Round Corners

He was a gentleman, a proper old english Toff. What he was doing in Maylands was anyone's guess, but Maylands is a bit like that.

He lived in a little two bedroom house, i used to mow his lawns with an old hand mower. Afterwards we'd sit in his living room, he owned no TV, just these big leather arm chairs, befitting of a man like himself, and a record player he bought brand new in 1983. We'd sit in the arm chairs and he'd play classical records, you know, Beethoven, Bach, that kind of thing. We'd just sit, with the volume turned up full and sip our drinks, enjoy the serenity.

Although I didn't mind the music, I could never understand the attraction. One day, unable to hide my curiosity anymore, I asked him, "Why classical?"

"It takes you round corners."

One day, he died, like old men may. Asleep in his chair, the needle at the end of his favourite record. I came round to mow his lawns, when he didn't answer the door, I found the spare key.
He was sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, a single cigarette end in the ashtray by his right hand. I lifted the needle and played the record right through, Moonlight Sonata in D, merely the name of a song for me, I have no musical talent, but I sat in the chair, sat with my gentleman friend, and the music took me round corners.