Music to kill for
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We'd all finished dinner round at Robert and Sarah's and as usual had moved from the table and seated ourselves in comfortable chairs. And then, as usual, Robert had gone over to his stereo system and, as he always did, asked if we had any preferences. Did anyone want some Beatles? Some Miles Davis? Some Dylan?
As usual we expressed our strong preferences in the mildest terms. "I wouldn't mind some Dylan"," said John who absolutely adored Dylan. "What Beatles have you got?", said Jennie who would have happily listened to replays of Love Me Do for the rest of the evening.
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"What about, Miles?", I said, as though I'd carefully weighed up the merits of the alternatives.
I'd been to quite enough dinner parties round at Robert and Sarah's to recognise the ritual nature of this scene. I even knew that we are all unlikely to hear any of our expressed choices. Robert invariably used our disagreement as an opportunity to play something of his own choice. He was particularly taken, I remember, with the alto solo on Gerry Rafferty's Baker Street.
But on this occasion the ritual was shattered by a simple question from Jennie. "Robert," she said. "Why don't you ever ask Sarah what she wants to hear? She is your wife."
John joined in. "Yes, what do you fancy, Sarah?" Her silence was provocative. I put in my pennyworth. "Come on, Sarah. Beatles? Miles? Dylan?"
It was at this moment that I noticed the effect of these questions upon Robert. He was already crouched down shuffling CDs on the carpet but now he'd positively curled himself into a ball like a little child pretending to be invisible.
What nerve had we all accidentally touched? What was the reason for Sarah's continued silence, for her husband's evident discomfort?
'Go on, Sarah. You may as well say it', murmured Robert from the depths of the living room carpet.
Sarah sat up very straight. "The truth is," she said, "that I can't stand music. Any sort of music.
Assailed by music
"So don't go through a catalogue like Robert always used to do before he married me. Don't try me out on Beethoven or Mozart or grand opera or folk or jazz or rock or Latin American. I don't like any of it. I'd be happiest in a world where music had never been invented."
It's a long time since I saw Sarah but I often think of her when I'm being assailed by music in lifts or in cafes or airport lounges.
I think of her on taxi rides when the driver is listening to back-to-back pop songs. I think of her on trains when all I can hear is the tinny electric throb coming from my fellow passenger's iPod.
I think of her when I read court cases of how someone was driven to assault and even murder by the noise of their neighbour's stereo.
I even think of her when I read that one of the most favoured forms of torture at Guantanamo Bay was the repetitive playing at full volume of Eminem and Christina Aguilera.
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