. No tune, no judgment—just sound and the attempt to keep it steady. After ten minutes her shoulder hurt. Fifteen and her neck was stiff. She stopped, placed the violin in its case, zipped it shut. Inside, anger flared—at her body, her age, the difficulty of everything now. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, stared out the window. On the playground, teens whizzed on scooters, laughing loudly. She envied them—not for their youth, but their shamelessness. They fell, got up, tried again; it never occurred to them it was too late to learn balance. She returned to the room and opened the case again—not because she had to, but because she didn’t want to end on anger. Reply from the teacher came that evening: “Hello! Of course it’s possible. Come along, we’ll start with holding and simple exercises. Age isn’t a barrier, but patience is needed.” She read that twice. “Patience” felt honest, which made her calm. For the first lesson, she travelled with the case in hand, clutching it like something precious and fragile. On the tube, people glanced, some smiled. She caught their gaze and thought: let them. Let them see. Her teacher was a petite woman in her forties, cropped hair and kind eyes. In the room stood a piano, music on a shelf, a child’s violin on a chair. “Let’s have a look,” she said, and asked her to hold the instrument. She did, and instantly it was clear she held it wrong. Her shoulder lifted, chin pinched, her left hand wooden. “No trouble,” the teacher said. “You haven’t played. Let’s just stand together first. Feel that it’s not the enemy.” She smiled at that and felt a bit silly: learning how to hold a violin at fifty-two. But the feeling was liberating. No one expected her to be good—only to be present. After the lesson, her hands shook like after PE. The teacher wrote out a list: ten minutes a day on open strings, then scales, no more. “Less but regular,” she advised. At home, her husband asked, “Well, how was it?” “Tough,” she replied. “But alright.” “Are you pleased?” She thought. Pleased wasn’t quite it. She felt anxious, amused, embarrassed—and, oddly, light. “Yes,” she said. “Feels like I’m doing something with my hands again, not just working and cooking.” A week later, she dared play a tiny tune she remembered from childhood. She’d found the notes online, printed them at work, hiding them among papers so colleagues wouldn’t ask. At home she set the music up on a makeshift stand—book and box. The sound was wobbly, the bow scratched other strings, her fingers missed. She stopped, started over. At one point, her husband poked his head in. “You know… it’s kind of lovely,” he said, cautious, as if not wanting to scare it away. “Don’t lie,” she told him. “I’m not. It’s… recognisable.” She smiled. “Recognisable” felt almost like praise. At the weekend, her granddaughter visited—six years old, she spotted the case instantly. “Gran, what’s that?” “The violin.” “Can you play?” She thought of saying “Once.” But for a child, “once” makes no sense. There’s only now. “I’m learning,” she said. Her granddaughter perched on the sofa, hands folded neatly like at a school recital. “Play something!” She felt something shrivel inside. Playing for a child was scarier than for adults—a child hears honestly. “Alright,” she said, and took the violin. She played the tune she’d laboured over all week. On the third bar, the bow slipped, the note came out squeaky. Her granddaughter didn’t grimace. She tilted her head. “Why does it squeal like that?” “Because Gran’s bow isn’t straight,” she said, laughing at herself. Her granddaughter giggled too. “Try again!” she asked. She played again. It wasn’t better, but she didn’t stop out of shame. She played right to the end. Later, when everyone was busy elsewhere, she was left alone. Music printouts on the table, a pencil for marking trouble spots. The violin was in its case; the case closed, but left beside the wall—not back in the cupboard. It stood there, a reminder that this was now part of her day. She set a ten-minute timer on her phone—not to force herself, but not to burn out. She opened the case, took out the violin, checked the resin, tightened the bow. Lifted it under her chin, exhaled. The note was softer than in the morning; then it squeaked again. She didn’t scold herself. Just readjusted and pulled the bow, listening to the note holding on and trembling. When the timer chimed, she didn’t stop straightaway. Finished the last stroke, settled the violin in its case, zipped it up. Then placed it by the wall—not in the cupboard. She knew tomorrow would be the same: a bit of embarrassment, a bit of fatigue, a few clear seconds worth opening the case for. And that was enough to keep going.

The Box Room and Scales She didnt go into the box room for nostalgia, but simply to fetch a jar of pickled

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