1st November 2006 – Is it possible to whistle when you are sad?

The sounds I most connect with my father, when I look back to my childhood and growing up, are his asthmatic coughing and his whistling. With my Mum it’s her smokers cough and a constant muttering under her breath she’d do when annoyed, rubbing her hands as she stumped up the stairs. But Dad whistled. He didn't play an instrument and he didn’t sing – at least I never heard him sing but I’d imagine he’d be quite good. His brother sings, always has in various clubs and amateur productions.

I remember watching this god-awful program, when we were growing up, called “Face the music”. It was like “Never mind the Buzzcocks” about classic music. They had a piano that didn’t make a noise and you had to guess the piece of music by the thump thud of the dampers of the notes. Guests were people like Frank Muir and Joyce Grenfell. Posh. Dad and his Mum would insist that we watch this – trapped in ‘the telly room’ with my Gran, my Grandad and my Mum all smoking, and my asthmatic Dad coughing. He’d always get the questions right and knew all the composers names, the opus numbers, the names of the movements and all there was to know, happily conducting away, eyes closed, head back in rapture. He whistled classic music when he was happy, when he was busying himself, when he did the dishes. I haven’t heard him whistle in years now. So I wonder if it’s not possible to whistle when you are sad – not impossible as in if you were forced you couldn’t do it – but it doesn’t occur to you to do it because you’re depressed. Or does he not hear the music in his head that he used to? When I set up his room I made sure he had all the music I could lay my hands on, all his CD’s and tapes. He never plays them , hasn’t since he moved in. He used to try and watch a video or the TV in his room for a bit – he always managed to confuse the buttons, the remote, get muddled but at least he tried. Not with his music though, that left him before. So if there’s no music in his head any more, and his words are jumbled, and his optical signals can’t be trusted either, just what is he thinking, what goes through his head? Where does his head go for distraction then, to his memories? Poor Dad.